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Eating Out In Oakland
Two nights in Oakland, California. Two different meals. All of this, it seems, a thousand years ago (in truth, just before the turn of the year, the century, the millennium) and the notes left moldering in a truck stop coffee shop on I-5 somewhere between the California/Oregon border and Bainbridge Island, suburb of Seattle. But who needs notes in the face of such delicious food? And what's a little time floating away beneath the bridge? I can close my eyes and taste either meal all over again.
Night one
A casual affair with the entire family, plus Max. Destination, the vicinity of Rockridge Market Hall on College Avenue. This is a collection of food shops under a common roof, an old brick building in this case, brought up to earthquake code and refurbished in a way to attract fish mongers and butchers and wine merchants and bakers and dry goods shop keepers. A modest refuge from the standard issue supermarket (which is just up the street). I can live here: That was my first thought five years ago, the first time I ever set eyes on the place. I can live in Oakland. They have food here. I have yet, of course, to move. But who knows? The neighborhood has a new-to-upscale feel to it, a lot of shops for people with too much money and no clear vision how to spend it. Lots of restaurants, heavy on Asian and Italian (if you count pizza as Italian, a tough call). The longest lines were at a pizza parlor. We didn't go there because I don't understand lining up for food.
Barney's Gourmet Hamburgers: 5819 College Avenue, Oakland; 510.601.04444
Why isn't there a Barney's on Bainbridge Island? In Seattle? On every street corner? How can something so good be limited to six locations in the Bay Area? I'm not just imagining this, either. There were five of us stretching from 15-years old to 50 and we all agreed that these burgers, these fries, these accompaniments were the best we had put into our mouths in quite some time.
But not just good. Not just tasty. Not just well-prepared and simply served in unprepossessing surroundings. No. Barney - whoever that may be - has worked magic on the basic burger, transcending the burger without despoiling its essential two-hands getting messy spirit. I had the Caribbean Burger, for example, which was supposed to be [HOT!], but wasn't much. It was built around jerk sauce and a vegetable julienne. I could go on, but what's the point? You'll either eat at Barney's some day or you won't. And if you have the opportunity and pass it up, well, you are a fool. It's that kind of place.
There are 26 burger choices (the China Burger is laced with sesame ginger sauce and topped with bean sprouts, scallions, and crisp chow mein noodles; the Milano Burger comes with roasted eggplant and zucchini and jack cheese, and slathered with an aromatic tomato pesto sauce --- you see where this is all headed?). But that's not all. Or that's only beef. There are 14 chicken burgers, 8 turkey burgers, 9 garden or tofu burgers, and 11 salads. The salad Joyce ordered, as I recall, was kind of a bust. But then, she was surrounded by glorious burgers. Munch, munch.
Oh yeah, cost? Beef burgers hover around $5.75, chicken burgers about a dollar more. You can eat lavishly, in other words, and not blow out your wallet.
Night two, same neighborhood
Oliveto: 5655 College Avenue, Oakland; 510.547.5356.
Such was not the case -- blowing out your wallet -- across the street the next night at Paul Bertolli's Oliveto. The restaurant anchor of Rockridge Market Hall, Oliveto is the ultimate grocery store food demo site that quietly nuzzles up to you with the notion, see, this is what you can do with all the ingredients for sale beneath this roof. Brick surfaces, dark wood, open kitchen with wood-fired ovens, tables upstairs and down packed with people who look like they have money to burn and know how to eat and drink and why. An elbows on the table, leaning into conversation upscale kind of crowd. We dined fashionably late, about 8:30 as I recall, the only reservation in two days I could get for Joyce and Ian and me. I was determined, you see, to have at least one high end here-we-have-some-real-food-replete-with-food-ideas kind of meal before the century, the millennium, the year skittered off into its dark, mungy corner. I would like to report that I did not fail in my mission.
The winter menu of December 30, 1999 was brief and to the point. I imagine this holds true for any given season, any given night.
Antipasti ranged between $8 and $11 and a Charcoal-grilled Paine Farm Pigeon Salad, Belgian Endive with Steelhead Roe and Meyer Lemon, and Duck Prosciutto and Walnut Salad. Soup and Pasta dishes started at $6.50 for the Crema di fagioli with Treviso Radicchio, and settled in the $13 vicinity for Squid Ink Tagliolini with Mussels or Gnocchi with Prosciutto and Sage. Grills, Sautés, and Rotisserie included Wild Steelhead with Fennel Purée and Meyer Lemon at $18.75, Charcoal-grilled Hoffman Farm Chicken Sausage at $17.50, and Arista at $18.50, none of which we ordered. The vegetable side dishes - Potato Purée, Polenta with Greens, Winter Lettuces - cost between $4 and $6.50.
Here's what I remember: I ordered the Belgian Endive with Steeelhead Roe while Joyce and Ian both ordered the Duck Prosciutto. Ian chose the Seared Yellowfin Tuna with salsa verde, Joyce the Mixed Grill of Lamb, while I ordered Veal Shanks Braised with Capers and Olives. Neither Joyce nor I drink, which is to say we didn't order wine. Our waitron's enthusiasm immediately dimmed . This has to do with tip expectation since a $35 bottle of wine or two can do wonders for a tip. I've seen it all before. Very annoying. You can hear the interior abacus clatter in their heads. So the end result was a remarkably fast meal. It would almost be worth it to order a glass of wine and let it sit simply to reassure the waitron that you aren't in any particular hurry.
The antipasti were much greater than their sum parts. Paul Bertolli either keeps a watchful eye on any and all ingredients he brings in to his restaurant, or he makes them himself. Prosciutto, either pork or duck, balsamic vinegar, the list goes on. The duck prosciutto seemed a thousand years old. Sure, duck and the prosciutto curing process. So obvious. It tastes like it has been around since the Middle Ages. To take that darkness, that salty chewy darkened essence of dark meat and pair it with walnuts, which may have been lightly candied, and tender bitter greens, this said far, far more than the simple title of the dish as listed in the menu. Not a big production. Not a big serving, mind you, but a reminder that there was a time when trained hawks killed ducks on the wing for the table.
The Belgian Endive with Steelhead Roe and Meyer Lemon was just the opposite, so bright a dish you found yourself groping for your Oakleys. The crunch of the endive matched with the tiny, crisp crunch of the roe, the salt washing around with the remarkable splash of Meyer lemon, as much aroma as tang and flavor. We swapped tastes all around, muttering to the plate, the fork, at each other. Strange little antipasti-caused noises.
Ian is the slowest eater I have ever encountered. And at age 15 I can only imagine it will get worse. Chewing a bit, picking at his food, carrying on, gazing about the room and out the window, then wending his way toward another bite. Joyce and I are relaxed eaters, but we look like hunger-crazed Tartars next to Ian. Except when Ian is served Seared Yellowfin Tuna (which he ordered well-done, a curious eccentricity I thought). He polished his plate in an instant and sat at the table studying the middle distance until his mother and I finished. She had ordered the Mixed Grill of Lamb, a marvelous call and response of a dish. My Veal Shanks Braised with Capers and Olives still sits at the tip of my tongue, that first bite, that first taste tasted again and again and again each time I close my eyes and let my thoughts wander back to Oliveto. Take one entire winter and cook it slowly all week in a closed pot and you might come close to Paul Bertolli's veal shank magickness. That and the right stock. My god, what a dish. If this man can do this with food imagine what he could do with the nation. Run for president, Paul. You have my vote.
The Meyer lemon came back for dessert as a sorbet. Perfect. Final tab with tip: $150. Worth every last penny. I can't imagine a better meal to end a millennium and start anew.
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