Zuni Café
by Bryan Stillman –
2008 - originally published on www.artist-at-large.com
Regardless of how star-stingy the Michelin people were on
their initial visit to this delicious and savory city, The Zuni Cafe on Market
Street will always reign supreme. Not that Zuni has ever suffered from a dearth
of good reviews, quite the opposite, they’ve sparkled from the top of critics’
lists for over twenty years.
For me, Zuni fits every occasion: birthdays, romances,
spontaneous cocktails, star-sightings and an absolute must visit on Gay Pride
Sunday every June when it becomes Lesbian Central and an exhilaratingly drunken
extravaganza. Whether it’s fresh lime Margaritas or Cosmopolitans that would
knock Carrie Bradshaw right off her Manolo Blahniks, cocktails at Zuni are
carefully constructed and wonderfully potent.
My parents arrived late afternoon this past Thursday,
thrilled to escape plunging Chicago temperatures and surprised to land in a
warm and balmy San Francisco with no fog in sight. That first night we had a
splendid meal at Scala’s in the Sir Francis Drake on Powell Street. The Grilled
Prawn Risotto with Lobster jus was terrific and the Chardonnay that the Server
chose for me matched perfectly. My father and I both share the ability to drink
hard liquor faster than a dog lapping at the watering bowl after a couple of
hours chasing tennis balls at Fort Funston beach, but wine slows us down. We
stuck with wine that first night … something about moderation and a
contemplative pace.
However, last night, Friday, while walking into the
aforementioned and ever popular Zuni Cafe with my parents, I suddenly recalled
the many lunches, dinners, and dates where moderation was thrown right out the
window. Like rewinding through a TiVo of my San Francisco years, some episodes
were memorable for their heartfelt moments, others for their outrageous excess.
Champagne, Tequila, Shoestring Potatoes, Creamy Polenta and my favorite Caesar
Salad accompanied virtually every “show.” There were regulars and there were
guest stars.
Most evenings veered into the unknown with just one little
sentence: “A Herradura Margarita with rocks and salt, please,” or “Yes,
darling, I would love a glass of bubbly,” or “One Cosmopolitan, please.” I’ve
said them all. Like choosing a channel on cable, so many choices, and such
unpredictable results.
I met my Russian lover ‘Stas’ at Zuni, with whom I had a
lifetime of love and regret in a rushed and romantic twelve hours before his
return flight to Moscow. I met him not five minutes after we (life friends Doug
& Jayne) saddled up to the long, Zinc-covered Zuni bar. Cosmos in hand,
smiles on our faces, and no expectations whatsoever, Stas gave my heart the
kind of love-spa getaway it so desperately needed, yet I never saw him again
after that night. Moscow doesn’t have a Zuni Café that I know of-though if it
did, I’d book my flight tonight. We shared just one meal together, one that
included Russian Vodka and American Fried Shoestring Potatoes, which wasn’t
enough but as things go, it was the best meal ever. We’ll always have that
first moment seeing each other across the bar, that first exchange of smiles,
that first silent, shared shot of vodka followed by two loopy smiles sure,
absolutely sure, of something unknown, something deliriously wonderful. Years
will go by, life will go by, but Stas and I will always have Zuni.
There was the early May birthday party six or seven years
back for my friend Scott and twelve of our closest, loudest friends in the cozy
upstairs room. I was just-this-far-past my romantic notions towards him yet
there was little inclination to control my cocktail devotions. We were a
drinking table much to the chagrin of the quieter tables near us who somehow
didn’t appreciate our cries of “Show Us Your Tattoos” and “Hey, what team are
you on?” Imagine our shock when they moved tables and we were threatened with
expulsion. Not from our beloved Zuni! We restrained ourselves and reduced our
yells to the simply elegant “Kaa Kaaaaaaaaaa.”
Zuni was packed when my parents and I arrived last night,
another warm evening filled with Friday night revelers ending their work week
by embracing the weekend. We would soon turn the clocks back as we did every
year just days after my birthday and in close proximity to San Francisco’s
absolutely fabulous holiday: Halloween. We put our name in with the overwhelmed
but gracious door staff. To my parents, the prospect of getting a table seemed
hopeless when they quoted us at least an hour, unless there were no-shows.
As I searched my memory: Had I had offended these particular
hostesses on some previous evening? I concluded that their quote wasn’t meant
to dissuade us from dining but just fair warning. No one no-showed at Zuni, for
God’s Sake! Why would they when dozens of others are calling at the last minute
begging for a reservation. Perhaps I was overestimating San Francisco diners
who live with so many appetizing choices that they often forget basic dining
manners such as calling to cancel a reservation. However, I knew Zuni, I knew
it well. We’d find a way.
I average a Zuni visit once a month. Ten years of that,
well, it adds up. My anticipation always begins the moment I get out of a taxi
at Gough and walk around the corner onto Market. It doesn’t take long to reach
the first windows of Zuni’s dining room. The red brick walls, steel beams, and white
paper table coverings tell me that I’ll soon have a margarita in hand and a
smile on my face. That paper would soon carry oily salty impressions of
shoestring potatoes and drops of red wine, confident remnants of a Zuni
experience.
