Stuffed: the Many Wonderous Foods of San Francisco
The winter holidays are traditionally a time for eating just a little bit more than you thought you could fit in your belly. There are parties and holiday dinners, people who come over, sadistic co-workers who bring the results of their baking projects to the office (oops! I baked too many pies!), and assorted cooking experiments. The Mysterious Workplace has chosen this month to hold a cookie bake-off. There is a box chocolates on the kitchen table which my housekeeper has left for me as a Christmas gift. If I do not make it to 2011, it will be because I have slipped into a diabetic coma and died.
As ess eff spits rain and sleet down from the sky, as more Wikileaks-related stress crushes my soul and the various circus schools' holiday schedules make it increasingly difficult to get to the gym, the more I desire to combat my stress through the consumption of fancy food and ludicrously-expensive cocktails. I sit in the hotel lobby of the St. Regis and order whiskey-based drinks and stare at the fire. I sneak off to Sunday brunch at Orson so that I can wolf down spicy shrimp and grits with mimosas. I visit 25 Lusk, where the waiters perform a carefully-choreographed dance before serving an amuse bouche of mushroom cheesecake. I dry off in the lobby of the Intercontinental (which looks like it was designed by Apple) and sip on a Gingery-Doo, which is a downright embarrassing name for something so delicious. I attend Food Adventure Team at Schmitt's, where I make everyone try the pea pancackes and am nearly murdered by spatzle. I arrange a 12-person, five-course feast of Japanese food in one of the private rooms at Ozumo for J's birthday, where the miso-glazed cod should be enshrined as a work of art. The manager shows us his tattoos, our waiter crafts a Hello Kitty bib for the industrial musician, and we keep the staff busy well past closing time. The bill is staggeringly high, but I do not begrudge them a single penny.
There is simply no way that I can eat all of the food and drink all of cocktails that the winter holidays put in front of me. I may go broke. I may pass out. I may no longer fit into my pants. Even so, I cannot bring myself to regret it. It is a lovely holiday season spent in good company. When I do not feel like a thick shell of stress that has accreted around a rock-hard center of worry, I am happy and a little bit drunk, and probably eating.
As ess eff spits rain and sleet down from the sky, as more Wikileaks-related stress crushes my soul and the various circus schools' holiday schedules make it increasingly difficult to get to the gym, the more I desire to combat my stress through the consumption of fancy food and ludicrously-expensive cocktails. I sit in the hotel lobby of the St. Regis and order whiskey-based drinks and stare at the fire. I sneak off to Sunday brunch at Orson so that I can wolf down spicy shrimp and grits with mimosas. I visit 25 Lusk, where the waiters perform a carefully-choreographed dance before serving an amuse bouche of mushroom cheesecake. I dry off in the lobby of the Intercontinental (which looks like it was designed by Apple) and sip on a Gingery-Doo, which is a downright embarrassing name for something so delicious. I attend Food Adventure Team at Schmitt's, where I make everyone try the pea pancackes and am nearly murdered by spatzle. I arrange a 12-person, five-course feast of Japanese food in one of the private rooms at Ozumo for J's birthday, where the miso-glazed cod should be enshrined as a work of art. The manager shows us his tattoos, our waiter crafts a Hello Kitty bib for the industrial musician, and we keep the staff busy well past closing time. The bill is staggeringly high, but I do not begrudge them a single penny.
There is simply no way that I can eat all of the food and drink all of cocktails that the winter holidays put in front of me. I may go broke. I may pass out. I may no longer fit into my pants. Even so, I cannot bring myself to regret it. It is a lovely holiday season spent in good company. When I do not feel like a thick shell of stress that has accreted around a rock-hard center of worry, I am happy and a little bit drunk, and probably eating.