Valentines, with pita

Love was in the air last week. I was talking with a friend about marriage. Specifically, happy marriages. I was saying how much of it is luck. She said, "What about you? What about what you did to make your luck?"

I don't have an answer for that. It reads to me like the cockiness that precedes the swift kick in the ass. So I keep my head down, feeling grateful for this solid, delicate thing. I don't look too far ahead and fear even talking about it too much.

I was looking ahead, though, on Wednesday night, while we were having dinner at Mijana in Burlingame. They make their own fresh pita, and I knew Scott would appreciate that. Only later did we appreciate what a stroke of genius it is to head out of the city for dinner on February 14. Easy parking, easy reservations, no attitude, no inflation.

We were sitting on the banquettes eating pita (crisp outside, soft inside) and great falafel (crisp outside, soft inside) and savory beef kebab (tender all over). I noticed a group in the corner, 3 couples, early 50s. The men were clustered on one side of the table and the women sat opposite, leaning in to each other and away from the men. It was like a junior high dance. Everyone was having fun. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughing. It was a holiday gathering, just not a romantic one.

It's a silly holiday, of course. But...is it possible to avoid the "oh you again" sinkhole? I have this allergy to couples who refer to each other as "this one," as in, "This one spends so much time on the toilet, I had it engraved!" No, we hope for Alice and Calvin, not Alice and Ralph.

Zuni or not Zuni? That is the question.

It's hard for me to say this, but I think I'm done with Zuni. For now, at least.

This is a big deal (for me). I have long counted the restaurant as one of the best reasons to live in San Francisco. I love everything about Jody Rodgers' approach to food. Her love of ingredients, her perfect technique, her fluency in all things local and seasonal. Just when I think I know something about food, I look at her menu and come across a dozen things I've never seen before.

Her cookbook is the best one in my collection, the one book I'm committed to cooking through in its entirety. If you were trying to learn great technique and could buy only one book, I'd tell you to get that one.

But I am so tired of having every perfect meal bruised by bad service. So I'm giving it up for a while.

Last night, we went in for a celebratory dinner. Our friend Jessica has just landed an amazing new job, and another friend Julia was visiting from New York. There were 5 of us: not a small group, but not a logistical challenge, either. We were happy and a bit more spendy, a server's dream. Ours was friendly (and to be fair, they've gotten much friendlier of late), but we had to repeat our orders three times before she got it all down (and she still forgot an appetizer). We had to ask for water twice, and we didn't get it until halfway through the meal.

These are small points, I know, but this is an expensive restaurant. And my experience has been that it's consistently disappointing in many small ways. I can't get over the disconnect between the level of care that goes into the food and the lack of care expressed by the servers. Two weeks ago, I went for my birthday and our server disappeared for so long that we had to flag down the busser for drinks, for refills, for clearing, for dessert menus, and for the check. I'm fine with doing that at a casual place, when I'm not paying $100 for dinner. A girl has her limits.

So that's that.

But...uh, I've only been there one time for brunch. Maybe the daytime staff is better?

Excuses, excuses

We went to dinner at House of Nanking Monday night with our friend Rob, who's in town from Boston. Rob is a hard-core food nerd, the sort of person who will fly to Japan to try a restaurant. Next to him, I'm devotionless. Then again, Rob makes more money than I do.

Rob loves House of Nanking, and so do I. Some people–mostly blowhard Chowhound types–sneer and call it a tourist trap. But if you're coming from any place other than LA, New York, or Vancouver, this seems like exceptional Chinese food, brighter and more layered, and yes, somewhat Californicated. I love the fresh herbs and the fried sweet potatoes and the squid with vinegar sauce.

So it was a great meal, except for, well, me. You know how when you think you've probably offended someone, but you're not sure, you end up looking for ways to apologize without actually apologizing? That would be our dinner.

Rob got married last May in Las Vegas. We flew out for the wedding, but on the way out, I felt a cold coming on. By the next morning, I was feverish, aching, stiff-necked, and acutely sensitive to light. One long 6 a.m. trip to a walk-in clinic later, all we knew is that I probably didn't have bacterial meningitis. But they didn't know what it was.

I went straight to bed, dragged myself out for the ceremony, and left halfway through the reception. Photos show me glassy-eyed and bloated. Every step sent shooting pains up my back. I sent Scott out for the after-party and stayed in bed for another 24 hours until I swallowed a handful of Motrin and stumbled out once more for a pre-scheduled interview with a chef I was hoping to profile in Sunset.

If you ever find yourself driving down the Sunset Strip at night wearing dark shades to shield your eyes from the light, you'll be a Man, my son! No, actually, you'll know that Las Vegas is just about the worst place to be sick with light-sensitivity. But the chef had set aside his one day off to meet with me. He had invited other chefs over for a barbecue, just so I could talk to them. I couldn't miss it.

Unfortunately, Rob and Anna had scheduled a casual "farewell dinner" for their guests at the same time. And Scott, who is typically such a loyal, savvy, wise man, told them that I couldn't make it, not because I was in bed with the typhoid, but because I had to go "hang out with a chef." Maybe he said I had an interview. But he definitely didn't explain how bad it was, how much effort it took for me to make the appointment, how I really had no business being out of bed and around other people. So it looked like I was blowing them off, at their wedding.

Hence my greeting to Rob the other night: "Hey! It's so good to see you! Gosh, I think I haven't seen you since your wedding when I was so sick! Remember that, honey? The viral meningitis I had?"

During dinner: "So how's Anna? Oh, that's so cool that you're going back to Vegas for your anniversary! Maybe we could meet you there. Because I'd really love to finally get to enjoy the city, since I was so sick the last time we were there and really couldn't do anything except go to your wedding and do that interview that I was required to do. For work."

On departing: "Hey, it was so good to see you again. Let us know about Vegas! I'd love to be able to go there when I'm not sick and really celebrate with you guys."

Hot tub, check. Chardonnay, check. Smooth jazz, check.

Before we moved out here, a friend made a point to warn me about California h0t tub parties. She had spent a year in San Francisco during the dot-com boom and said that most of the cocktail parties she went to usually ended with a bunch of n@ked people in a hot tub.

Huh.

We haven't been to any n@ked hot tub p@rties (though, to be fair, we haven't been to that many parties). But we suddenly have a hot tub at our disposal and we hosted our own little party last night. For 2 other people, with clothes.

How did we get a real California hot tub? My parents–who are retired and like to escape the New England winter–are subletting an apartment here through the end of March. They arrive in a couple of weeks. That apartment comes with a backyard hot tub and a wet bar, and it's empty for now. Can you say "party house"?

Actually, our idea of a party house is to tiptoe around the apartment, careful not to drip water on the wood floors, while hooting "Party house!" just loud enough to get a rush without alerting the neighbors upstairs. We drank some Prosecco and ate microwaved gyoza from the freezer, then kicked back in the tub until we saw three big raccoons hulking across the yard. The house is on the Mission side of Noe Valley, so we figured that these were Mission raccoons and not to be messed with. We tried making scary noises: "Hey! Pfft! Shoo! Shhhht! Ffft!" We wondered if they'd try to get in. "I'll hold them under the water until they die," Scott said.

Eventually the raccoons got bored with us and went over the fence to bother someone else. Maybe find a real n@ked hot tub party. We got out and went back to our house with some pizzas from Gialina, my favorite new place.