photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Going Away Is Good
by Cathy Fiorello
Coming home is great.
My flight from the East Coast arrived at SFO 45 minutes ahead of schedule. It knew how badly I needed to be back. My husband met me at the baggage carousel; my son Bob waited outside in the car.
When we joined him, my husband said, “Mom hasn’t had a good meal since she left home.”
Bob said, “I have just the place for her.”
Chattering non-stop about my trip, I finally noticed we were driving through streets of San Francisco that I had never been on before.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’re in Dogpatch,” Bob replied.
Located between Potrero Hill and the Bay, Dogpatch is a district where the streets are named for states, where warehouses and Victorians stand side by side, where gentrification and gritty have equal rights. We parked in front of a seedy-looking store-front café with a few sidewalk tables; a pad and pencil hung by a string on its door. We added our name to the list, then sat on a bench, waiting for a table.
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Just for you,” Bob said.
“Thanks, that’s sweet, but what’s its name?”
That’s it,” he said. “Just for You.”
Turns out this little place, with ambience in the minus column, always has a waiting list, thus the dangling pad and pencil. I learned from the menu that it serves breakfast all day. There was a large selection of morning foods, from pancakes and French toast (“Voulez-vous three slices?”) to grits (“It’s that pasty white stuff.”). I also learned that one is not pampered here (“We serve our toast dry—you can add your own butter and jelly.”).
I wondered, is this a place for a woman badly in need of pampering? I had just touched down after two weeks of visiting family and friends across the country. I was a guest at their tables and invited to dine at restaurants that used to be favorites of mine. But I had brought new taste buds to those old haunts and was continually comparing (to myself) the food there to the food I had grown accustomed to in San Francisco.
I found myself longing for artisan bread baked that morning, not packaged in plastic and dated for a three-day shelf life; a leaf of lettuce farmed in a local sun-baked field, not shipped from another city in a refrigerator car; an heirloom tomato, harvested at dawn, trucked directly into my neighborhood farmers market, purchased on my 10 o’clock “tomato break,” eaten out of hand on my way home from work. That San Francisco food is extraordinary is not news, but I am newly spoiled by what locals have long taken for granted. I had been away from it for two weeks. I wanted it back, and I didn’t think I was going to get it at this quirky little Dogpatch café.
“We’re here for the beignets,” Bob said.
I relaxed.
Beignets are one of my favorite things and are hard to find in The City. These were exceptional. Deep-fried pillows of puffed pastry dough, showered with confectioner’s sugar, served piping hot. I couldn’t have asked for a better culinary welcome home. We left the cafe and walked around the corner for ice cream, a custom in our family since relocating to California. Eating out is not just a meal; it’s an adventure. We rarely have dessert at the same place we have the rest of the meal. Someone always knows of an ice cream parlor or a chocolate shop or a new cupcake emporium that’s all the buzz.
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miscellaneous,” Bob replied.
Oh no, I thought, it’s going to be one of those basil-infused, pomegranate-flecked concoctions all the rage at trendy hipster haunts. Sure enough, the blackboard menu touted their avant-garde offerings: Pink Squirrel, Mango Chili Lime, Gunpowder Green Tea—vanilla was not an option.
“We’re here for the fudgesicles.” Bob said.
I hadn’t had a fudgesicle in years and remembered loving those creamy chocolate ices on a stick. But the confection Bob brought to our table was square, tipped at the top with chocolate icing, and held by a paper doily wrapped around its bottom.
“Where’s the stick”? I asked.
It seems the molds needed to make traditionally-shaped fudgesicles were too expensive for young Mr. and Mrs. Entrepreneur, so they decided to make their fudgesicles stickless. It was an only-in-San Francisco moment.
My knees still ached from the cramping in coach, my mind sagged as jet-lag set in, but I savored my delicious stickless fudgesicle. I had yet to turn the key in my door, but I knew I was home.
My flight from the East Coast arrived at SFO 45 minutes ahead of schedule. It knew how badly I needed to be back. My husband met me at the baggage carousel; my son Bob waited outside in the car.
When we joined him, my husband said, “Mom hasn’t had a good meal since she left home.”
Bob said, “I have just the place for her.”
Chattering non-stop about my trip, I finally noticed we were driving through streets of San Francisco that I had never been on before.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’re in Dogpatch,” Bob replied.
Located between Potrero Hill and the Bay, Dogpatch is a district where the streets are named for states, where warehouses and Victorians stand side by side, where gentrification and gritty have equal rights. We parked in front of a seedy-looking store-front café with a few sidewalk tables; a pad and pencil hung by a string on its door. We added our name to the list, then sat on a bench, waiting for a table.
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Just for you,” Bob said.
“Thanks, that’s sweet, but what’s its name?”
That’s it,” he said. “Just for You.”
Turns out this little place, with ambience in the minus column, always has a waiting list, thus the dangling pad and pencil. I learned from the menu that it serves breakfast all day. There was a large selection of morning foods, from pancakes and French toast (“Voulez-vous three slices?”) to grits (“It’s that pasty white stuff.”). I also learned that one is not pampered here (“We serve our toast dry—you can add your own butter and jelly.”).
I wondered, is this a place for a woman badly in need of pampering? I had just touched down after two weeks of visiting family and friends across the country. I was a guest at their tables and invited to dine at restaurants that used to be favorites of mine. But I had brought new taste buds to those old haunts and was continually comparing (to myself) the food there to the food I had grown accustomed to in San Francisco.
I found myself longing for artisan bread baked that morning, not packaged in plastic and dated for a three-day shelf life; a leaf of lettuce farmed in a local sun-baked field, not shipped from another city in a refrigerator car; an heirloom tomato, harvested at dawn, trucked directly into my neighborhood farmers market, purchased on my 10 o’clock “tomato break,” eaten out of hand on my way home from work. That San Francisco food is extraordinary is not news, but I am newly spoiled by what locals have long taken for granted. I had been away from it for two weeks. I wanted it back, and I didn’t think I was going to get it at this quirky little Dogpatch café.
“We’re here for the beignets,” Bob said.
I relaxed.
Beignets are one of my favorite things and are hard to find in The City. These were exceptional. Deep-fried pillows of puffed pastry dough, showered with confectioner’s sugar, served piping hot. I couldn’t have asked for a better culinary welcome home. We left the cafe and walked around the corner for ice cream, a custom in our family since relocating to California. Eating out is not just a meal; it’s an adventure. We rarely have dessert at the same place we have the rest of the meal. Someone always knows of an ice cream parlor or a chocolate shop or a new cupcake emporium that’s all the buzz.
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miscellaneous,” Bob replied.
Oh no, I thought, it’s going to be one of those basil-infused, pomegranate-flecked concoctions all the rage at trendy hipster haunts. Sure enough, the blackboard menu touted their avant-garde offerings: Pink Squirrel, Mango Chili Lime, Gunpowder Green Tea—vanilla was not an option.
“We’re here for the fudgesicles.” Bob said.
I hadn’t had a fudgesicle in years and remembered loving those creamy chocolate ices on a stick. But the confection Bob brought to our table was square, tipped at the top with chocolate icing, and held by a paper doily wrapped around its bottom.
“Where’s the stick”? I asked.
It seems the molds needed to make traditionally-shaped fudgesicles were too expensive for young Mr. and Mrs. Entrepreneur, so they decided to make their fudgesicles stickless. It was an only-in-San Francisco moment.
My knees still ached from the cramping in coach, my mind sagged as jet-lag set in, but I savored my delicious stickless fudgesicle. I had yet to turn the key in my door, but I knew I was home.