Châteauneuf-du-Pape @ Chez Masbert

The tasting group (which has been at it for more than a dozen years now—more than any can remember or admit to) convened at Chez Masbert for a blind tasting of the old standby, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, vintage 2003-2004, on March 24th. I brined up an eight-pound organic turkey breast and fired up the mesquite for my contribution to the post-tasting repast.

Reflections on the wines of the evening:

With the steadily rising prices of CdP (our tasting ranged from $19-$50 per bottle), the balance now tips in favor of the less expensive Gigondas, Sablet, Rasteau, and Côtes-du-Rhone for that quality/complexity/value proposition for Grenache-based wines of the Southern Rhone. The common theme was—all were decent, but none were indispensable in the “desert island” sense.

My scores mirrored the group of 10’s fairly consistently.

My favorite was a tad controversial. The 2003 Domaine Bois De Boursan
Châteauneuf-du-Pape ($40 from K&L in San Francisco; Imported by Louis/Dressner Selections) was “old school” CNP—more dark and brooding (redolent of higher proportions of Syrah and Mourvedre), and offered plumy leather and lavender, with a little “low tide” that I often associate with light or no filtration, thus letting a bit of healthy funk prevail. What sulfur there was blew off. I thought it was the Kermit Lynch wine (because of the aforementioned, which I certainly don’t view as a detriment—though others do). Overall group rating was #3.

My #2 wine, which was the group’s number 1, was new style all the way--2004 Les Cailloux, Châteauneuf-du-Pape ($30 from K&L in San Francisco; Robert Kacher Selections). It’s got an outline on the label of the stony vineyards of Châteauneuf. Bright laser-like Grenache with fresh French oak cooperage eased into an alluring sappiness with warm raspberry and spearmint, finishing with fresh-cut Bartlett pear, something I would normally associate with certain white Burgundies. This selection further solidified in my estimation Robert Kacher as an importer of distinctive wines. Robert Parker fancied this selection “irresistible” and assessed it a 90-93 rating.

The rest of the list:
# 3 was the “Kermit” wine: 2004 Domaine de la Charbonniére Châteauneuf-du-Pape Les Hautes Brusquierés ($44 from Kermit Lynch, Berkeley. Herbal with tart rhubarb and raspberry, and maple syrupy new oak (the group’s #2).

#4: 2004 Domaine de Marcoux Châteauneuf-du-Pape ($50 from K&L in SF; Eric Solomon/European Cellar Selections). Parker gave this a 91.Probably would improve over the next couple of years. In this “bio-dynamic” (which I think means taking a planted just before taking a leak in the vineyard on a full-moon night)I found brambly cranberry compote that finished with sappy-rootiness—almost like ginseng, though not unpleasant—but for $50, who you kidding?

#5: 2004 Clos du Mont-Olivet Châteauneuf-du-Pape ($19 from K&L in SF; Premier Wine Company). A 90-point wine from the Wine Spectator, was Kimi’s favorite. I first detected a tarry Barolo-like quality in the nose, which was followed on the palate by gin-like qualities of juniper, bay leaf, and celery with a herbal-tannic finish. But in the glass for more than a half-hour, some chocolate-milky cherry aromas emerged. 92 points from Stephen Tanzer's International Wine Cellar.

#6: 2004 Domaine de Beaurenard Châteauneuf-du-Pape ($40 from K&L in SF; MacArthur Liquors). While rereading my notes, this wine wouldn’t have seemed next to last: smoky bacon, strawberry jam, dill, wet hay and waxy honeycomb…ok, maybe it suffered because of the last two descriptors.