The new addition next door of the Cav Wine Bar first seemed
innocuous and routine, just one more hopefully-hip new joint in the immediate
area joining Sauce (well-run by brothers supportive of industry folk and
focused on fun) around the corner on Gough and the increasingly durable Hotel
Biron in Rose Alley with its fresh art and non-shiny crowd. However, Cav
successfully entices with its fascinating wine list, tasty small plate menu,
seasoned staff and gay-centric crowd. It has quickly become a distinct flavor
on a curious block of destination restaurants and bars. Also, Martuni’s is just
across the street, no one worth their adult props hasn’t gotten smashed there.
But it is surely Zuni that anchors this glorious stretch of Market.
Zuni’s signature dish of Brick-Oven Roasted Chicken and
Bread Salad was one item I’d never tried in all my visits. Countless Caesar
Salads, Polenta with Parmesan, the Grilled Hamburger on Focaccia with Gruyere
Cheese and Onions, and those hot and crispy Shoestring Potatoes, were my usual
fare and so appreciated, so loved, that I never thought to explore further. For
some reason, I told my parents all about the Chicken, or at least what I’d been
told, in the taxi ride from Union Square. I’d given in to the arrogant though
amusing Taxi driver who thought he knew the fastest route so we had more than
enough time to contemplate the menu while waiting in congested downtown
traffic. Diners were instructed to allow an hour for the Chicken to roast but I
understood that it sometimes took longer. Just like the damn taxi ride.
As we stood at the bar drinking succulent margaritas,
listening to the loud boisterous Friday night crowd, I suggested we keep our
eyes peeled for a bar table, the ones in the windows with Market Street views
and first come, first serve availability. My friends and I had always preferred
these tables as we, too, tended to become loud and boisterous. One came
available in minutes and we were situated with our drinks and a Market Street
view.
Sitting in the bar always afforded a communal experience as
the tables were side by side, just inches apart. A mid-fifties lesbian couple
sat next to us discussing wine pairings and restaurants with the best and worst
wine markups. They were extremely gracious to my parents and I learned a few
things about good value Pinots. On the other side was a couple from Louisiana
in town for the Oracle convention South of Market. We drank in the rowdy
colorful atmosphere together with equal delight. But a question remained, what
about the Chicken?
After sitting and enjoying our drinks for a few minutes, we
knew we weren’t moving regardless of if and when our name was called. The
atmosphere was captivating as our seats allowed us front row viewing of every
new arrival. The variety of people and vehicles epitomized San Francisco
diversity (an overused word, I know, yet so fitting!). We saw tattoos, frosted
hair, Armani suits and tattered jeans and all that emerged from just one
politically incorrect Hummer. A beautiful new-blue Jaguar pulled up only to
reveal two gorgeous, very young women dressed in very short, very black
cocktail dresses. An older, rundown Honda carried an eccentric, white-haired
writer type who seemed to know everyone at the bar within minutes of removing
his safari hat. We ordered the chicken and knew that this bar table was as far
as we were going on this visit.
Sharing Caesar salads with my parents reminded me of how
many dinners we’d had together over the years and how many memories were
attached to restaurants and family meals. Here we were, on my birthday, in my
favorite restaurant, and we weren’t arguing or disagreeing or exchanging bad
moods. My Dad sipped on his Frangelico over ice, a drink our family had enjoyed
frequently when we were younger, while my mother and I enjoyed our second margarita.
The warm sourdough bread ripped apart easily and absorbed the chilly salty
butter. My Mother and I particularly enjoyed the butter, one of those often
overlooked touches in restaurants. As we devoured it, more appeared as if on
cue, and we smiled at our shared indulgence.
Our Tomato Pasta Dish was perfect for the three of us to
split, it certainly didn’t last long. More people were pouring into the bar and
the noise had reached fever pitch. I noticed that the crowd was happy and
laughing, no somber moods or poseurs in head to toe modern black.
Judy Rogers, Zuni’s iconic Chef-Owner, supervised the
proceedings subtly, somewhat removed, as she stood just behind the podium at
the front door. A tall striking woman with an eagle eye, she appeared to take
in every element in the room without overreacting to any of it. With a few
words to a staff member, he or she would set off to take care of whatever needs
attention. Her restaurant has lasted and thrived through turbulent and steady
economic days. That it’s still a destination restaurant and has countless
dedicated followers is a tribute to her originality and ability to keep a tried
and true recipe fresh. Michelin may not have appreciated you properly, Judy,
but we do. Carry on!
When the Chicken arrived, just forty minutes later, it
smelled great, looked scrumptious and decidedly large. It easily fed the three
of us. It was everything we wanted in roast Chicken and more, crisp and tender,
moist and flavorful. The Bread Salad was just as special and unique to Zuni’s.
We savored the Chicken, suddenly oblivious to our surroundings, and I knew that
this night, with my birthday and my parents’ visit as motivations, had been the
perfect night to order a dish so identified with San Francisco’s most durable
and delicious restaurant. It took us far less time to devour the Chicken than
it did for it to roast, something that surely happened nightly.
We exchanged comments and pleasantries with the
ever-changing tables around us. An elegant, middle-aged couple from Presidio
Heights replaced the lesbian couple and a real life “Will and Grace” replaced
the young couple from Louisiana. Everyone shared an enthusiasm and eagerness
for their restaurant choice and with drinks flowing, easy camaraderie ensued.
We recommended the Chicken and the Caesar and everything else that we loved so
much. This was the meal my parents would remember most from their trip. It was
the right choice for my birthday and the exquisite Espresso Granita for dessert
only emphasized just how right it all was at the renowned Zuni Cafe. Forget the
Michelin Guide; my Family Guide gave The Zuni Cafe four fat stars.
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