The clock tower at San Francisco's Ferry Building
was modeled after the 12th century bell tower at
the Seville Cathedral in Spain.
Monday morning at the P.U. Club. Finger on the redial button.
At 9:59, a recorded “call back again” message. But 42 seconds later, a mellifluous voice answers the reservations line. Wincing at the sheer absurdity—Quince is about the toughest reservation in town—I gulp “Any chance of a table for two tonight?” “Well, yes,” says the voice. “How about 7:30 PM?” I blow silent kisses through the phone.
Such is life in San Francisco, where food, to paraphrase Frances Mayes, is more cult than culture.
An hour later I tear myself away from our sun-washed room’s floor-to- ceiling windows and the view, through billowing curtains, of the elegant park in front of Grace Cathedral.
My destination: Food, of course. The Ferry Building Marketplace.
Although the vaunted farmers’ market doesn’t convene on Mondays, you can dive right into the brilliant local food scene by visiting the nearly 40 restaurants and food purveyors who occupy this splendidly restored 1898 landmark. Gazing out at the bay, I imagine living somewhere on the other side, just so I could take the ferry to and from this very terminal every day. Naturally this would involve frequent stops for lobster pot pies from San Francisco Fish Company, olive bread from Acme—and much more.
Here’s how B and I spent a couple of hours last Monday:
11:22 AM: Serious caffeine fix at Frog Hollow’s urban café. Every August good friends send a box of juicy tree-ripened peaches from this 120 acre organic fruit farm about an hour north of San Francisco. Today there’s a tempting display of early autumn pears: sweet, silken-textured Warrens, crisp green Shinseikis, small Golden Russet Boscs. I manage to resist the cream scones, but succumb instantly to luscious nectarine and blood orange conserve, honeyed sweetness for cold, gray days ahead. Two jars, one for me and one for Rebecca.
11:35 AM: Cannot tear my eyes away from the gorgeous fall flowers at Boulette’s Larder—branches dripping bright orange pyracantha berries, golden calla lilies and purplish oak leaves. But when I do manage to scan the shelves of Amaryll Schwertner’s "epicerie du charm," I pounce upon the specially blended spices and salt: fleur de sel with fiery piment d’espelette; Tres Fleurs, flaky sea salt perfumed with rose and lavender petals; and Instant Effect, a spunky brick orange blend of Kashmiri chilies, salt and turmeric. “It will bring anything you cook to life” grins the salesgirl.
I make a beeline (sorry) for the Italian honey with adorable hand drawn labels from Apicoltura Dr. Pescia. It is collected by a nomadic beekeeper who travels with his hives through the fields and forests of Tuscany. His glorious honeys are monofloral, with the flavor and aroma of single flowers. What to choose? Acacia? Ivy? Or one that has a bitter edge? I settle for a jar of sultry Rovo, made by bees that have feasted on blackberry nectar.
“Taste this,” urges my helper. It’s a small plate with a dribble of La Colonna’s mandarin-scented olive oil. “I love it with haricots verts,” she confides. The oil is made by crushing early harvest olives grown on the Campobasso estate of Marina, daughter of Prince Francesco Colonna, with organic Sicilian mandarin oranges, and it is ambrosial. One of those, please.
And I haven’t even looked at the take home menu: stuffed quail with faro, currants and hazelnuts, sautéed erbette chard, gateau Basque with pluots…
I flee before my Visa card implodes.
12:04 PM: Nose pressed up to the glass at Culinaire, an antique shop that inexplicably has decided not to open today. Tant pis, because whispering to me from the front window is a wooden mortar and pestle with a burnished patina that lights up the gloom. About 10 inches tall and 8 inches deep, it would be perfect for crushing handfuls of garlic and pine nuts for a giant batch of pesto.
12:10 PM: Time for lunch. Is it back to Boulette’s Larder for ribollita eaten al fresco, watching the ferries come and go? Or will it be a bowl of Vietnamese pho at the super-sleek Slanted Door? B and I settle on Delica rf-1, a Japanese “delicatessen” that serves Sozai: small takeout dishes that can be eaten at a table outside the shop or at home.
Although the sushi is a little gamey, we’re crazy about the salads: spicy burdock and lotus root tossed with mizuna and white onion; oil-blanched eggplant with “piri kara” sauce of ground chicken, soy sauce and ginger, sprinkled with cilantro and chopped scallions; corn and mascarpone cheese, tossed with sliced red cabbage, onion and cherry tomatoes.
12:41 PM: B and I split up, he to investigate the upper floors of the Ferry Building, while I fetch dessert from Michael Recchiuti’s irresistible chocolate shop. It’s hard work, but I finally select a quintet of bonbons, including the signature gold-stamped burnt caramel. There’s dark chocolate ganache infused with citrusy bergamot, and subtle, almost smoky jasmine tea. But my favorites are pearl mint, which packs a double wallop of fresh peppermint and spearmint leaves, and the truly divine fleur de sel, oozing with rich caramel. The flavors are fragile-- naturally they must be eaten at once.
12:49 PM: At McEvoy Ranch’s retail shop, shelves are stocked with extra virgin olive oils blended from organically grown Tuscan varietals hand harvested and pressed on Nan McEvoy’s 550-acre Marin County ranch. At last weekend’s Sensory Evaluation of Olive Oil course at UD Davis, this peppery blend was a favorite, especially at lunch when we blind-tested various oils on foods like unseasoned potatoes and white beans.
But at the moment I’m distracted by a grove of silvery leaved olive trees in pots, just three feet high. Surely I could grow leccinos and maurinos at home. Eventually, who knows, I might even harvest a few olives. (Note to self: investigate cold-hardy varieties.) In the meantime, I content myself with bars of spruce and lemon-scented olive oil soap.
1:07 PM: A huge spread of late season heirloom tomatoes at Capay Organic, just this side of overripe, almost exploding with juice. A shopper scowls as I snap a picture—but not of her. It’s the tomatoes I’m after.
1:10 PM: Now that Cowgirl Creamery’s opened an outpost in Washington, DC, I can dream that this superb cheese shop might come a little further south. But at the moment I’m lost in the ripe, complex aromas of a hundred or so artisan cheeses from Europe and America. If only we could drop in, on a whim, for the Cowgirls’ own voluptuous triple cream Mt. Tam, or the washed rind Red Hawk, both made from local Straus Family milk. I'll sample just a little, to store up a memory.
1:14 PM: Not another bite. Seriously. Oh, wait, isn’t that Acme Bread? I hear the artichoke focaccia is the greatest…