This is pretty much all that was left of our Friday night tapas meal at Cafe Sevilla after my two friends R. and R. and I got through with it. I left Mr. Food Musings back home in San Francisco where he subsisted on Peasant Pies (I have the empty wrappers to prove it) while I jetted south to San Diego for a weekend with the girls.
At our feast we ordered the usual smattering - a fat slice of tortilla Espanola, chorizo sausage draped with sweet grilled red onions, patatas bravas, chicken croquettes, and the prawns you see here, simmered in garlic and lemon and one left intact, shell and head still on, for decorative effect. The food was decent enough but I'd go again for the room, a mix of Moorish tiles, antique suits of armor, worn wooden tables and walls heavy with ochre. Faux windows and a ceiling painted the color of the night sky convince you you're having a late dinner under Spanish stars.
I'll admit it - we girls don't have the stamina we used to. We collapsed into bed immediately after dinner and were snoozing away well before true Spaniards would have finished eating.
Light streamed into R.'s apartment the next morning and, coupled with the roar of airplanes landing nearby, woke us up pleasantly early, so we drove across the bridge to have breakfast in Coronado. We met her friend K. at the Crown Bistro, a small hotel restaurant with a substantial outdoor courtyard. The weather was schizophrenic, with fat gray rain clouds and chilly breezes fighting bluer skies all morning long. We took our chances and sat outside next to the gurgling fountain, surrounded by springtime blossoms (Azaleas? Marigolds? Chrysanthemums? I think I spotted them all, but I'm not much of a green thumb. Let's just pretend that's what the riot of pinks, purples, oranges and reds was for the sake of painting the scene.) There were fat slabs of French toast, egg scrambles chunky with marinated artichokes and mushrooms, and a benedict with a pale hollandaise delicate enough not to mask the flavor of the crab or the buttery english muffin bottom. The best thing about Crown Bistro is the homemade jam - on our visit, a bright red raspberry that came in an old-time jelly jar. Politely order a side of toast so you can avoid spooning it straight from the jar to your mouth (not that I did that. No-ho, not I.)
After breakfast we girls split off from K. for an estrogen-fueled afternoon of chick flicks and pedicures. (Somehow I ended up with a flower painted on my big toe nail - ick! To avoid a similar fashion disaster, never - I repeat, NEVER - just nod and smile to the pedicurist, one eye still on Cosmopolitan's Secret Confessions page. Take the time to decode what she's roping you into. Read lips if you have to.) Driving home and planning the evening ahead, we realized we had nothing to wear - none of us, not ONE THING - so R. implemented emergency procedures: she slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel to the left. The car sailed over the median and, once it had landed safely back on land, R. completed a swift U-turn in the direction of the nearest mall. Breathless, I looked over my shoulder. "Do you think that fell off your car?" I asked. R. barely glanced in the rearview mirror as she shifted into fifth gear and cut off drivers in three lanes of traffic on her way to the exit. My other friend R., prone to motion sickness, just heaved in empty gasps over the side of the car. "You okay?" I asked. She just pointed - towards the mall entrance. Our last minute shopping blitz was on. If anyone had bothered to track us with GPS (perhaps an anthropologist studying the purchasing behavior of thirty-something females?) they would have noticed extremely effective tactical operations (tactical ops for short): decoding the mall map, splitting up into smaller teams to go on reconnaissance missions, calling for backup on the cell phone when opinions were needed (pink pants - definite yes. Seersucker - definite no.) At one point, my dreams of retail nirvana slowly fading, I raced ahead to the next store only to find I'd lost one R. Doubling back, I found her changing into a pair of just-purchased black flip-flops. "My shoes were slowing me down," she explained. "I was only holding you back." Newly shod, we ducked into another boutique, flanking both sides. My luck turned around and I managed not to have to leave the house that night naked, or in rags.
But I digress.