The last-place wine, 2003 Chateau de Vaudieu, Châteauneuf-du-Pape
($27 from K&L in San Francisco; Premier Wine Company) was distained by everyone but the proprietress of the house who found it “rich, meaty, brambly, great tannins; apples.” Number 7 of 7 for me: Lots of residual sulfur, but still with some interesting, but rather unyielding cherry and tobacco flavors. Who knows with time where this wine will go over time—but for the price, I’d opt for two decent bottles of Côtes-du-Rhone instead….or:


In retrospect, the best wine of the evening was one of the “after-wines” (this provided by Dr. Radel) was a dense-blackberry-packed, plush and peppery 100% Syrah, 2004 Corbiéres Le Clos Redon Chateau de Mattes-Sabran. It’s about $15 from North Berkeley Wines. Blew away the whole field in terms of depth, intrigue, and pure vitality—simply thirst-inspirational. Scarf this stuff up!


The great thing about hosting the tasting is that you get to revisit the dregs the next day. All the wines had improved after 24 hours of heavy breathing. Oxygen can be your friend.

Banishing the Airport Blues with Some Reds

I found myself in Washington Dulles airport suitably early to catch up on email before my flight back to Oaktown and wanting a nibble of something decent and some real wine. Vino Volo provided just that. If you are in a similar situation, with an hour to kill, get thee to Concourse “C,” across from Gate 3. Even though it was a good half-mile walk from D11, I smugly passed long lines of sojourners at Gordon Biersch Brewery and all the chains on route to fine smooth jazz and empty cozy seats and T-mobile internet access.

For $10 I had three tastes of red: 2003 Pascal Lambert Chinon “Cuvée Danae” (Cab France/$23 bottle); 2005 Domaine Mestre-Michelot Montmeix Burgundy (Pinot Noir, $33/bottle); and a 2004 Chateau Miraval, Cotes de Provence (Cab/Syrah, $19/bottle). The Chinon ruled, but all were quite drinkable.

With it I nibbled on some green lentils braised in smoked bacon, rosemary, and shallots and served in a tall, square porcelain bowl with a seemed to be Parmesan crouton, for $8 (a larger bowl goes for $14).

The menu changes monthly as does the wine list which can be purchased by the glass for on-site consumption or taken away by the bottle.

Vino Volo has touched down at airports in Sacramento, Seattle, Baltimore’s BWI, and New York’s Kennedy soon, with eight more promised this year…and that may prove to be some welcome solace to the weary traveler.

...by request (from my writing buddy Ellen)...I have posted a vintage piece.

String Theory by David E. Gilbert

Out of chaos comes order. But how that actually happens has been the source of discussion since before language emerged from human lips. Now comes String Theory, proclaimed by the physics community as the unifying explanation for all fundamental questions of nature. It’s a theory of everything—all attributed to an invisibly small dancing filament called a string. Strings—the mother of everything.

Even though I didn’t take physics in school, I still have a crude impression of time (always late) and space (not enough). Chaos strikes me as a hopeless mess without resolution. Strings, however, are easier for me to grasp. But they also have a tendency to get tangled up. It’s a theory I can relate to because it’s strings that pull chaos together in an orderly fashion.

As stings are attached to everything, it’s no surprise they play a leading role in cosmology—the origin of the universe, not formulations of blush and mascara. There’s the big bang and the notion that there was absolute nothingness before something. Now that stings are pronounced as principal performer, I have formed my own cosmology about the space-time continuum, inspired by an observation made not in the laboratory, but in my living room.

While watching the nightly sports on television, Kimi had taken to sharing my space and time continuum with a big tangle of string—not any string, but very fine emerald green silk fiber. A universe of garments promised to emerge from such chaos. With the patience of a saint, she sat there ferreting out the mess that spontaneously sloughed off of the big spool bought on discount. Like a hopeless morass of monofilament fishing line, she has for weeks, with little perturbation, been working her way through the knots back to the original order of the big ball. A less diligent person (me, for instance), observing the few feet of disorder in light of the miles intact on the spool, would be inclined to accept the loss, cut the string and move on to the creation act. But despite my constant prodding, she persevered, finding strange solace in the troubled mass of string.

With a world full of different creation myths, why would it be any more far-fetched to believe that there in my living room, I was witnessing the rebirth of the universe crocheted from a ball of string?

