eating san francisco (part 2 of 2)

At the end of a long weekend gallivanting about the Bay Area, we again found ourselves in sunny San Francisco in search of sustenance.  Destination: North Beach.  At the intersection of Big Al’s and City Lights Bookstore, we returned to the venerable Stinking Rose in what must have been the first time in at least a decade.  I’m happy to report that nothing has changed.  I can’t remember how it happened exactly, but when I was growing up The Stinking Rose was one of those magical places we always somehow wound up visiting on special occasions (well, it was either there or Julius’ Castle… which I just discovered is now closed!  Sad face).  Anyhow, if company was visiting from out of town or it was the last day of school or if we just needed an excuse to celebrate in the City, the Stinking Rose was the place to be.  And so began my love affair with garlic.

In case you’re unfamiliar, the whole point of the Stinking Rose is garlic to ridiculous excess.  Garlic to the extreme.  Garlic to the max, man.  Their motto: “We season our garlic with food.”  I guess I’m forced to recognize that the landmark restaurant has some tourist appeal, because the place is always packed and lively – you can probably expect a line out the door.  On the other hand, the interior is deceptively large, an endless winding maze of rooms and tables and booths and curtains leading from one dining area to the next, so the wait generally isn’t too bad.  There is a dizzying array of gaudy fixtures plastered throughout the space.  If there is a surface, something will be on it.  A mural, a photograph, a 10 foot tall bottle of olive oil.  Strands of garlic and empty chianti bottles hang from the low ceiling.  Thousands of corks dangle on strings.  There is history everywhere.

We were seated relatively quickly and ordered a liter of the house red, a California Burgundy that was nothing special, but it didn’t really matter because we were soon about to obliterate our palates with an order of Bagna Calda – “garlic soaking in a hot tub”.  Whole, oven-roasted garlic cloves in extra virgin olive oil and butter with a touch of anchovy, served in a small iron skillet set in the center of the table.  The roasted garlic was mild and sweet and spread easily on chunks of fluffy, house-baked focaccia.  By contrast, a jar of raw green garlic on the table was hot and sharp and brought tears to my eyes.  TEARS OF JOY.

For the main course, there was nothing in the world I wanted more at that moment than the Forty Clove Garlic Chicken.  Two enormous pieces of savory breast and leg meat, roasted on the bone with rosemary and served with silky smooth Yukon mashed potatoes.  The chicken was a touch on the dry side, but I didn’t really mind because the flavor was perfect – it tasted like chicken!  Also, the dish was garnished with lovely grilled green onions and forty cloves of frickin’ garlic.  Did I eat them all?  Yes.  Yes I did.

The waitstaff was a little inconsistent, with quick service followed by long gaps of inattention.  I wasn’t particularly surprised given the frenzied nature of the restaurant, and I had nothing better to do than reminisce about old times and old friends.  This particular jaunt down to the Bay Area for the long weekend was action-packed and over far too soon, but I’m always happy to be back home in Seattle (especially since the weather here has been crazy beautiful – first the snowpocalypse and now record-breaking heat in June?  It’s totally the end of the world).  And while my next visit will undoubtedly find me hitting up Michael Mina’s new joint, or Coi or Ad Hoc or something else bleeding edge, this little trip was all about nostalgia.  Plus I got my garlic fix, yo.  Vampires need not apply.