Note: This post was started way back in July after our trip to San Francisco, but at a certain point I got tired of writing about that trip and I’m sure you got tired of reading about it. But since then there’s been something bothering me. Something unfinished. Someone I had angered.
So you may remember this young lady.
Or maybe you don’t. Whatever. The holes you blow in your brain with cheap inhalants are not my problem. This is Granny Whole-Chicken and she doesn’t give a fuck whether you remember her or not. She is going to eat that whole chicken and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it.
Little Miss Whole-Chicken holds court at a restaurant in San Francisco’s Outer Richmond District called Cafe Americana. Cafe Americana is one of those places which manages to combine impressively unimpressive decor, a menu which inspires more confusion than not, and service that would rather read the paper into a magical wonderland of awesomeness. The menu is Italian-American-Vietnamese, and I’m not even shitting you.
The chicken that that little ol’ gal is tearing into is one of San Francisco’s much lauded five-spice chickens. Fucking delicious. Our table held five-spice chicken pho (mine because, chumon!) a club sandwich and clam linguini, all of which tasted like they came from a restaurant that was, you know, focused.
This is my friend Blaine, who introduced us to this amazing culinary gem.
Usually he doesn’t have such serious jazz hands, but this was a special occasion.