Oh yes I did. I took a stretch limo to dinner at Michael Mina. (You can just barely see my leopard print mule next to the limo driver's feet.) But there was a darn good reason for it.
The night got off to an inauspicious start. This working girl ran out of the office at 5:30 and dashed across the street to Pier 39 to grab a taxi at the taxi stand. Any other night, there's a long line of cabs and no people waiting to hop in them, but last Friday night the opposite was true and, with 20 minutes to get across town -- quite a feat at 5:40 on a Friday -- I saw my hopes of making it to dinner on time fading, fading, fading. I asked the folks in the front of the line how long they'd been waiting and calculated that I would be lucky to get to the Westin St. Francis by 6:30 -- 30 minutes too late. And there's no restaurant in town that I know of who'll hold a table that long.
I called Mr. Food Musings and proceeded to nearly dissolve into hysterical crying -- nearly. But I held it together, and instead spoke loudly about my predicament, fantasizing that, upon hearing of my tragic plight ("Honey, she's going to miss her reservation at Michael Mina!" they'd breathe) the people in line would part like the Red Sea and let me skip to the front of the line.
Instead, a black stretch limo pulled up across the street. The driver got out and we made eye contact. And right then, I knew what I had to do. I ran across the cobblestoned Muni track, my wrap flying behind me.
"How much to Union Square?" I asked.
He shifted his eyes from side to side, no doubt smelling my desperation and quickly calculating the best way to separate me from an unreasonable sum of money. "Too much. Go ask if anyone else in line is going that way."
I thought for a split second before rejecting that idea. "Not enough time. I'm in a hurry. How much?"
He shifted his eyes again. ("Shit!" I thought. "This man is the devil.") "Forty-five," he said.
Ha! He'd been had. I would have gladly paid double. I hopped in, dialing Mr. Food Musings to ensure he could meet me out front with the cash (hey, I live by plastic and plastic alone). And Mr. Limo Man proceeded to get me across town in 14 minutes. Surely a world record.
Then it was on to dinner.
They ushered us to a large table where we sat side by side with a window at our backs, calling to mind a meal to remember at Taillevent two years ago. It has been reported that designer Barbara Barry had all the fabrics and linens dyed and faded to precise specifications so that the room would look like the Bay waters on a foggy day. We sunk back into soft, gray-green pillows and peeked into the kitchen to our left, watching the waiters in their crisp black and brown uniforms wipe down plates and march back to the dining room with the Royal Doulton china Chef Mina himself designed.
After ordering a bottle of Aubry Rosé Brut champagne, we smeared warm bread with sweet, light (local!) Gilt Edge butter from individual shell-inspired dishes and flipped open the menu. It was merely a lark, as we had already decided on the 7-course seasonal tasting menu, thanks to a late afternoon consultation with the SF Gourmet. Since we'd already eaten Mina's food at both Aqua (back in the day) and Nob Hill, we rejected the Classic tasting menu (though on my next visit, I just may indulge -- who doesn't love a lobster pot pie, served tableside from a shiny copper pot?) Though we'd miss out on things like scallops six ways that comes with the a la carte menu, we'd have a chance to try more dishes.
The amuse bouche was served in spoons: quail egg in beurre blanc with sevruga caviar. Yum.
Then we were treated to a wee surprise from the kitchen, something not on our menu. One plump, seared Diver scallop crowned a potato-scallion cake, while a thin slice of scallop sashimi floated in a slick of lemon oil. Both were topped with osetra caviar. Mr. Food Musings preferred the sashimi, while I enjoyed the Diver scallop (I admit the perfectly fried potato cake may have swayed me). Our first course came just as we finished the scallop, a hamachi and lobster parfait topped with wasabi tobiko and uni (sea urchin), a drizzle of habanero oil and a puddle of mushroom emulsion decorating the plate. It disappeared too quickly to photograph; imagine a small tower of fish with a sea-foam green top hat and a bright orange feather, and there you go.
The soft shell crab, fried in a puff of airy dough and studded with black sesame seeds, soaked up the fava bean and tomato vinaigrette just enough to tart up the sweet meat. To its right, a juicy hunk of fresh Dungeness crab and a mound of fava bean and dill "falafel" took my breath away.
Poached halibut atop salt cod brandade hovered at the edge of failure, saved by the moist, rich fish. I meant to ask if it had been poached in butter or olive oil. The fish unfortunately swam in a garlic-spinach broth, and teeny weeny balls of purple potato looked cute but added little to the dish. I devoured my halibut and brandade and left the rest.
Before the foie gras came, we settled on a glass of Girard 2003 Spatlese Riesling in place of the usual Sauternes. The foie gras was marvelous, perhaps my favorite dish of the evening, served seared with Santa Rosa plums (the same ones, I couldn't help thinking, we'd had at Manresa a few weeks before). A small round of torchon in a light plum sauce was best with a bite of the buttery brioche finger.
We moved on to Merry Edwards Windsor Gardens 2003 Pinot Noir when the quail came, a short, matchstick bone jutting out from the crisped skin. Like most of the dishes, the quail was prepared two ways: a hunk of dark meat over puréed purple Peruvian potatoes (which tasted only okay and fade to a mottled, unappetizing gray when cooked). I popped the best, blueberry-est blueberry I've ever had the pleasure to eat in my mouth and it made me wonder if Violet Beauregard's fate wasn't, perhaps, a blessing in disguise. The other quail preparation, a sausage Sancerre, puts most sausages to shame:so smooth and redolent with hints of violet and mustard, it nearly melted in my mouth. Dee-lish! Next up? Kobe beef rib roast with salted, crisp fried onion rings and a choice of red wine reduction with green peppercorns and horseradish cream sauce. I alternated between the two, dipping my fingers in to finish them off (I was discreet, don't worry).
They kindly put together a cheese plate on the spot to spare Mr. FM a sugar-induced migraine, and he enjoyed the various sheep's milk, goat's milk and cow's milk selections. (Hey, a girl can't write every single thing down, can she?)
Meanwhile, I devoured my peach tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream. I liked the tarte tatin's buttery, flaky layers and tender fruit, but I could have done without the raspberry shake. It tasted like Robitussin cough syrup. I worried I'd had a sip of red wine too close to dessert, but just couldn't shake the flavor and left most of that for the cleanup crew. (Hint: mix up the fruit and ice cream before you take a drink. That helps cut down on the shake's sour notes.)
The night ended with a playful gift of four chocolate-covered bonbons, two caramel ice cream with milk chocolate and nuts, and two with mint ice cream and dark chocolate (my favorites).
So, how did it rank as fine meals go? The truth is that restaurants are like people, each with its own unique strengths and weaknesses, quirks and charms, and the only faults I can find with the meal are fairly minor -- too much purple potato, a waiter not quite quick enough on the draw with our red wine, and that icky raspberry milkshake. Nevertheless, I fear that Manresa has spoiled me for life. Michael Mina was lovely, truly a wonderful experience both gustatorily and socially, and one I would definitely recommend. And yet...and yet...
Recent Comments