The Challenge: A Working Girl's Afternoon Off

Last week, my parents came to visit. They are always up to things, but my mom found a window to swing by the Financial District on a sunny Friday afternoon. After some hugging and mutual dress compliments, she said those magical words of parents everywhere: "Well, sweetie! Where would you like to go for lunch?"

I replied, "Just let me get my list." (Commence rummaging through oversize handbag.)

And because she is a particularly indulgent mother, she suggested we go to Perbacco. Now, keep in mind that my mother used to be a young urban professional herself, back in the day, in 'frisco, no less, during the 80s. Rest assured that she knows how to treat a working girl to lunch.

Perbacco it was. Is it just me, or does San Francisco have approximately a bazillion upscale/Italian/Californian/rustic/house-cured/house-pickled restaurants? I don't really care. If they are all this good, keep it coming. Per 7x7's recommendation, we had the salumi misti. Made in house using "traditional Piedmontese recipes." You heard me.

But we really fell in love with some Brussels sprouts. Now, Brussels sprouts and I are old friends, but I understand there are people in this world who feel otherwise. If you labor under any delusions that you don't like Brussels sprouts, for heavens sake, I beseech you to stop boiling, steaming, and otherwise abusing them. Roasting really makes their nuttiness sing, but Perbacco does one better. Panfried, crispy-edged, bathed in (most likely an unconscionable quantity of) brown butter, tossed with burst capers, and sprinkled with a generous handful of Reggiano, they were to die for. Little cabbages to die for, I say. (Slams fist clenching fork to table.)

Then, after you've polished off your exquisite Italian/Californian/house-cured lunch, I highly recommend blowing off work for the afternoon, and going shopping at Loehmann's with the original working girl. One never knows. That next Diane von Furstenburg could be just around the corner.

The Art of Email

I'm an avid reader of etiquette columns. Etiquette, it seems to me, is ultimately an expression of how much care and thought you extend to members of your acquaintance. It's also clearly delightful to read anecdotes of people behaving badly. Someone's neighbor keeps giving them terrible cakes? Outrageous! You tell them, Philip Galanes. Where would we be without you.

If there is one area in which etiquette is lacking, however, I'd point to email. To be fair, email is a younger medium, and the social customs are not as ingrained just yet. (By comparison, my Great Aunt Leigh's first edition of Emily Post from 1922 contains suggestions on sharing tennis courts and how to tie a red ribbon on your pony's tail if he kicks. Email is what, 20 years old? Whereas it would appear that grouchy ponies have been frequenting the hunt club for centuries.) I also know we're all short on time, and admittedly emails, by nature, are meant to be written and read fast. But you know what? I think we can agree that there is room for a little more care and craft in most of the emails one reads these days.

A few points to consider:

Salutations: Use them. It takes approximately two seconds to type "Hi Ali," and hit hard return twice. And to paraphrase my friend's mother, writing someone's name on something is a really easy way to make it personal. (I believe she was talking about homemade Valentine's cards at the time, but the point stands.)

Signatures: Again. Use them. It'll make you feel strong. These should require at least a half second of thought--I read a charming piece in the Times demonstrating the pitfalls of automatic signatures. The classics such as "Thanks" and "Sincerely" never fail. Personally I tire a bit of "Cheers," which seems to me to be misused by most Americans (more as a general cheerfulness, rather than the British usage, which is more of a casual "Thanks"), but as you would. And let's face it, a well-crafted signature is a delight. "Stay fabulous!"

Capitalize and punctuate: Okay, I get it. Not everybody adores semicolons the way I do. But periods? Commas? Seriously? No one is that busy.

Emoticons: Emoticons are a really easy way to inject a little bit of warmth or tone. I use them all the time, in texts, Facebook posts, gchats, and casual emails to friends. But let's be firm. They have absolutely no place in any kind of professional email. And honestly, at the crux of the issue, when it really comes down to it, there's a much better way to express warmth and tone: words. Use your words. Even if it's just an "I kid!" bookending a sarcastic comment, or an "it was such a pleasure" or "so delightful" amending a sentence, there's a more elegant and accurate approach you can take. You'll end up looking smarter for doing so.

Proofing: Read before you send. There is an unnamed person from an unnamed institution that I once attended, who periodically sends out email newsletters, updates, and solicitations to an alumni list. Every time I get one of her emails, I immediately start counting the typos. It's embarrassing. She looks incompetent, and more to the point, it very much lessens my desire to hand over my money. If you're writing a long, formal email, go ahead and draft it in Word. While email clients have some spelling checks these days, there's no support for grammar. And regardless of level of formality, at least give emails a quick scan before hitting send.

