Boulevard of pork and greens

After meeting my good friend C. for drinks at the Ferry Building, my girlfriend A. and I walked over to Boulevard to make our 9:15 p.m. reservation. It is the morning-after. Nancy Oakes fattened me up with potatoes, pork, chocolate, and wine. Then, she kicked me into the street. I am woozy, but nearly recovered. This is my story.

We each started with a glass of non-vintage Billecart-Salmon brut rose -- a mass-produced, but exceptionally well made sparkling pink wine from the Champagne region of France. A., the wine professional and sparkling devotee, had spied a bottle lounging in an ice bucket on the bar and gleefully asked for two glasses' worth. It's really everything you'd want from a sparkling wine -- fine streams of Don Ho-like tiny bubbles and a slightly nutty aroma that captured a hint of the original fruit. And to misappropriate "Dayenu," that would have been enough.

Although I'd heard a good buzz about the Sonoma fois gras appetizer, I simply don't fois' creamy density. I opted instead for the squash blossom gnocchi -- and not in small part because I had wanted so desperately to buy some squash blossoms that morning at the farmers' market. The potato-based pasta floated like buoys in a richly flavored veal broth, baby chantrelles and lobster bits swimming nearby. This is, quite obviously, a decadent dish. My only real gripe about it was that I couldn't see or taste any of beautiful orange squash blossoms that supposedly went into the gnocchi. Typically, squash blossoms are used as carriers for cheese or a meat mixture -- the same way a ravioli holds its goods. But here, I couldn't find any trace of them. It's all about managing expectations.

For her appetizer, A. chose the raw ahi tuna and hamachi with habanero peppers -- a dish whose description reeled her in because it reminded her of a similar dish she'd eaten recently at Nobu Next Door. The thinly sliced fish, made mildly hot by the habaneros, was what a true appetizer is all about -- a brisk, clean dish that paradoxically leaves you hungrier for your entree than when you had no food in your belly. She liked the soy-laden Nobu version better, but it was a matter of personal preference, she said. This dish was well executed.

As for the entrees, I ordered the pork because I'd heard that Nancy Oakes is all about precisely that. A. went for the rack of lamb -- a decision that allowed us to order a wine that matched both of our dishes. Because we're in California, we decided to go for a California syrah with some spiciness and depth that would stand up well against the heavy meats. We chose a 2003 Kenneth-Crawford syrah from the Santa Rita Hills outside Santa Barbara to do the job. The youthful ruby earthiness of the wine made me think of Bjork's cover of the Drifters' "Ruby Baby," which then repeated through my head until we'd polished off the bottle.

The taste of the pork reminded me of the barbecued spareribs that Chinese restaurants turn out -- marbled with sufficient fat and not dripping with sauce, which in this case happened to be a Mission fig glaze. I soaked up most of it with the white polenta, which had the fabulous texture of mealy mashed potatoes: a side dish with gravitas. A split grilled fig and small cauliflower tops rounded out the dish.

A's lamb was cooked to a perfect shiny medium rare, which made it difficult to determine where the glaze ended and the meat began. A potato tower watched over the two cuts of lamb, while the lamb guarded the garlicked spinach greens and pine nuts in the middle of the plate.

On the recommendation of our waiter, we then shared a chocolate cake with alternating layers of cake, mousse, and hardened chocolate -- the Italian flag en brun. Brooks cherries granita -- the icy taste of which reminded A. of Dairy Queen's Cherry Freeze -- joined the chocolate bomb.

Service was stellar. When I mentioned to my waiter apologetically that I kept catching my lip on a chip on the rim of the water glass, he wisked it away and brought another. In the "be careful what you wish for department," I had asked for -- on a friend's recommendation -- a table with a view (implicitly, I thought, of the Embarcadero and Bay Bridge). And we ended up in a table with a view -- out the windows on the other side of the restaurant. What did I learn? Being explicit pays. Just ask Jenna Jameson.

San Francisco treats

Ah, vacation. A time when I can gorge myself without pummeling myself with guilt. Right now, in fact, I'm nibbling on chocolate-covered almonds left by the hotel staff. I don't need the almonds. But I want them. And I can have as many as I want. And I will. Notwithstanding the fact that I have a dinner reservation in three hours.

Vacation takes me to the California Coast, where my girlfriend and I plan to make our way from San Francisco to Los Angeles in 10 days. It might be nine days, but I brought 10 pairs of socks, so my estimate of 10 will have to do. We arrived in San Francisco late last night, but got started eating early this morning. Our hotel is just steps away from the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero -- home to a wonderful farmers' market that hums to life on Saturday mornings, of which this morning was one.

The smells hit me first. The basil, the lemons, the lavender. Then, the colors. Purple Japanese eggplants, white-and-green baby bok cho, orange zucchini flowers. The elation, followed soon after by the dual resentments: 1) because I lack a kitchen and a refrigerator for the road, anything I would consume would have to be eaten then and there; and 2) because I live in Washington, I am regularly deprived of things such oddities as lemon cucumbers, purple pole beans, pluots, and the aforementioned zucchini flowers.

To make the most of the market, we took advantage of free samples. First up were the plums -- orange-tinged, firm-fleshed, and clean. Next was a small cup of vanilla granola, which smelled identical to freshly brewed vanilla tea and had a tight, ultra-crunchy texture -- nothing like the cereally, Frosted Flakes-styled boxed granola. After sampling some small heirloom tomatoes, we dived into the cheeses. Our favorite was a cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery -- a mild, slightly earthy, sheep's milk concoction. A blue cheese spread from the Point Reyes Farmstead was a close second. We purchased only juice -- I drank freshly squeezed orange juice, while my girlfriend opted for a strawberry lemonade. What's great about fresh juice is that it's not a sugar-bomb. You could drink it all day long.

Inside the Ferry Building were scores of food shops that complemented the goods on the outside. A mushroom stand, an olive oil shop, gelato spot, antique cooking items. I nearly bought a 120-bottle Champagne riddler just because it looked pretty.

Not soon after sadly passing over dandelion greens and Hungarian peppers, we took the cable car up to Polk and California, where I hoped to eat lunch at the foodie-favorite Swan Oyster Depot. To my profound dismay, it was shuttered for the week. Without a lunch destination, we opted for a safe bet in San Francisco -- Mexican food. So, we headed down to the Haight, mostly because I wanted to hit Amoeba Music. We ate burritos and tacos at Zona Rosa, which, as California Mexican food goes, is merely average. But transplanted anywhere else, it would be a must-visit. Bursting burritos accompanied by cliantro-spiked salsa. In the kitchen, a man who spoke no English created a pile of sliced beef for the marination bin. Blood and juices pooled in the cutting board's moat.

A walk through Golden Gate Park and a visit to the Legion of Honor followed a short stop at Amoeba. From there, we took the bus to Vesuvio's Bar on Columbus Avenue -- home to the beat poets. How I missed the West Coast brews. My girlfriend opted for Anchor Steam on draught, while I went for the Widmer Hefeweizen, which I'd fallen in love with while we were in Oregon last summer. Let me say too that anti-smoking bans make all the difference when enjoying food and drink. You can actually smell and taste what you're putting in your piehole. And, when you're traveling, you don't have to pack the Febreze.

Tonight, after meeting an old friend for a glass of wine, we'll be dining at Boulevard -- which I understand is one of the best restaurants in San Francisco. Nancy Oakes is known for her pork, so I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about that tomorrow.