That evening, after a bottle of champagne and a cold plate of salami and smoked Gouda at the apartment, we headed off to Little Italy for a late supper at the Indigo Grill. When I saw the menu, I was a little put off - it's one of those where every dish plays host to seven separate ingredients, and that's hard to pull off if you don't know what you're doing. (I admit to some culinary snobbery, but usually my bias is justified.) We ordered more champagne and, our appetites somewhat sated by the antipasti at R.'s place, went small. Or so we thought. When my salad came to the table - spinach with a scattering of toasted pumpkin seeds, strawberries, garlic chips and a caramelized orange-pasilla dressing - it was enough for a small dinner party. I know I'm prone to hyberbole but this really was enough to serve 4-6 as an appetizer. I was shocked. We decided it must be a flagrant attempt to attract SEALs-in-training from nearby Coronado who need upwards of 6,000 calories a day.
But, since we decidedly do NOT, we shared - and still left at least half of the salad on the plate. Next up: a human-sized portion of chicken breast stuffed with pancetta and goat cheese for R. and R. to share, and tamales filled with a savory corn pudding and topped off with shrimp in garlic butter for me. I know everything sounds very middle America/upscale chain-ish, but chef Deborah Scott's New Western fare succeeded. My low expectations were chipped away bite by bite until I had to admit that the food was damn good, and inventive without getting bogged down in competing flavors or unfamiliar ingredients.
Despite our whining about too much food, when the dessert menus were placed in front of us we zeroed in on the warm chocolate cake and in three seconds flat had placed our order. For a moment, we glanced at each other wide-eyed as if to say, "Do we REALLY want to do this?"
Oh, we did. No surprise that the cake was served in a skillet about six inches in diameter - six! - and buried in three scoops of vanilla ice cream and a crisscrossing of caramel. Plebeian, yes, but still worth every one of the 8,000 calories we each ingested. Unable to finish it off, we called in the reserves - R.'s friend Irina, an artist who joined us near midnight for a drink and a few bites of food.
The next morning we were - mysteriously - hungry again. A quick drive past the Hash House deflated our spirits: it was as if a cruise ship had just docked and everyone on board had run over for a bite to eat. Ever hopeful, we put our names on the list but when the hostess confirmed an hour and a half wait, we moved on to the Crest Cafe in Hillcrest. They serve up weekend brunch specials like chicken apple hash and Sam the Cooking Guy's Blackberry Biscuit Bundt French Toast on mismatched Fiestaware, and the teas, a mixture of caffeinated breakfast blends and fruity tisanes, come in soft, gauzy bags that you can feel the herbs and leaves right through. The blood orange seeped up a shimmery garnet red, staining the saucer, almost too pretty to drink.
After breakfast, R. said her good-byes and headed back to LA, but my plane didn't take off for several more hours so the other R. and I drove up to Cabrillo Park. From Point Loma, you can see the San Diego Bay, the graceful arch of the Coronado Bridge, and the day's balmy weather had attracted boats in full force, their broad white sails spread to the wind. We meandered along the pathway's edge, passing the old lighthouse that led ships safely home for fifty years, cupping our eyes to block the sun. We talked about our friends, their changing lives - breakups, new relationships, babies on the way - and contemplated how the fabric of our lives was changing, the weave showing new designs with every passing year. Our words were hopeful, our smiles wistful.
We headed back down then.
We never managed to try the wine bar R. had scouted out, and I didn't sniff (much less eat) a single fish taco, but new times with old friends was time well spent. When I got off the plane, more than an hour behind schedule, Mr. Food Musings was there to meet me. "I'm starving," he admitted, craving steak, so we hit a new favorite, Oola, for some Kumamoto oysters, ribs and the best white beans with bacon ever to come out of a kitchen.
A fine weekend indeed.
Cafe Sevilla, San Diego - Gaslamp District, 555 4th Avenue, 619-233-5979
Crown Bistro, Coronado, 520 Orange Avenue, 619-435-3678
Indigo Grill, San Diego - Little Italy, 1536 India Street, 619-234-6802
Crest Cafe, San Diego - Hillcrest, 425 Robinson Avenue, 619-295-2510
Oola, San Francisco, 860 Folsom Street, 415-995-2061
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