After weeks of silent persistence, sometime in the 3rd quarter of a game, I glanced over to see that she was already four inches into a new scarf, which had meant that she, without the least fanfare, had resolved all the problems of the universe and had simply gone on to the creation. No big bang. Just eloquent silence and deft handiwork by my very own earth mother, revealing an orderly fabric rendered from a wad of verdant stringy starting material.

Wild Wine of the Week
Bacchus Kabinett—Head Start on Summer Quaffing
2005 Schmitt’s Kinder Bacchus Kabinett
$13.99
K&L

When I walk into a wine shop, I usually like to try something obscure, something I haven’t had before, from a region that isn't well represented in our cellar. I am ever-hopeful of a new wine-find. Such was the case when I was at K&L (www.klwines.com) in San Francisco last week. I would wager that Randersackerer Ewig Leben is not a familiar name in your household. Most people pass by the German selections because of the unfathomable labeling. This 2005er in question is a charming Franken, from the easternmost wine-producing region of Germany, made from the hybrid Bacchus grape—named after the Roman god of wine and intoxication—the result of taking the cross of Silvaner and Riesling, then crossing it with Müller-Thurgau. Don’t try this at home. Just enjoy the frivolity of the product. The wine itself offers the charm of a Muscat Beaumes-de-Venise, perfumy, but without the syrupy quality. The qualities on the palate evoke apricot, pineapple, and slate after a spring rain. There is some residual sugar, so be forewarned. In the German wine classification system, Kabinett is less ripe than Spätlese, which is less sweat than Auslese. Not cloyingly sweet (off-dry, in wine parlance), this Kabinett is best served chilled as an apéritif. Kimi suggested a twist…and sure enough, a little lemon did the trick, providing just that touch more acid to balance the fresh fruitiness. Pleasant and uncomplicated—built for when the evenings start warming up—you’ll find it will provide welcome refreshment. The bold amongst us may even stick an ice cube in the glass if the wine isn’t quite down to its properly chilled temperature. No harm will be done. The wines of the Franken region are traditionally packaged in the Bocksbeutel, a wide, squat, green flagon of a bottle, said to be modeled after a billy goat’s testicles. Mmmm, good!

Wild Wine of the Week

2005 La Panella
Montstant
$20 (and worth it)
Purchased at Vintage Berkeley

A blockbuster blend—this would have been interesting to submit as a ringer at the ZAP tasting (see last week’s blurb below). Thick and concentrated with a lively transition on the palate from cranberry-->blackberry-->blueberry, and a herbal tea infusion of spearmint, star anise, and bay leaf complementing the red fruit compote. There is a hint of toasted almond skin tannin on the finish, promising some vitality ahead. Stand back and let this one breathe.

Joan d’Anguera’s La Panella is “a family-run winery whose origins date back 200 years,” in the Denomination of Origin (DO) of Montsant in Catalonia which about five years ago received its own distinction as a subzone from the Tarragona DO. The grapes are grown in clay, gravel, and calcareous (calcium-rich) soil. The blend is 40% Mazuelo (Carignan Noir), a popular blending grape in Rioja, providing structure and longevity, with 20% Syrah, 20%, Grenache and 20% Cabernet Sauvignon. The wine was aged eight months in French and American Oak and imported by De Maison Selections (out of Chapel Hill, NC), www.demaisonselections.com.

Such a compelling quaff now, yet it would be even more interesting with some bottle age. I look forward to experiencing the dazzling heights that this wine could attain.

Wither* ZAP?
Who am I to put the kibosh on a party, especially one that by all measures has been a resounding success?

Nevertheless, I have had enough of Zinfandel and its party.

The trade and media gather at Fort Mason

before the Zin-crazed public descends.

