Alma translates as "soul" in its native espanol, and on our way home from dinner there the other night I found myself wondering why chef/owner and Nuevo Latino pioneer Johnny Alamilla named it thus. Was he being aspirational (cooking as creativity from way deep down) or straightforward (food as comfort) or was he subconsciously crafting ambiance (let's give this place some SOUL, man!)? I dunno. But any of these certainly fit what he's created.
On a Friday night at 8:30, Alma's bar was atwitter with the laughter and (no doubt) witty conversation of the eternally hip throng peopling it. As soon as Mr. Food Musings and I arrived, I had to make a run for the lady's room so I scooted around a large table in the main dining room and walked through to the smaller back room, full of art hung by artists who are Latino or whose subject matter has been inspired by Latin culture. As I stood in line, a Brit sidled up to me and made the oh-so-stale remark about how women must hate having to wait in line for the bathroom. Since I was charmed by his accent, I was merciful and laughed like that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard.
And right then, at that moment, the chef spoke to me. He invited me to use the kitchen's bathroom, right around the corner. I knew it was him - I've heard him described as a "mad scientist" - and indeed this man had a gleam in his eye and a bit of curly hair peeking out askance from beneath a baseball cap that sat backwards on his head. No stickler for kitchen protocol, he wore jeans in place of checkered pants. Thinking myself the recipient of a rare favor, I smiled coquettishly as he showed me where the small sink hid. (And yes, okay, I indulged myself and wondered if perhaps he had heard of my blog amid all the "buzz" - hahahahaha - and recognized me from the photo. Those vain and fleeting hopes were trampled when Mr. FM went to the bathroom later and was also given the royal treatment, as apparently was anyone who arrived at the real bathroom to find it occupied. Oh, elusive fame...)
We both asked our waiter, with whom we quickly fell in "like" for his kind eyes and easy-going manner, for white wine and were blessed with twin glasses of white granache, not a grape I'd had. It reminded me of champagne, creamy but without the bubbles. A hit.
Alamilla has presence, and throughout the night I felt him drift through the dining room, sometimes checking out the room, other times carrying dirty decanters back to the kitchen or consulting with the hostess, whose eccentric boho style - a pink sequined bolero paired with cropped gray trousers, black knee socks and ruby red heels - reflected the menu's eclecticism.
The butter, infused with something (garlic? lime? chili? Perhaps all three?) teamed up with sourdough bread in a mildly unusual combination. I started with the night's special, corn flan. It arrived, quivering, on a translucent red plate, the kind that reminds you of your crazy aunt's mounting collection. Topped with peppery micro-arugula and some chipotle cream, the sweet flan melted in my mouth while every so often my teeth found crisp kernels of corn to pleasantly bite into. Mr. FM chose a ceviche, grouper with lime and whipped avocado; fresh and light, the generous contents crowded its whimsically fish-shaped plate.
As the dinner plates were being settled on the table, we were still dickering over the next wine choice. Our patient waiter brought taste after taste, but nothing suited Mr. FM's palate till we got to a Spanish Crianza. Happy, we dug in, me to a rugged pork chop (alas, overcooked) bathed in a piquant chile jus. Nevermind; the scallion mashed potatoes were the star. Buttery and creamy as all good mashed potatoes are, they benefited from the bright crunch of the scallion. (A simple trick to file away for my next dinner par-tay...) The jicama slaw, sharp with vinegar and a decent offset to the spice of the chop and richness of the mashers, was not to my taste; I am a child of the South and prefer my slaws creamy with mayo. Mr. FM professed his duck to be among the best he's had (and he is a connoisseur of sorts); I kept sneaking the crispy fried plaintains off his plate until he graciously handed me a few of my own.
When it was time for dessert, our gluttonous natures won out and we ordered three. I know, it's sort of disgusting, isn't it? I had read a review of the pastel de tres leches that made it a must try, and Mr. FM wanted the vanilla gelato with Kahlua, but the chocolate-jalapeno gelato was too funky to pass up. All three were winners. The pastel de tres leches is sponge cake soaked in three milks, hence the name - evaporated, condensed, and whole - then topped with crema fresca and a toss or two of fresh strawberries. One bite of the berries catapulted me to summer, and oh, it was a lovely ride. The chocolate-jalapeno gelato tasted only of chocolate on first bite; after a swallow or two, the jalapeno released its heat, which rose steadily as I demolished it. One of my favorite flavor combinations, it succeeded 100%.
We passed the chef on our way out, his sincere "thank you, good night" ringing out behind us, then fading into the buzz that is Valencia and 22nd Street during prime time on a Friday night.
Alma, San Francisco, 1101 Valencia Street, 415-401-8959
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