After a while, spending gazillions of dollars eating out stops being fun. In fact, it begins to reek of conspicuous consumption, and I start to think of all the African children whom I starved as a child (well, I never finished the peas on my plate and isn't that what was supposed to happen as a result of my wicked, wicked ways?). When that happens, I cannot bear one more fancy schmancy meal.
Nor, lately, can I bear to cook.
The way I see it, daily creative energy is finite, and once it's gone, it's gone. Right now mine is enslaved to my writing, so I have unofficially sworn off making anything that requires more than 5 ingredients, 1 cutting board, 1 knife and 2 pans for dinner.
And when I can't stand even to rip up some lettuce, hack away at a tomato and put on the pasta water to boil, we go out for pizza. Well, actually we order in, from Pizza Orgasmica, which Mr. Food Musings and I swear is the best delivery pizza in the city. Our typical pie is thin crust with fresh tomatoes, artichokes, mushrooms and broccoli (hey, don't knock it till you've tried it; Mr. FM wrinkled his nose the first time we ordered it so I got it only on my half and guess which half he wanted to eat? Yep. Sneaky bastard.) And we ask them to go light on the cheese so we can taste the tomato sauce and the toppings, and avoid the guilt. Presto chango! Pizza is healthy!
In the name of research (I am trying to be a professional foodie, after all) I dragged Mr. FM to Little Star Pizza in the Haight the other night. Well, it might be in Western Addition or even in Anza Vista, but SF neighborhoods are harder to pin down than a man on marriage so forgive me if I'm off by a block or two.
Once we got there (wherever there is) we signed our names to the list (no reservations) and Mr. Food Musings proceeded to snag me a chair (such gallantry!) and get us some wine at the bar (what might be construed as yet more gallantry, but is really plain self-interest). We plopped down and took in the scene. Everyone but one gal was wearing jeans, and she sported sneakers with her pants so it all added up to the same casual aesthetic. One wall is ecru to balance the other, a dark indigo like the night sky after a thunderstorm. A jukebox plays a list of very selective tunes but we didn't bother; I know the drill. You end up sitting and sitting and ordering dessert and eating slowly in the vain hopes that I Will Survive or Stand by Your Man or whatever stupid 1970s song you played will finally, please, come on so you can sing along half-heartedly and skedaddle.
We got our table after 30 minutes and asked the waitress, a perky little blonde who was neither pierced nor pretentious, to open our bottle of vino ($10 corkage, can't beat that!). We started with a large mixed salad ($8) and the medley of greens, red pepper and gorgonzola was so big that next time I'd order the small - it'd be plenty for two. The pizzas come two ways: deep-dish with a cornmeal crust, or thin crust and toppings are pretty standard. We enjoyed our thin crust pepperoni/mushroom and zucchini/tomatoes/mushrooms/artichokes. The crust isn't as thin as A16's Neapolitan pies, but it was good - crispy and crackery, and I even ate the bits left with no tomato sauce or toppings, always a good sign. The tomato sauce rocked - thick, robust and slightly sweet, it beats other tomato sauces I've had to a pulp (har har). The cheese was a bit on the heavy side for us, but I think that's our eccentricity: if you're not accustomed to going a little light on the cheese, you would be in pizza heaven.
If you're feeling playful, have a champagne cocktail ($6). There's the Movie Star, with ginger candy and ginger beer, or Hey Kool Aid! with cherry soda and maraschino cherries. The beer list isn't a mile long but, to a non beer drinker, it looked like it had some interesting selections as well as a few ciders.
Perfect for couples, friends, families or take-out, Little Star Pizza is our new antidote to foie gras and truffle burnout: simple, relaxed and decidedly unfussy. These days, that's my favorite kind of place.
Little Star Pizza, San Francisco, 846 Divisadero, 415-441-1118
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