Sixteen years ago, in the small firehouse space at Fort Mason in San Francisco, a nascent organization called Zinfandel Advocates & Producers (http://www.zinfandel.org/), or what’s become affectionately known as “ZAP,” launched a modest event. It sought to bring together the producer and consumer in appreciation for the nobility of wines made from the Zinfandel grape. There were only a handful of producers participating in the inaugural, including the “Rs” Ravenswood, Ridge, Rosenblum, and the newly coined Renwood –with about equal parts consuming public. It was a low-key and informal soirée, with good food and wine proliferating. It was if we were all part of a not-so-secret society. This was at a time when the majority of those who drank Zinfandel, drank it pink and cold, like soda pop. All, except for those who had cultivated an appreciation for wines that sprang from dry-farmed, age-challenged vines, from venerable head-pruned vineyards that often had interspersed among the Zin such heritage varietals as Petite Sirah, Carignan, Alicante Bouchet, among other obscure grapes that defied identification—as this was before the advent of DNA fingerprinting.

Wine wonks readily acknowledge “white” Zinfandel as the product that saved the grape and many of those old vineyards and fueled what amounts to a two-decade Renaissance for the “red” version of the wine. Ramping off that fervor, the annual event known in shorthand as “ZAP,” now entails four days of activities and culminated in the 16th Annual Tasting on January 27th, the Superbowl of Zin. Despite the couple of hundred wineries occupying two large, covered piers of Fort Mason, and a rumored 10,000 consumers, trade, and media participating, it left me wondering whether ZAP and Zin itself has peaked. Last year was the first since the event’s inception that I made other plans and decided not to go. It was over the top, particularly for this borderline claustrophobic. This year, I reluctantly agreed to tag along with a buddy who has more than 20 years of garage-rendered Zin to his name and has written extensively about the grape and its phenomenal appeal. Both of us left rather abruptly and with mixed emotions.

While I admire the organizers, respect the winemakers, and appreciate the volunteers who make the impressive ZAP happen (some of my best friends are winemakers and ZAP volunteers) I have lost interest in the event, and sadly, for the wine itself. This is a hard confession to make, as it was Zin that introduced me to the world-of-wine back in the late 70s. But that was then.

My gripe now with Zin stems from the homogenization of the product to favor the lowest common denominator of the consumer palate. Bolstered by the popularity of oak- and fruit-dominated Chardonnays and Merlots, the producers of these California wines have seemingly assumed the mantra of “bigger is better.” The Zinfandel grape is happy to oblige. However, a 16 percent alcohol wall-o-wine doesn’t necessarily make for a food-friendly beverage, unless you are seeking a port-substitute for your cheese course.

It’s not that I am a prude, lightweight, or wine-tasting neophyte. Several years running I judged at county fair competitions, evaluating a few hundred different wines before lunch. Any reasonable wine critic would tell you that this process is suboptimal and hardly does the wines (especially after several successive flights) justice.

I’m not sure if there is a better way to evaluate the growing panoply of wines. But I left ZAP this year reinforced in my thinking that it is not a tasting so much as a social event—which is fine, but these wines don’t show well even in this context. I tried the Zin Zone—the quiet, upstairs venue made available to the media, where each producer leaves a bottle enabling a discrete sampling and evaluation without the opportunity for awkward interaction with winery staff or the winemaker.

Still, plowing through a line-up of the latest offerings is simply daunting because of the magnitude of extract and ethanol, care of exuberant winemakers harnessing the potential of California’s favorable climate and vintages.

I did find that those with a little more bottle age on them opens a window into what the grape has to offer. After a sufficient bludgeoning, I considered tracking down a graduated cylinder to dilute the thick fruit, oak, and ethanol punch with water to see whether that would yield more identifiable and describable qualities. I rely on such descriptors to establish the wine in context—to suss out its sense of place—particularly the characters associated with what we know as terroir. In the end, I didn’t. I just gave up. My booklet blank save for a few random scribbles.

The popularity of Zin may well have triggered its own downfall. A winemaking friend poured me two of their three selections named after the Italian families that planted the grapes several generations ago. With a grimace, he said that there won’t be any more of those particular wines because the grapes are slated to be (or had already been) torn up to make way for subdivisions, or more productive, more disease resistant stock.

