I've begun to notice a pattern. Sunday afternoons, especially those that suffer from inclement weather, depress me. Luckily there is an antidote: calling around at the last minute for a spontaneous dinner out.
Last Sunday, things were bad enough, but then the San Francisco Chronicle published its annual Top 100 Restaurants issue. Rather than cry or pout (well, at least not for very long) I simply suggested that we go out to dinner. Mr. Food Musings happily agreed, and I proceeded to thumb through the list. I was disappointed not to see some of my favorites on there (Chapeau) and surprised to see others that have never captured my heart (Bacar), but I was delighted to see many I'd never heard of that didn't seem to require a 2-week advance reservation or an up-do.
1550 Hyde topped my list of places to call. It sounded casual, comfy, and I love that stretch of Hyde where the cable car runs and the trees stand sentry in a line down the block. They're in full bloom now and resemble the trees that small children draw, brown sticks that burst into afros made of soft green leaves. By the time we left for dinner, the ferocious rains had tapered off to nothing, and the sky was still holding on to the last bit of daylight, reflected in patches of heathery gray-blue. No one was out and very few cars were on the road; it felt like a spell had been cast over our Little Town, and Mr. FM and I were the only inhabitants not frozen in time.
When we parted the velvet curtains that hang behind the door at 1550 Hyde, it was as though we'd found all the other people on the planet. There they sat, neighbors, chatting over bottles of wine. A few tables stood empty, waiting for other neighborhood denizens to drop in for one last weekend bite. Steamed windows hid passers-by and I kept looking over my shoulder for the raging fire that wasn't there, the glow furnished instead by lit panels under the bar.
At home, we had finished off the last bit of a bottle of Gruner Veltliner from the night before; we immediately honed in on a red to warm us from the inside out. Mr. FM chose a Burgundy from Domaine Bruno Clair, a 2002 Marsannay "Les Vandenelles." It was light- to medium-bodied with bright fruit and cherry, and was poured into wine glasses with a fluted lip, sassy little stemware. I noticed that the wine list was named a Food and Wine Best New Wine List last year.
Service was slow - no, not slow, unhurried, as though the servers sensed that no one was in a rush or would mind drawing out the evening. Our appetizers arrived before the wine, which usually makes me want to get up and stomp my little feet, but I didn't mind that night. I had asparagus on the brain so I ordered it grilled, with a pimenton aioli and slivered almonds, a creamy contrast to the asparagus's gentle charring. The aioli, mild and peppery, slipped between the hot stalks. Mr. Food Musings couldn't resist the duck salad, breast meat that's first marinated in a dried fig and orange vinaigrette, then sliced thin, its juices glistening, over bitter hearts of escarole littered with warmed pine nuts. A signature dish. Mr. FM was in heaven.
In a nod to the season that has just passed (if only in name, the weather all weekend cold and blustery) Mr. FM had braised rabbit, served with tiny specks of spaetzle. Talk about chicken soup for the soul: oh, that meat! - wild and nourishing, almost sweet, velvety against the tongue. I ordered what might be the best pasta I've ever had (it's not tough for a pasta dish to steal my heart, but this was definitely in my top 5). I had first thought the farro pizzichi might be a tiny pizza, so paltry and insufficient is my understanding of Italian. In fact, it's pasta fashioned from farro flour into the shape of a trapezoid ("Takes you back to ninth grade," quipped Adam, our server, when I asked him to remind me what the heck that was.) The edges curled like lasagne noodles. A heaping bowlful came tossed with sauteed broccoli rabe, braised baby artichokes, chiles and lemon that sat quietly by, popping up only now and then but demanding my full attention each time. A healthy shaving of fresh Parmesan was the dish's only decoration.
I ate slowly to prolong each bite, savoring the individual flavors, the artichokes tender with barely a trace of acidity, the broccoli rabe somehow entirely free of its usual bitterness, the buzz of the chiles growing ever louder as I ate. I was careful to save enough to bring home lunch for another day.
Skipping dessert was unthinkable. Though the olive oil and polenta shortcake topped with the first strawberries of the season beckoned, we had our feet firmly planted in winter still and feasted instead, eyes closed, on a double ginger gingerbread. Pictures of sugar plums did indeed dance in my head as I ate, slowly spooning away the dollop of fresh whipped cream and the pile of slowly poached pears that peeked out from underneath. A Riesling, honeyed and hinting slyly of apples, washed it down.
By the drive home the sky had darkened and people had returned to the streets. The spell was broken, and the next morning the sun shone so brightly it seemed to be apologizing for its one last wintery pall.
1550 Hyde, San Francisco, 1550 Hyde, 415-775-1550
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