For the rabid restaurant fan like me, a trip to San Francisco is like being dropped into a sweetie shop with the key thrown away. There’s a restaurant in San Francisco for every 376 people, the highest density in the US.
The odds are stacked in the city’s favour: the local produce is magnificent with peachy fresh seafood – Dungeness crabs in season and Hog Island oysters. And the sunny terrain surrounding the foggy city bursts with fertility – and it’s not just grapes.
The stalls at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Market deliver almost synaesthetic pleasure – just smell those hues. San Francisco’s farm-to-fork reputation was cemented when this landmark building reopened its doors back in 2003, encouraging people to explore newly excellent American cheeses and ask for their Early Girl tomatoes or Walla Walla onions by name. Before they became wearyingly ubiquitous, I had my first ever cupcake there – carrot, piled high with cream cheese frosting; it made quite the impression. It turned out to be gluten-free – there’s a real focus on organic and environmentally sound practices as well as, yes, food faddism in the city. But I neither knew nor cared.
This is a town that breeds invention and innovation. Nobody’s hidebound by tradition, and restaurants such as Saison and Benu, both newly-blessed (or cursed) with the full three Michelin stars as of this October, are as likely to chuck out the tablecloths as they are to marry Asian flavours to intensive French techniques.
It pays to go with an open mind, and hunt down the likes of ginger churros with miso caramel (Dirty Habit) or beef tendon puffs (Alta CA) or home-made headcheese (Trou Normand). Pleasingly, the broom-up-the-ass style of service has disappeared too; when even the Ritz Carlton has de-starched its restaurant, you know that here you can just lean back and relax.
There’s a fluidity about San Francisco’s new-Cali cooking, a light, almost feminine touch – perhaps because two of the scene’s pioneers were women: Alice Waters creating seismic ripples from her Chez Panisse in Berkeley, and Judy Rodgers (RIP) of the still-wonderful Zuni. The people with restaurant money to spend are well up for blowing raspberries to convention too: tech start-ups and established new media superstars. Twitter, incentivised by attractive tax and rent breaks, has landed in a previously (and if I’m honest, still) sketchy part of town, bringing in its wake a wave of new, exciting restaurants. Currently, hot pop-up and street-food collective The Hall (the bánh mi from Little Green Cyclo are outstanding) is making waves in an abandoned snooker hall, previously only notable for people shooting up in its doorways.
This buzz-chasing and thrill-of-the-new also means that, yes, you’ll queue. But who cares if you can’t score the hottest tables? There’s always something delicious round the corner: in addition to the famous city-centre Chinatown, there are mini versions in Richmond and Inner Sunset; or hit Little Saigon in The Tenderloin (contrarily, I came here for Thai at Lers Ros). In the Western Addition, there’s one of the US’s last three remaining Japantowns, for ramen slurping and kawaii gift-shopping. And who could resist the Mexicana of The Mission, or the Little Italy of North Beach?
The choice is so dizzying: better even, I’d say, than New York. And it lacks the Big Apple’s attitude – I don’t think we ate anywhere that diners at neighbouring tables didn’t chat, offering restaurant advice and gossip, and even – when our taxis failed to show – lifts to our destination.
Given the sheer scale of the numbers, this is clearly a very personal selection. But you’d have to try very hard, or be particularly contrary, to have a bad meal in San Francisco; I haven’t managed it yet. It’s also an astonishingly beautiful city – if you can raise your eyes from the plate long enough to appreciate it.
The contemporary superstars
Every week, there’s a new arrival to the restaurant scene, a new spot for getting Yelpers and Instagrammers hot under the napkins. But frequently the hype is more than deserved: fierce competition sees off duds pretty rapidly and the stars shine bright. Recent arrival Monsieur Benjamin, the funky sibling to Corey Lee’s Benu, is where a new generation is thrilling to the joys of flawless renditions of devilled eggs, blanquette de veau and butter lettuce salad. The staid world of patisserie isn’t resistant to innovation in SF: Craftsman and Wolves – on a gorgeously food-focused strip of The Mission – dishes up hot salted butter caramel drink with croissant shavings, and their notorious egg-yolk pooling, sausage-studded Rebel Within savoury muffin. I rate local heroes Flour + Water for their perfectionist in-house butchery and salume-making. Street food might not be as huge here as it is in LA or Portland, but the roaming Off the Grid network of foodtrucks is making a big noise; I loved the Coca-Cola-braised pork with preserved mustard seeds on steamed buns from The Chairman.