With the loss of distinctive fruit and increasing reliance on younger, more homogeneous vines, winemakers are becoming more like chemical engineers, instead of the folkloric stewards of the delicate dance between yeast, sugar, acid, and alcohol. For many of these individuals and families, love of the wine had open the doors to this enriching hobby, from which businesses were then conceived. However, the need for their businesses (no longer hobbies) to be profitable compels them to employ manufacturing processes akin in sophistication to those used in pharmaceutical production, which, in turn, adds overhead to the operation and dollars to the price of a bottle of the finished product. Too much alcohol or volatile acidity? No problem, just run it through a reverse osmosis filtration system.
I don’t want to drink flawed wines. But I also don’t want to drink generic wines or those that offer little distinction beyond their heft. “Head-bangers,” a friend called them. HBs. At ZAP (and common to most tasting venues), what one person may perceive as a flaw or at least distraction—such as too much alcohol, VA, or oak—is what another palate may praise. And after tasting several dozen of these HBs, it’s the bigger, hotter, oakier wines that manage to register a blip on the overwhelmed sensory system.

Under the circumstances, it doesn’t take long for even the most seasoned palate to fatigue. Such was my condition at ZAP. Even with scrupulous spitting (into the plastic sports cup that I rigged up to a lanyard around my neck—thus avoiding that embarrassing splash-back phenomenon from the communal spit-bucket) and liberal water rinses and bites of baguette, I still had a hard time appreciating the field of HBs. If there was a diagnostic trend for those wines I did favor, it tended to be the blends, those with even as little as ten percent Petite or Carignan, making for a more interesting and approachable wine.

At ZAP, the trade and media participants traditionally have first taste—affording the pros a couple of hours lead-time for thoughtful consideration before the ethanol-hungry public is let loose. But with the burgeoning popularity of the event, what was once an intimate cadre of insiders is now everyone and their cousin. In years past, I made a valiant effort to sample many of the selections from wineries both conspicuous and up-and-coming, A through Z. This year, my interest waned rapidly and I took my spit-cup, stained teeth, and fatigued palate and beat a hasty retreat well before the masses descended.

If you seek to feel at one with an inebriated mass, in the spirit of ZAP, there is another annual tasting, held by the advocates of grapes traditionally cultivated in France’s storied Rhone valley (and now planted throughout California). The Rhone Rangers (http://www.rhonerangers.org) celebrate their tenth year on March 18th with the “San Francisco Grand Tasting” at Fort Mason. There will be some familiar names at the Rhone Rangers event. Of the nearly 120 participating wineries in RR, many also produce Zinfandel and participate in ZAP. Unlike the relentless red wave at ZAP, Rhone Rangers features whites and reds, drawing from more than a dozen different grape varieties (predominately Marsanne, Roussane, and Viognier for the whites and Syrah, Grenache, and Mourvedre, in the reds).

The mass appeal of these events would seem to benefit both winery (with exposure that may lead to sales) and (partying) consumer. While I am reluctant to begrudge a good thing for the economy (and my friends’ businesses) I will simply follow the lead of one of our nation’s great statesmen, Lawrence Peter (Yogi) Berra, who allegedly said, “No one goes there anymore –it’s too crowded.”

And if the bottom falls out of the market, and inventory starts to stall on the pallet, wineries can follow the buzz of the emerging biofuels bandwagon and the French who have begun to turn their glut of Côte du Rhône into ethanol to power tractors.

* 1 : to become dry and sapless; especially : to shrivel from or as if from loss of bodily moisture
2 : to lose vitality, force, or freshness
(thanks, Merriam-Webster: http://www.m-w.com)

With Picco, Marin Restaurant Scene Begins to Rise to Expectations

My old friend Keith, from my Mill Valley daze, and I have a birthday tradition. We celebrate by taking each other out for lavishly indulgent meals and have been doing so for nearly 25 years. These amazing culinary forays have ranged from an all-white truffle menu at French Laundry (back in the day when that was only around $120 each) to most recently an elegant repast at the underappreciated Silks at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in San Francisco. The generous guy that he is, those two particularly posh experiences were on Keith’s tab, I have to say.

