In November 2006, Pie and I went to San Francisco for Christi and Mike's wedding. We went without our children. We were gone for nearly 4 days and we stayed at the amazing Fairmont Hotel. The reason we stayed at the amazing Fairmont Hotel and not the unassuming Travelodge--no doubt a classy enough joint for the likes of us--was we were not PAYING for the amazing Fairmont. Long story. (This one I'm about to tell is shorter, if you can imagine, and mostly about the food I remember eating on our trip.)
When we got to our hotel, amazing as it was, we were dying to get out and explore the wharf. This held a special urgency for us not only because we had no children to consider (and just to be sassy about it, we headed off to the wharf in a completely wrong direction, adding at least a mile to our trip! Which was on foot!) but because we thought we might faint with hunger. We hadn't eaten in hours and let me tell you what, by the time we got to that embarrassingly touristy Fisherman's Wharf stand that sells the clam chowder sourdough bread bowls, we didn't care about anything but ladling the nearly-scalding, heavenly concoction down our throats. It was fantastic. We realized that we should never, ever live in San Fransisco because we would be wooed fortnightly by this devilish cream-based soup in it's own edible bowl and we would be addicts.
San Fransisco is a ridiculously hilly town. The Fairmont Hotel is at the very top of Nob Hill. About 2 1/2 blocks below Nob Hill is Chinatown. Seriously. As in you could take an elevator (oh how I wish you could take an elevator) straight down 2 1/2 blocks and you would be there in Chinatown. Our bellhop at the Fairmont was a charming little man named Nestor. He always seemed to be lurking around in a most friendly fashion and so he was just the guy to ask where we should go to get dim sum in Chinatown. (I have no idea why we felt that we had to eat dim sum in Chinatown. Had we already forgotten about the fabulous clam chowder mentioned in the paragraph above? My guess is we felt obligated, since we had never tried it before.) Nestor told us to walk through Chinatown, find a restaurant that had people lined up outside the door and that would be the place. Sounded simple.
We left the Fairmont and proceeded to roll downhill in the direction of Chinatown. It was quite a place, Chinatown. We strolled around a while and found a likely establishment. There were crowds of people standing around, so we figured it must have good food. It took a long time once we were inside to get a table and while we waited, we decided to take a gander at a menu posted on the wall. This was not a good idea. The menu sounded like a bad translation. It sounded disgusting.
Eggplant stuffed with shrimp paste.
Minced beef on bean curd skins.
Fish in steamed egg custard.
Tripe in glutinous noodle.
Glutinous noodle, with or without the tripe, seemed to be a popular dim sum item. There were many, many menu options showcasing glutinous noodle. We were not the only people waiting who were somewhat disturbed by this. Herb and Sylvia were a delightfully cliche retired couple from the Bronx by way of Florida. Sylvia was an alarming shade of tan and had fiendishly long, curving nails painted in that curious color worn exclusively by women of a certain age. (It was not quite mauve, not quite taupe--yet definitely in the purplish family--and she was a brave woman to pair it with her shiny gold L.A. Gear low tops.) Herb could have been Seinfeld's dad, enormous glasses and all, and seemed to be comfy in his tank top, sweat pants and huaraches with socks. He was hard of hearing and she kept shouting out the menu items to him, although in Herb's defense he did appear to be literate. If they had been there auditioning for the role of a tourist couple lost in Chinatown, they would have been overdoing it. We discussed with them how beautiful the city was, and of course, how many items on the menu sounded unpalatably authentic. Clearly we were more of the Panda Express crowd. Herb and Sylvia decided they were going to find lunch somewhere less Chinatown, maybe more Village Inn.
After a long wait Pie and I were finally seated and then the fun really began. The whole idea of dim sum, we were to learn, is women with carts laden with food walk around and try to give you food from the carts. I don't speak Chinese myself, but I'm pretty sure that is what these women were speaking. It went like this:
Woman approaches our table and says something we do not understand.
Woman points to the food on her cart (please, please don't let it be tripe) and repeats herself, raising her eyebrows in a questioning manner.
We ask "Is it tripe?"
Woman, clearly annoyed, becomes insistent as her eyebrows wag emphatically at the food on her cart.
We look at each other. We are hesitant. We say okay. She plunks the food onto our table and writes $12.95 on the receipt. This we are able to translate.
Using only chopsticks, we eat what looks to be a Chinese-style ravioli. The filling is a solitary boiled shrimp and the "pasta" is glutinous noodle. Slippery glutinous noodle.
Several times we repeat this process. We do not like anything, and it is all expensive. We are not good at ordering dim sum. Or using chopsticks. We look at each other and laugh. We leave and get ice cream.
My advice is to only go for dim sum with someone who knows what they are doing. And ask for forks.
When we got to our hotel, amazing as it was, we were dying to get out and explore the wharf. This held a special urgency for us not only because we had no children to consider (and just to be sassy about it, we headed off to the wharf in a completely wrong direction, adding at least a mile to our trip! Which was on foot!) but because we thought we might faint with hunger. We hadn't eaten in hours and let me tell you what, by the time we got to that embarrassingly touristy Fisherman's Wharf stand that sells the clam chowder sourdough bread bowls, we didn't care about anything but ladling the nearly-scalding, heavenly concoction down our throats. It was fantastic. We realized that we should never, ever live in San Fransisco because we would be wooed fortnightly by this devilish cream-based soup in it's own edible bowl and we would be addicts.
