With all due respect to Carla Bley, straight from the depths of my plainly-wrapped notebook comes the first installment of Dining Alone.
(from 2007.10.22)
A16, Marina District, San Francisco, CA
The menu, reconstructed as best I can from their website at http://a16sf.com/:
Tuna conserva with dried favas, braised dandelion greens and house-made croccantini
Ricotta gnocchi in brodo with chanterelles, guanciale, nepitella and black pepper
Monday meatballs
Glass of “Terenzi” (probably Cesanese, 2004?)
Cornflour cake with honey panna cotta and pears
Macchiato
There are multiple benefits to dining at the bar when at A16: first, watching the mysterious flickering of pizzas from within the wood fire oven; the catcalls of “chicory! chard! meatballs;” but most of all, being quite literally above the din of other diners and the occasional wailing child, although such may be a kind of oblivion induced by my fascination with the intricate choreography of the kitchen directly in front of me. At first, the heat of the cavernous oven is stifling, but after removing my coat I bask in its warmth, or perhaps that of the glass of Terenzi I am clutching. (To the server: “you had me at ‘white pepper.’” This did me in, as did watching the meatballs simmering in their glorious broth of tomato and basil, which convinced me not to make a dinner of one of their well-loved pizzas.)
I thought the tuna starter a little bland, noting that it could use a dose of salt, perhaps olive oil. Then I realized I had both at my disposal! With a drizzle and a sprinkle, the bitterness of the dandelion greens and the slight sweetness of the tuna sang against the creamy backdrop of dried favas. Simple mistake, easily rectified by me, but also easily rectified by a restaurant which received a nod (though not a star) from Michelin.
The gnocchi came accompanied with pleasantly firm and earthy chanterelles and one of many forms of Italian bacon, a happy family. While the potato pillows struck a great balance between dense and fluffy, they were not as smooth as the gnocchi perfection last embodied at Incanto. The (Monday special) meatballs were every bit as good as I’d heard, and I’m not even a huge fan of meatballs: soft and buttery as some lonely infant animal’s liver, but much better in taste and texture (sorry, not a liver fan), while delicately but fragrantly spiced as any proper adult pig should be.
As for dessert, which I can never resist, the pears were unremarkable and could have been Del Monte, for all I could tell. The corn cake was just a really good, moist (and Italian) rendition of sweet cornbread. But in the presence of the honey panna cotta, lightly sweet and barely and unbelievably holding solid, I quivered as if I were its mirror image, its flavor conjuring spontaneous hallucinations of clover fields and overly enthusiastic pollinating insects. The macchiato was strong, darker than I’m used to — some Blue Bottle espresso blend (of course, being in San Francisco) — and competently made, its sharpness tempered by the nut brittle they so kindly provided.
I’m utterly stuffed and $77 poorer, but happy and off to see Oliver Sacks, at a nice $100 figure for the evening.