We usually venture into San Francisco for our biannual fête, mainly because food in Marin consistently disappoints. It’s not all bad, but it is disproportionate to the amount of wealth, talent of the resident chefs, and access to good ingredients. Sure, there are exceptions: Fork and Insalata’s in San Anselmo, the Buckeye Roadhouse and Bungalow 44 in Mill Valley, but there is a wide and bleak swath of mediocrity (and pretension) littering the north-south Highway 101 corridor.

Somewhere in between, there was Roxanne’s, the short-lived vegan phenom in Larkspur. As Roxanne’s fades into the haze of caloric indulgence, I do remember relishing its demise. In spite of all the hype (at least three New York Times articles about it, in addition to the local accolades), I wasn’t surprised to see it come crashing down under the weight of its own pretense (or was it the affair that owner Roxanne was discovered having with the hired help?). Feeling compelled to check out whether it would live up to all the hype, Keith and I chose it for one of our rare Marin restaurant birthday selections. Sitting there, under-whelmed by the tepid cuisine, I remember telling Keith, “a year from now this place is going to be a steakhouse.”

You may recall the hook at Roxanne’s—besides priding themselves on their meatless, dairy-less offerings, nothing was heated above 118 degrees Fahrenheit (or was it 112, I can’t remember), which was the point (that I remember Roxanne contending) that proteins begin to denature, which somehow was supposed to be bad for you (they didn’t present any of the supporting scientific literature). I would agree that if our very own proteins began to denature, well, then I would agree, but I tend (with the exception of sushi), to like the proteins I consume heated to at least 120 degrees—pork and chicken may benefit (or at least might prove less life-threatening) by being brought to 130 or so.

The food at Roxanne’s was a bit too precious for me (and would have been inedible/hazardous for anyone with nut allergies because the place depended heavily on nut “milks” as sauces). I admired their bold concept, but in practice what particularly soured me on the experience was watching Roxanne, with daughter in tow, spending the majority of the evening floating table to table soaking in her celebrity. I kept fuming to Keith “get back in the kitchen, lady, and cook something!”

To make a long story shorter, Roxanne’s closed, but while what replaced it wasn’t a steakhouse, it serves a great burger (mini-burgers, actually) and easily ranks, in my estimation, as one of the top five restaurants in Marin County.

Picco resides on Magnolia Avenue in Larkspur in a three-block stretch that is home to some of the county’s best dining establishments, from Roland Passot’s “cuisine de grand-mere” served at Left Bank, to Fabrizio Ristorante (where I had the best, most succulent, brined veal chop ever) to Bradley Ogden’s Yankee Pier and his venerable Lark Creek Inn.

I admit that first thing that caught my eye on the menu were those “mini burgers.” I have never been to a White Castle for sliders, the burgers that the oldest American fast-food chain offered that were small enough to be consumed in fours. My mini-burger epiphany took place at the old Nut Tree in Vacaville in the late 1960s and I have been searching in vain for mini-burger satisfaction ever since. It’s not that I am a big burger eater (while I do eat big burgers, just not very often, maybe once every couple of months) there was just something about those nostalgic Nut Tree nuggets.

My mini-burger allegiance has now been pledged to Picco. Served perfectly medium rare (something increasingly difficult to find—properly cooked beef), the trio were further enriched with caramelized onions, sautéed crimini mushrooms, and ever-so-rich Pt. Reyes blue cheese for $9.95—a bargain.

Dining at Picco feels like being in an upscale lodge, in say, in Big Sur. We arrived ten minutes early for our 7:30pm Sunday reservation and were seated immediately. While rather cozy, with tables fairly well packed together, I didn’t feel particularly claustrophobic.

