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.