My pick: State Bird Provisions
Meriting every syllable of praise that’s heaped on it, Stuart Brioza and Nicole Krasinski’s punky little restaurant is a genuine game-changer: I’ve never encountered its like. Matching the ambition of the dreaded fine-dining to a riotous atmosphere (the queues! The furniture and walls made from pinboard!) plus a touch of the dim-sum trolley, every mouthful, whether ordered from the menu or grabbed from the circulating trays, is a revelation. I still dream about the sultry duck liver mousse with almond biscuits; the ‘State Bird’ – a quail – grilled into smokiness on its bed of gently pickled, sautéed onions and crowned with Parmesan; the smoked duck ham with umeboshi. You may have to beg or wait months for a reservation, but if you only hit one restaurant in San Francisco, make it this one.
The old school
Just because tourists love a “storied” restaurant doesn’t mean we should dismiss them. I adore San Francisco’s hoary old-timers, preserved in some kind of delicious aspic – everything from vast, crisp apple fritter donuts from Bob’s to equally vast, expertly mesquite-grilled steaks at the clubby Alfred’s (leave their uninspired Italian food for the tourists and don’t miss the justifiably legendary martinis).
I’ve waited in line, fuelled with Anchor Steam beer, for a seat at the marble counter at Swan Oyster Depot, for its Dungeness crab, smoked salmon and, of course, briny bivalves. Seemingly untouched since its birth in 1912, it’s a beautiful timewarp; insiders swear by the off-menu crudo-style sashimi, and the buttery, sweet crab fat, perfect for dunking in chunks of so-San Francisco sourdough bread. (
Nob Hill offers rich pickings: the outrageous Tonga Room (it rains indoors!) in classic grand dame hotel, The Fairmont; and Big 4 in the more boutiquey Scarlet Huntington across the road, all starched tablecloths, green leather booths and grand piano. Meatloaf and pot pie: vintage heaven. More cause for rejoicing for us retro freaks: venerable Sam’s Grill has just reopened for veal cutlets Milanese and charbroiled sweetbreads with bacon.
My pick: Tadich Grill
I can chase the buzz alongside the San Franciscans, but I always make time for the Tadich Grill, 160 years old and still packing ‘em in. It’s a moment out of time preserved with love: the long bar, the wood panelling and mirrored booths, the long-aproned senior waiters, the classic cocktails, the neon… it’s all thrilling to the fan of classic Americana. And the food’s no slouch either: the city’s beloved fish stew, cioppino; Dungeness crab and prawns à la Monza with cream and paprika, a nod to the restaurant’s Croatian origins, as is their habit of cooking the daily catch over mesquite wood; and rich, rich oysters Rockefeller.
The essential brunches
San Franciscans seem happy to queue for anything up to two hours for entry into the city’s most popular brunch spots. On a Sunday: this is their new religion. Just try getting into Potrero Hill’s Plow (their lemon ricotta pancakes and golden, crunchy home-fried potatoes are almost – almost – worth queuing for); or woodsy Outerlands, where hungry fans set off to foggy Outer Sunset for fluffy mini Dutch pancakes with bacon. The Mission’s Tartine Bakery is a perennial favourite; for me, it has to be their insanely buttery ham and gruyere croissants. But why stick to the traditional when you can have Italian brunches, or Mexican, or Vietnamese (Rice, Paper, Scissors do a killer fried-egg bánh mi)? You can brunch on fromage at gloriously whiffy Mission Cheese or New Orlean’s-style beignets stuffed with crawfish at Brenda’s French Soul Food in the Tenderloin. My tip for brunch? Go on a weekday when San Francisco’s at work – menus are frequently identical.
My pick: Verbena
This was a toss-up between Serpentine in the arty, emerging Dogpatch district, or Russian Hill’s Verbena. Grungy little Serpentine gets points for its ramshackle charm and house-cured salmon Benedict. But Verbena wins because it’s just so darn San Franciscan, with its sprouted seed bread, and duck confit with Chinese broccoli and “rice grits”. I’ve never tasted anything like their red corn pancakes with lemon verbena-braised strawberries, Asian pear and green fennel butter: every mouthful a sweet-savoury-sharp-sticky revelation. It’s chic and high-ceilinged inside, and the fact that you can sit outside and people-watch Russian Hill’s weekend passeggiata is a true bonus.
The Italians
The city runs on Italian food, whether it’s the cioppino-slingers – the tomato, seafood and fish stew is a San Francisco invention – down at Fisherman’s Wharf (not for me, thanks) or the evolved, like Flour + Water or SPQR, with its riot of glorious antipasti. Then there are the pizzas: the brash, self-publicising but undoubtedly assured World Pizza Champion Tony Gemignani’s empire with his limited-edition margherita (only a random 73 made a day…). Or the chic: The Mission’s Delfina, with its farm-to-table ethos and queues. Or the reverential: Una Pizza Napoletana in SoMa, where tattooed Anthony Mangieri crafts his naturally-leavened pies in the centre of the tall, stark former garage before briefly blasting them in the huge wood-fired oven. $25 per pizza for the chance to join the worshippers.