“Where great food is shared among friends,” is Picco’s mission—one that it delivers on. The server, while avoiding being too pedantic, gave a brief introduction about the restaurant’s approach—little plates (the continuing proliferation of “tapas” trend) meant to be shared and designed to complement wine.

What drives Picco is the passion of chef Bruce Hill. Before I even knew they served mini-burgers, I drove out of the way to Picco because of the experiences I have had at restaurants where he had been at the helm, particularly Oritalia and The Waterfront in San Francisco.

While dining in California, I tend to forego the local fruit-of-the-vine in favor of wines from Spain and France—not only because they tend to work better with food (more acid, more sense of place/grape, less bludgeoning oak) but they also often represent a much better value. I appreciated that Picco had several good values, including a crisp Ballentine Napa Valley Chenin Blanc on the well-chosen list ($28). It worked wonders with the skewers of Hamachi (yellow tail) with avocado and pomelo. The dishes that followed continued to inspire interest: a braised duck pappardelle with roasted parsnips—gotta love those root vegetables; ($12.95) a warm salad of grilled shreaded Brussels sprouts tossed with comice pears, walnuts and a decadent bacon-infused cream ($7.25). The Kennebec fries with a garlic-forward aioli (as aioli should be) and romesco ($6.50) were worthy of that particular variety of potato.

As we are likely to order risotto when offered it on any menu, we had to try Picco’s take ($9.50). The server had told us that they make a fresh batch on the half-hour and warned that our appointed time was rapidly approaching. We weren’t about to miss out. While the rice was still a bit crunchy, it was otherwise unremarkable—but then Kimi, my dining and life partner, makes the best risotto ever, so they had elevated expectations to overcome. Nevertheless, we keep looking.

The other dish that sounded better than it was (although there wasn’t anything wrong with it per se) was the sautéed dayboat scallops. At $22.50, it was the priciest thing on the menu. The scallops were succulent, delightfully fresh, and beyond reproach. In truth, it was the Himalayan truffles that intrigued me (which were added to cauliflower and red wine). Himalayan and Chinese truffles tend to be more affordable, but also tend to be so subtle in flavor that they are hardly worth the investment. This proved to be the case again.

Desserts were nothing short of extraordinary. Like the mini-burgers, the multi-component theme is perpetuated for the pudding course. The Chocolate Madelaines arrived to table hot from the over with molten Chocolate centers, complement by a tiny chilled porcelain tumbler of rich and frothy hazelnut milkshake ($9.50). The butternut squash cake were in fact a generous assemblage of four separate moist timbales, not overly sweet, with a dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel sauce ($8.50). We couldn’t resist a little demitasse of thick hot chocolate (reminiscent of La Maison du Chocolat in Paris, London and New York). Yum. I would have appreciated another couple of the tiny, fingernail-sized cinnamon marshmallows—but by then, we had already far-exceeded our caloric allotment.

All in all, Picco provided a thoroughly satisfying dining experience—one that furthers my hopes that Marin may soon emerge from the large culinary shadows cast traditionally from San Francisco and most recently Sonoma. I may well have to bring Keith here for his birthday.

The No-Resos San Francisco Restaurant Table-Waiting Game

Against my better judgment, we selected one of SF Chron food maven Michael Bauer's Top Ten Restaurants of 2006 for dinner last week with Hank & Jack. Bad move.

Dosa is an Indian place in the Mission District that (like several other new eateries in the Bay Area) doesn't take reservations. I suppose in my younger days the notion of standing out on the curb with the rest of the black-clad masses chatting animatedly would have been a fine apéritif. However, now in my maturing years (like a fine Madeira), I don't have the patience; I prefer a rapid administration of alcohol and a comfortable place to quaff it, preferably seated indoors in the wintertime. It's so infrequently that we get into The City, that when we do, I would like to ensure that we have a table within a reasonable timeframe of finding a parking space (say 15 minutes). As if parking isn't hard enough in the Mission, then having to wait for a table is a massive disincentive for venturing into that increasingly popular culinary Mecca.

