[Continued from "Food Fail (Part 2)."]

We had reservations that night to go to Bar Tartine.  I had been hearing about the restaurant for years.  It’s a San Francisco staple of local, seasonal food cooked simply to let the ingredients shine.  I had never been before and thought it would be good for the Viking and I to take in before we leave the city.  It also happens to be conveniently located in our neighborhood.

Our plan was to go to Bar Tartine and have a leisurely dinner, and then go to see Mike Schmidt doing at one-man show at the Dark Room, also in the Mission.  The Mission has a lot of cool shit; I’m going to miss it.  Mike Schmidt does a podcast I rather like, “The 40 Year Old Boy.”  It’s mostly funny, somewhat tragic, brain sputum.  Someone who thinks and talks faster than I do?  Yes, I’m in.

Because I listen to the podcast, I had known about the show – just two nights and only in San Francisco – for a long time.  I put it into the calendar the Viking and I share.  But I never mentioned it to the Viking because we were supposed to have moved by the time of the show.  Once it was obvious we would be in town, I suggested we see Mike Schmidt, someone the Viking had never heard.

Bar Tartine was … a bit of a disappointment.  (The Viking will eventually post a review on his foodie website.)  The appetizers were good – I had some sort of raw fish and he had tempura green beans.  The main courses, not so much.  Actually, I liked mine main course.  It was pork jowls with roasted plums.  It was very fatty, very rich, and very tasty.  The Viking was a vegan and/or vegetarian for years and because of this has a little trouble with eating a hunk of fat.  I don’t have such hang ups.

The Viking’s main course was Gulf prawns.  It was a special that night and the Viking loves shrimp, so it sounded like a winner.  What we didn’t know until our waiter told the folks at the table next to us when they ordered, was that the prawns would be served head-on.  I’d heard that sucking out the “brains” (they’re not so smart as to have actual brains) of prawns, crayfish, etc., was delicious, so I encouraged the Viking to give ‘em a try.

His dish arrived with a trash bowl.  His dish also arrived with not only the heads on the prawns, but all of the shells.  That meant the Viking had to shell, head, and clean his dinner before he could eat.  I sucked out the head material from one of the prawns and was kind of grossed out.  The texture, which I figured, considering I had dissected plenty of crayfish in biology classes, was mushy.  The texture didn’t bother me so much, but the taste was very … fishy.  Good shrimp isn’t fishy, it’s, uh, shrimpy.

The Viking, in his nice shirt and jacket, was expected to shell each of the shrimp, which was no easy – or clean – feat.  He gave up and threw all of the prawns into the trash bowl.  I fished ‘em out and shelled at least one.  He was right, it was frustrating.  And annoying.  For what he paid for the dish he should not have had to do nearly that much work.

The prawns were mushy, too.  Maybe we’re just not that sophisticated.  Or maybe what we find unpalatable is just not good.  Add to that, shelling the prawns had caused our hands to stink!  Both the Viking and I washed our hands at the restaurant.  They still stunk.

We had dessert, which was a rather tasty peach cobbler with buttermilk ice cream.

After dinner, we had time to go back home before we saw Mike Schmidt.  We walked home, where we both washed our hands.  After one washing each, our hands still stunk.  I washed my hands again, and they were still somewhat stinky.

We saw the one-man show.  The Viking, though he had never heard “The 40 Year Old Boy” whispered to me that the show was good.  And it was.  It was funny, and raw, and tragic, and, even though I’ve been listening to the podcast since the beginning, I heard new Mike Schmidt stories I’d never before heard.

The day was a food fail.  But I was with the Viking so the day wasn’t a fail.

I know I’m sappy.  But I’m honest.

I swear.  True story.

Tags: disaster

Categories: True Story.

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