Responding to invitations: It seems to me that with the immediacy of email, people are really slipping on RSVPs. Just because you can respond up to the last minute absolutely does not mean that you should. So don't take your host/hostess's time and efforts for granted. When you receive an invitation, open up your gcal. (It's one click away. I promise it won't hurt.) At which point, let me remind you, there are two correct responses to an invitation: you say thank you and accept, or you say thank you and politely decline. It is absolutely amazing to me how many people of my generation skip right over that first part. I really don't want to hear about how busy/important/hung over you are! I just invited to cook you a homemade meal on Friday night. I would be happy to talk about how annoying your boyfriend is once you're here and we've had a bottle of wine, but right now, all I really want to know is how much brisket to buy. Seriously, who raised you?

Don't say anything you wouldn't say to the person's face: Emails can get forwarded. Enough said. And I've personally had enough long, drawn out fights over email to be able to attest that there are certain conversations where you really ought to reach for the phone, or better yet, sit down and have a cup of coffee. Know email's limitations, and let's try to steer clear of embittered typing into the void, shall we?

Response times: My mom gets busted for this all the time. Between smart phones and the fact that most office jobs entail sitting in front of a computer for eight hours at a stretch, people expect you to be pretty instantly available. My personal policy is to try to respond to all emails the same day, or within 24 hours at the latest. The courteous emailer will also take into account time zones, which means that if I'm answering a food blogger in New York, or our IT guy in Colorado, I make sure I get back to them by early afternoon. But to be clear--I'm a big believer in having a life beyond the screen. If you're going to be away from email for an entire day or longer, post an auto response and let your correspondents know when you'll be back online. That way, when you abandon your email to go on a three-day spree of painting/book organizing/Christmas shopping/houseguest entertaining, you won't wind up with disgruntled colleagues/friends/family members on your hands. Not that anyone's mother I've ever known has ever done that.

The Oxford comma: This has nothing to do with email in particular. I just really love the Oxford comma, and you should, too. It makes life better. You also get a gold star in my book if you use proper dashes, learn the keyboard shortcuts for accents, use the active voice, and sport a stylish vocabulary. Such are the details that separate the boys from the men.

Finally, let me leave you with one of the great take-away points of nearly all etiquette guides I've ever enjoyed: just because someone else is behaving badly, it does not give you permission to do so yourself. There are a lot of poor communicators out there in this world. This does not give you license to write shoddy emails. Communicate well. Write well. Your emails are an extension of yourself, and your readers will be judging you by them. Most especially if you happen to know any English majors.

Did I miss any? Do I expect too much? Feel free to add or refute, in the comments section.

The Challenge: Tea & Tarts

I'm going to come clean: I'm a little bit scared of Chinatown. I know it's jam-packed with tourists and arguably one of the safest hoods to haunt on a Tuesday afternoon, but to be honest, I'd rather get hit on by ten sketchy guys in the Mission than wait on line with ten Chinatown ladies. It's the pushing. And the yelling. And did I mention the pushing? I'm putting it down as a cultural difference. As a WASP, I'm just not cut out for this kind of thing. (As a side note, I'd like to point out that one of my favorite aspects of British culture is the dedication to queueing. Just try to cut the line at an Oxford bus stop. I dare you.)

But venture into Chinatown I must, if I was to tackle the egg custard tart from Golden Gate Bakery on the Challenge. Now, I was ready to be fairly unimpressed with this one. I've met a few egg tarts in my time. They're eggy. They're tarty. They're good with tea, and I like things that are good with tea, but you pretty much get the picture. "What ho," I thought to myself, eyeing the old lady cutting me in line, "I'm sure this will be nice, but probably not worth dealing with Chinatown again anytime soon."

And then I took a bite of steep, unctuous custard. And muttered an obscenity. And ate my words; every last, buttery, flaked bite.

Go to Chinatown! Go! No seriously. Go! And shame on you, other egg tarts of this world. I will suffer your mediocrity no longer. I and the pushy old ladies at Golden Gate Bakery know what's up.

The Lunch Box Chronicles

Happy September, everyone! I could go on about crisp fall air and burnished leaves, but just to recap, I live in San Francisco, where the weather is schizophrenic, and summer is just finally beginning. I've been reading fashion week coverage with wistful sighs, thinking about the red, pressed wool coat that's going to be sitting in my closet for another two months. Sometimes life is hard.