When we were told by the smiling front-of-house person that it would be "about 20 minutes," I had my finger poised on the number already punched in for another place in the Mission, Limón, a Peruvian seafood place I had been meaning to check out.

H & J didn't seem put off by the wait (after all, they LIVE in the City, so they're used to this sort of punishment). It was their weekly "adult night out," so compared to the rigors of parenting; I supposed this could be construed as fun. We hadn't seen them in a while and had some catching up to do, so I figured 20 minutes would fly by. My spirits were buoyed by the wafting spicy fragrance of the place, so we held our ground astride the bus stop. Of course, it's never just 20 minutes.

Both Kimi and I were recovering from colds, and with the SF temperature plummeting into the mid-40s; it was not entirely pleasant standing there. When everyone was seated except for the homeless person on the bus bench who had been chain-smoking, we were told it wouldn't be much longer, that two tables were just lingering over the check.

I contemplated how I could urge the lingering diners to depart, but instead of acting on this impulse I asked the young host why the no reso policy. "Is it that people are unreliable about keeping their reservations?" I ventured. "Oh no," she replied. "It's just we wanted people just to walk in spontaneously." I was going to tell her how much I wanted just to walk in spontaneously right now, but I think she was feeling sheepish enough as it was.

One hour after our arrival, we were ushered through the crowded dining room to our tightly situated table. When the server asked how we were, "cold," was my reply. While not intending it as a complaint, she got the message that food and drink would be welcome sometime soon.

From their travels to the subcontinent, H&J were most familiar with Dosas as breakfast fare--delicate south Indian crepe-like offerings made from fermented lentils and rice. They are served with sambar, a thick soup of lentils into which you are supposed to dip the dosa.

Dosa, the restaurant, offers a three-course fixed-price menu for about $35 dollars, which may seem like a lot for those used to cheap curry places, but the quality of the food warrants to the price.

Quick culinary observations:

The mung bean salad was a fresh, crunchy reminder of 1970s macrobiotic restaurants--but good.

The "Potato Croquet" was bland (not spicy as promised) and the dipping sauce not offer much improvement. Only a subdued mintiness.

The "Cochin Calamari" were to notable for their succulence and piquant coconutty sauce.

The warm, comforting sambar ("lentil dipping soup") is what really made the dosa course. Considering that we each ordered a different variation, none actually were head-and-shoulders better than another. The "Chanti Masala" with the bits if baby eggplant, was the most delectable. All were savory and savored by those around the table.

Indian desserts have always motivated me to ask for the check before that course. Overly sweet, rosewater-perfumy concoctions of puffy-grainy milk or cheese "Nerfballs" floating in a syrupy sea were never quite inspiring. Dosa offers such Nerfballs ("Gulab Jamoon") which were superior to those I have had at other Indian restaurants, Dosa's being less sweet. "Kulfi," (not to be confused with Brooklyn-accented "coffee") a pistachio, saffron, mango creamy frozen timbale is recommended. They also serve Cíao Bella gelatos (the coconut flavor served in a half a coconut shell).

I particularly enjoyed the surgically chosen wine list. H&J gently dissuaded me from ordering the Indian subcontinent Chenin Blanc (as they have been to India, I took their cue), so we opted for the frisky 2005 Serra Da Estrela Albariño from Rias Baixas, Spain for a reasonable $28 to serve as our apéritif. When our main courses of the fixed price menu arrived, we followed the while up with and an obscure Cab Franc-like red from Bierzo, an up-and-coming wine region of the province of León in northwestern Spain (not too far from Rias Baixas in Galicia), Spain , the 2003 Baloiro Mencia. The wine offered plum and licorice highlights with a rustic finish that worked well with modest heat-generating dosa dipping sauces.

The food and overall experience at Dosa, while quite good, still wasn't worth risking a bout of pneumonia or getting hit by a bus.

For more info about Dosa, see:
http://www.dosasf.com/