San Fransisco is a ridiculously hilly town. The Fairmont Hotel is at the very top of Nob Hill. About 2 1/2 blocks below Nob Hill is Chinatown. Seriously. As in you could take an elevator (oh how I wish you could take an elevator) straight down 2 1/2 blocks and you would be there in Chinatown. Our bellhop at the Fairmont was a charming little man named Nestor. He always seemed to be lurking around in a most friendly fashion and so he was just the guy to ask where we should go to get dim sum in Chinatown. (I have no idea why we felt that we had to eat dim sum in Chinatown. Had we already forgotten about the fabulous clam chowder mentioned in the paragraph above? My guess is we felt obligated, since we had never tried it before.) Nestor told us to walk through Chinatown, find a restaurant that had people lined up outside the door and that would be the place. Sounded simple.
We left the Fairmont and proceeded to roll downhill in the direction of Chinatown. It was quite a place, Chinatown. We strolled around a while and found a likely establishment. There were crowds of people standing around, so we figured it must have good food. It took a long time once we were inside to get a table and while we waited, we decided to take a gander at a menu posted on the wall. This was not a good idea. The menu sounded like a bad translation. It sounded disgusting.
Eggplant stuffed with shrimp paste.
Minced beef on bean curd skins.
Fish in steamed egg custard.
Tripe in glutinous noodle.
Glutinous noodle, with or without the tripe, seemed to be a popular dim sum item. There were many, many menu options showcasing glutinous noodle. We were not the only people waiting who were somewhat disturbed by this. Herb and Sylvia were a delightfully cliche retired couple from the Bronx by way of Florida. Sylvia was an alarming shade of tan and had fiendishly long, curving nails painted in that curious color worn exclusively by women of a certain age. (It was not quite mauve, not quite taupe--yet definitely in the purplish family--and she was a brave woman to pair it with her shiny gold L.A. Gear low tops.) Herb could have been Seinfeld's dad, enormous glasses and all, and seemed to be comfy in his tank top, sweat pants and huaraches with socks. He was hard of hearing and she kept shouting out the menu items to him, although in Herb's defense he did appear to be literate. If they had been there auditioning for the role of a tourist couple lost in Chinatown, they would have been overdoing it. We discussed with them how beautiful the city was, and of course, how many items on the menu sounded unpalatably authentic. Clearly we were more of the Panda Express crowd. Herb and Sylvia decided they were going to find lunch somewhere less Chinatown, maybe more Village Inn.
After a long wait Pie and I were finally seated and then the fun really began. The whole idea of dim sum, we were to learn, is women with carts laden with food walk around and try to give you food from the carts. I don't speak Chinese myself, but I'm pretty sure that is what these women were speaking. It went like this:
Woman approaches our table and says something we do not understand.
Woman points to the food on her cart (please, please don't let it be tripe) and repeats herself, raising her eyebrows in a questioning manner.
We ask "Is it tripe?"
Woman, clearly annoyed, becomes insistent as her eyebrows wag emphatically at the food on her cart.
We look at each other. We are hesitant. We say okay. She plunks the food onto our table and writes $12.95 on the receipt. This we are able to translate.
Using only chopsticks, we eat what looks to be a Chinese-style ravioli. The filling is a solitary boiled shrimp and the "pasta" is glutinous noodle. Slippery glutinous noodle.
Several times we repeat this process. We do not like anything, and it is all expensive. We are not good at ordering dim sum. Or using chopsticks. We look at each other and laugh. We leave and get ice cream.
My advice is to only go for dim sum with someone who knows what they are doing. And ask for forks.
7 comments:
Wayne and I had clam chowder in sourdough bowls on the SF wharf on our honeymoon. Yummy stuff!
Sounds like we missed out on Chinatown....hilarious story. I'd have ran for ice-cream too.
Please tell me you were channeling Mike Meyers from So I Married An Axe Murderer with the fortnightly comment. It would make the world a much better place.
I can't believe you caught that. Of course I am! That was the movie from our first married days.
a) i fear dim sum more than just about any culinary adventure.
b) on our first anniversary when we drove down the oregon coast we ate pretty much only clam chowder and ice cream for every meal. i NEVER get sick of it...
Speaking or trips to California I was wondering if you guys were planning on coming to Nana’s 80th party, cause I heard you were. And if you are I was wondering about those plans. I hope you're bringing the whole family and if so I hope you're planning on staying a few days. I think it would be fun to go to the beach or Yosemite or something fun like that. I know you were all just in Disneyland or else I would suggest that to. Let me know!
oh, you never disappoint which is much more than I can say for myself.
"Congratulations, kind of"-- our dad
Thank you for stopping by my blog and leaving such a nice message. Too cute your friends kiddos are Sam and Maddie... now all she needs is a Zach =)
It is hard to imagine my babies ever being 7 years old... but I know it will happen before I know it...b/c I cannot believe my son is already 18 months... it goes WAAAAAAAAAY too fast!
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