In cookbook land, however, September means back-to-school month, or in other words, lunch boxes! Am I going back to school this year? Absolutely not, but when has that ever stopped me from indulging in new school supplies. A confession: I really, really enjoy packing my lunch. To be fair, I mostly pack my lunch because I work in print publishing and am poor and thereby, you know, have to. But also, I really, really enjoy packing my lunch.

Around this time of year our neighborhood Whole Foods puts up a display dedicated to lunch boxes, containers, and accoutrement. It's hard to resist. The scenario goes somewhat like this:

"Stephen!" I exclaim.

"Yes?" says Stephen, inching towards the deli meats.

"Haven't you always wanted a multi-tiered tiffin?!"

"No," says Stephen.

And so on.

Nevertheless, we've built up a pretty solid collection of different types of containers: a bento box, the tiffin, various glass jars, milk jugs, etc. When I was little I had a great plastic lunch box with examples of different dinosaurs on it. I wonder if my mom still has that. ALSO, Williams-Sonoma (WS to its friends) now has a vintage Star Wars lunch box. I hope Stephen isn't reading this, because that has Christmas present written all over it.

Photo courtesy of http://www.williams-sonoma.com.

This year, things escalated. First, I bought a new stainless steel sandwich box (Stephen said no, but I hid it under some tortillas in the cart and snuck it through at the check out). Then my company came out with an aaaaa-dor-able! little cookbook (shameless plug here). Plus I was super broke after I came back from my European vacation, so packing lunch every day became a kind of personal challenge.

Would you accept a word of advice? Life gets a lot easier when you stock up on easy-to-grab snacks, like carrots, sugar snaps, mini cheeses, individual yogurts, and bagels. Dare to join the ranks of the lunch ninjas? Set yourself up over the weekend with a batch of toasty granola, some leftover grilled chicken breasts, or a big pot of soup. If it's there, you'll pack it. Here are some of our current faves:

Yogurt and muesli

Oat scones

Black bean and cheese burritos

Spicy peanut noodle salad

Smoked salmon wraps

Veggie and hummus wraps

Chicken caesar wraps

Caprese baguettes

Apple and brie baguettes

BLT's

Broccoli and cheddar calzone

Tuna melts and tomato soup

Carrot-ginger soup

Cobb salads

Curried chicken salads

Happy packing, happy lunching, and happy September, whether that means back-to-school or still-at-work.

The Challenge: Brunching with Tourists

On a Sunday not too long ago, I ventured somewhere few native San Franciscans dare: Fisherman's Wharf.

A miracle had occurred. The fog parted just long enough for me to meet my friend KC for some French/German bicyclist dodging a nice walk at Fort Mason. When I jumped out of my cab in workout gear, the driver said, "Have a nice run!" No, no I did not correct him. KC and I had a good laugh about this. Running? Us?

After some sunshine and fresh air, we wandered over to the Buena Vista Cafe, ogling the massive line of tourists willing to pay $6 to ride the cable car (nuts). We partook of the legendary Irish coffees, and ordered up some pretty standard brunch fare. The food itself is not particularly amazing, although stuff anything with Dungeness crab and I'm pretty happy. But the Irish coffees without a doubt deserve their reputation. A thick layer of cream floats pristinely over the murky libations beneath. The glass is warm; the coffee hot, and the rum warms you throat to belly to fingertips.

The whole experience made me think of my dad, who loved to swim in the bay when he lived here during the 80's. The Buena Vista Cafe is just across from the two big swim clubs, the Dolphin club and the South End club. I imagine that after taking a plunge in 55 degree saltwater, an Irish coffee and some unassuming eggs and sourdough toast would seriously hit the spot. I'm not going to do it, but you're welcome to try.

KC remarked that there seems to be a good mix of tourists and locals. The tables are large and seem to often get shared, and just as we were getting our check an older couple sat down next to us. They told us they had met in San Francisco 42 years ago, and remembered when you could only order three different entrees at the Buena Vista, none of them good, and the Irish coffees cost 75 cents. They also expressed amazement that the cable car went all the way through to the wharf, "now." We gently allowed as how our generation doesn't really take the cable car. I think it was a good learning experience, all around.