My pick: Tosca Cafe
In the heart of North Beach, where poetry evenings jostle with strip joints, lies Tosca Cafe, its arched windows and long, muralled bar a beacon for everyone from North Beach bums to Francis Ford Coppola. The kitchen hadn’t served food for over 50 years, but now it has passed into the hands of Brit April Bloomfield who, with Ken Friedman, has had New Yorkers queuing for seats at her Spotted Pig and Breslin. Despite chunterings by the locals at the potential blighting of their favourite hangout, the duo have spent a fortune to keep it looking much as it did: the murals, the red booths, the jukebox, all still here. And now it has the food to match the history; as you’d expect from Bloomfield, it’s gutsy and great: towering pillows of foccaccia, imaginative pastas – lumaconi and gemelli, fine salumi, and the star – a wonderful whole roast chicken. And yes, they still do the booze-laced “house cappuccino”.
The Mexicans
The Mission is home to some of the best tacos and tortillas outside Mexico. We spent a blissful, greedy day winding in and out of many of the area’s finest, sharing just the one plate of tacos or dividing a burrito (still a mammoth meal) in each. La Taqueria won the accolade of best burrito in America (and the queues reflect this); it’s fine enough, but it’s not a real “Mission” burrito – there’s no rice in the wrap. For the fattest real burrito, El Farolito a few doors down does one the size of a bolster (and we didn’t even supersize it), humming with vibrant flavours, in a sticky oilclothed atmosphere that defines grungy. A walk down 24th Street gives a real flavour of the area; heading towards the beautifully unreconstructed vintage diner St Francis Fountain is La Torta Gorda, where their ginormous sandwiches are stuffed with all manner of good things: carne asada, grilled poblano peppers, or their cult pierna enchilada (pulled pork shank). My favourite tacos were from a food truck: smoky carnitas, sparky and vibrant with fresh salsa, from El Gallo Giro at 23rd and Treat.
My pick: Nopalito
Away from The Mission, but so worth the trip, this bright-windowed restaurant, its walls cactus-green and tables bare, dishes out some of the city’s freshest, most flavour-bombing Mexican food. And it’s no generic taco joint: corn masa is ground in-house before being crafted into crisp, chilli-topped totopos or chewy soft tortillas; they even make their own fresh cheese and chorizo. Fish tacos are glorious: the white fish seared over wood and piled into tacos with slices of fresh orange, ancho chilli – a spiky little salsa of morita chillies and tomatillo and chipotle cream. Blowsy squash blossoms are crammed into empanadas, cushiony and satisfying. Unusually, the ingredients used in their bright, vivid cooking are organic; with its sibling in Sunset, they’re a pair of firecrackers.
Delicious surprises
San Francisco is one of those wonderful cities boasting whole streets resistant to chains and homogenisation. Every quirky strip has its treasures: sure, Chinatown is worthy of its must-visit status, but a wander round Richmond for a dumpling crawl is an eye-opener (and not just because of the shops selling live frogs or cow’s uterus). Then, even further off the tourist trail is the jangly, youthful little Asia that’s Outer Sunset along Irving St, all boba tea joints (people queue outside TPumps!) and lurid Chinese bakeries. Canteen-like San Tung, with its hand-pulled noodles and outrageous, crisp, sweet-sour-hot chicken wings is rammed every evening, for good reason.
I loved the branches of retro-styled groceries Bi-Rite Market (in The Mission and Western Addition), with their lustworthy displays of local produce. The Mission branch has the added bonus of its “creamery” a few doors down: all ice-creams made in small batches, with slurpable flavours such as malted vanilla with peanut brittle, Sonoma honey and lavender, and brown sugar with ginger caramel swirl. Omnivore Books in Noe Valley, with every book on food you could possibly imagine, new and vintage and antiquarian, is truly unmissable. Looking for that cookbook you remember from your childhood? This is the place to come.
My pick: Cookin’ (339 Divisadero St, +1 415 861 1854, no website) This eccentric Lower Haight treasure isn’t so much shop as wonderland of antique (and not-so-antique) kitchenalia. Every inch of the long, dim store is rammed with items for cooking – baking, broiling, shaping, slicing, weighing, grating, processing – plus several I’d have trouble putting a use to. The American love for the Bundt cake is enshrined here, with row after row of tins of various vintages. Owner Judy Kaminsky calls it “Recycled Gourmet Appurtenances”, and has growled at browsers for over 30 years. But that’s part of the charm of a place that, to me at least, is an emporium every bit as magical as anything in Diagon Alley. • Accommodation was provided by The Scarlet Huntington (thescarlethotels.com) and The Fairmont (fairmont.com)
• This article was amended on 8 December 2014. The chef running Tosca Cafe is April Bloomfield, not Broomfield as we originally had it. This has been corrected.