It made me wonder a bit about all these bars cropping up around the city, serving things out of mason jars, digging up vintage recipes from The Savoy Cocktail Book. Don't get me wrong, I eat that stuff up. But the Buena Vista doesn't have to feign mid-century cool. The Buena Vista was actually here mid century, and at the beginning of the century, and at the end of the century, for that matter. There's something to be said for that.

The Challenge: A Bit Gingery

Next up on the Challenge is Miette, one of the maaaaany entries on the list that calls the Ferry Building home. My office is all of six blocks from the Ferry Building, which is great if you feel like picking up some heirloom tomatoes on a Tuesday, or sampling some Korean tacos on a Thursday. Actually, I don't go as often as I should. Actually, I eat lunch at my desk most days, whilst working reading etiquette columns on the New York Times. (Brushes aside some keyboard crumbs of guilt.)

BUT, if you're in the middle of an afternoon slump, and you're pretty sure there is not one more inspirational sentence you can possibly write about juice (because let's face it, once you've used "sweet," "tart," and "refreshing," it tends to go downhill from there), what better than a jaunt to the waterfront?! Especially if there are gingersnaps involved.

I have often partaken of the pristine little cupcakes from Miette, but shockingly had passed over the gingersnap option. No more. These are large, thin disks, with prettily scalloped edges. At first super crunchy, they give at the last moment with a sugary confection bend. The spice hits hard at the end. They'd probably be delicious alongside a masala chai, but with so much character on their own, it's hard to beat a straight-up English breakfast tea, taken with milk. These are keyboard crumbs of a higher order.

And now I quote Stephen on ginger biscuits (please read with an English accent):

"What, you've never had a ginger biscuit? No, they're not a cookie. They're like a biscuit, but a bit more crunchy, a bit more gingery. . .. You know. Like a ginger biscuit."

The Challenge: Something Boozy in the Financial District

For round one of tackling the 7 x7 list, I did a quick scan to see what was near my office. Publishing types tend to be very easily persuaded into an afterwork drink. We seem to always end up traipsing to North Beach's 15 Romolo, which is happy-hour cheap, and has a knock-your-socks-off Pimm's Cup. I have a hard time asking any more of a bar. But as it turned out, there are a couple of top-notch cocktails we've been neglecting in our very own neighborhood. Like, within two blocks of the office. Outrageous.

The first was Bix, which is a seriously classy joint, with booths, atmospheric lighting, a second story, and live jazz in the evenings (although we were too early for that). We bellied up to the mahogany bar and ordered gin martinis and tartare. The salmon was fresh, lightly dressed, and exquisite, but I think the steak really stole the show, as the bartender makes a presentation of scraping up artful lines of mustard and capers and mixing it up in front of you. At $12 a cocktail it better be good--but it is so good! And the gin martini is a serious drink. Serious enough that after just one you'll get slightly lost going over to your friend's house for dinner. Your friend whose apartment you've already been to. . . twice. These things happen. I'd happily repeat the experience.

Comstock Saloon has such a good reputation we were a little worried about getting seats, but sneaking in on a Tuesday night just after work, we were able to nab a cushy booth. Comstock definitely plays up the saloon, with waistcoated bartenders, tiled floors, an odd contraption that turns the ceiling fans, and so on. Manhattans and pickled eggs are the recommended order, which opened my eyes to one of the beauties of the challenge, namely, that it's good incentive to try things that you'd never ordinarily pick out on a menu. I don't know about you, but I kind of doubt that pickled eggs with oyster sauce would have really leapt out at me. But delightful they were; crisp rye toasts, dollops of briny dressing, topped with thin slices of hard boiled egg, with a nice vinegary zing. The Manhattan is also a man's drink. At first sip, I was aghast that my grandfather drank these every day (against doctor's orders, if memory serves correctly). At second sip, you start to ease into it.

And now, just because I'm an English major and we can get away with this sort of thing, I'll leave you with a quote from Lucky Jim by the great Sir Kingsley Amis. Please note the common themes of mid-twentieth century charm, drinking, and pickles:

“Pocketing the eightpence change from his two florins, Dixon shoved one of the stemmed glasses along to Margaret. They were sitting at the bar of the Oak Lounge in a large roadside hotel not far from Welch’s house. From this seat Dixon felt he could recoup himself a little for the expensiveness of the drinks by eating steadily through the potato crisps, gherkins, and red, green, and amber cocktail onions provided by the ambiguous management. He began eating the largest surviving gherkin and thought how lucky he was that so much of the emotional business of the evening had been transacted without involving him directly.”