Russell W.'s Profile

This is one of my shorter reviews, but I wanted to get it out immediately, while seated at the venue, in order to memorialize my interaction with the oversized lawn troll manning the point of sale. I really want to like this place: the coffee is pretty good, the "fajita sandwich" I just had was pretty decent and arrived very quickly, the wifi is free, and the place itself is spacious and comfortably appointed.

However, the gatekeeper here, during my visit today, is a sullen, aging hipster of the "I'm really an artiste and I despise you for interrupting me" variety who refuses eye contact with the bourgeoisie. As soon as I walked into here, after having scanned the outdoor menu with my mind made up, I was cut off at the counter with a brusque, "You need to place your order with that guy down there," at which point I did as told. I then walked back the length of the counter, within mutual chatting distance of both the troll and the nice Mexican sandwich guy. Does the troll have even more of a problem talking directly to Mexicans?

Back at the till, I reported the fact of my sandwich order, and added coffee. In a bored drone, still not making eye contact with me, the artiste asked my preference of glass or paper container for my beverage, strongly implying his withering scorn if I chose the latter.

When later I went up for a coffee refill - it's a self-serve arrangement of the type you'd see in a Panera, where servers smile - the guy actually watched me serve myself before smirking, "That'll be seventy-five cents!"

I can't give this place two and a half stars, but I would if I could. If the embittered troll working the register were replaced with someone who actually appreciated the job, I'd happily give the place 3.5 stars.

I moved back to the San Francisco Bay area a few weeks ago, after having spent a few years in a degree program in New York City. Living in Manhattan's Canyons of Steel felt a bit like living on Trantor - or Coruscant, for those who prefer their space opera on celluloid, not cellulose - with everything else existing out in the galactic hinterlands. I know better, of course, having felt the same way in other places I've lived, e.g. Tokyo and London. I speculate there's a psychological dynamic at play here akin to placing one's self in the "center" of an inflationary universe: anywhere the observer stands is the center.

The One Thing I really missed about San Francisco's food scene was the apparent superabundance of good coffee shops where I could feel perfectly at home nursing a cup of decent coffee for a few hours with a good book or a laptop. Yes, there are "coffee shops" in Manhattan, but no, you can't really dawdle for hours in the ones that serve the Good Stuff, can't park it without molestation. And that's OK, it's consonant with New Yorkian charm, but it's not "coffee culture" in a more informed sense of the phenomenon. Like truly good Mexican restaurants in NYC, or simians in the Bois de Boulogne of Eddie Izzard's "Le singe est sur la branche" standup sketch, it's "monkeys: thin on the ground."

So, where was I? Oh, yeah: genuinely good coffee in a place I can treat as an office of sorts. Philz is a place like that. On my first visit, I immediately laid it out to the counter help: "So, hey, first timer here. Heard of this place, read the reviews, wanna try, hit me with something you guess I might like," to which the java slinger immediately replied, "Tesora. I think you might like the Tesora. Give it a try?" I did, and loved it. And I admit that I was a bit tickled simply by the brewing arrangement, which resembles nothing less than one might imagine the prototyping lab for Keurig's K-cup, a slightly-messy profusion of individual ground-holding blotter filters capping the individual cups.

Screw Tyler Durden: these are *my* kind of Single Serving Friends.

I would give this place 5 stars if they were graced with the facilities and pasty selection of the nearby The Creamery, but otherwise, I'm cool with their oddly sterile location across from China Basin. Not being personally acquainted with the shop's history, I'm guessing from clues around the physical plant that they've been elsewhere in the course of a few years, and the present location is the latest enclosure for an enterprise of genuinely long standing. The "free" internet access is decent. The staff are helpful and they seem to love their craft. If you're near the Caltrain terminus, consider dropping in on them. Order a Tesora and chat up the charming girl with the tattoo of a caffeine molecule on her arm.

I have a black canvas martial arts uniform I bought in Tokyo in 1998, one which has served me very well. A few months ago, while still living in Manhattan, I finally blew out one of the knees in the uniform's trousers, and the hole quickly enlarged laterally to the limits of the garment's seams. Not good: besides looking more shabby than usual, I had to deal with floor burn when taking a knee during groundfighting exercises.

So, I did what cheap martial artists do instead of replacement: I looked for patches. I knew I could find a piece of pre-washed, faded black canvas in Manhattan's garment district... until I started looking in earnest, and couldn't actually find *the* swatch I needed. Damn. Granted, my search wasn't exhaustive, but I hadn't expected to spend too much time on it.

I dropped the search until I moved back to the Bay area recently. Once settled in, it didn't take me long to find Britex. Now living in SoMa, I made the walk to the place, into a district I used to deride as "no-thanks-tourist-only-no-interest-here" and told the first person I saw what I needed. She directed me immediately to the 2nd floor, where upon showing my gi trousers to a shop clerk (Melissa, I recollect), I was first presented a number of attractive but flimsy alternatives. Letting Melissa know I wanted something a bit more like the canvas on a 1950's US Army M.A.S.H. tent, I was shown a damned-near perfect roll of faded black canvas, priced around $22 a square yard. I took a quarter yard - good for several more patches in future - and happily checked out.

I did enquire twice - because I didn't believe it at first - about a SKU number for the fabric, so that I could pass word to my dojo mates if they needed the same material, and was told each time something almost exactly along the lines of "oh no, we do it the old-fashioned way here."

In other words, bring in a swath or your garment and have someone else match it by eye. The only thing keeping me from giving this place 5 stars is this slightly arrogant - but otherwise merited - little conceit. I very strongly recommend this place for their incredible stock, their helpful staff, and their reasonable prices.

So I get an email from this person on LinkedIn who lists her name as "Shiva Sales Recruiter 408-XXX-XXXX" (digits elided to deprive her of unearned free advertising) with this incredibly professional solicitation:

"...I came across your linkedin account. I am looking for a Python developer for a very promissing start up in silicon valley. do you happen to know of anyone? You can refer them to me and we will send you a gift card of your choice."

Wow! "A gift card of [my] choice": that's a pretty tall order, given that if I actually took such a thing seriously, I'd insist on a "gift card" for dinner for two at Per Se in Manhattan. Or better yet: cash. Of course, even if I were to entertain the idea of whoring out my friends for the price of a Safeway card, I wouldn't sell out to a 3rd-rater whose LinkedIn summary comprises the following:

"...At Caspian Solutions we are hiring Phyton Developer for a major start up in Palo Alto - Our client is promissing a luxury life style in Palo Alto . They are giving out a full gym membership, laundry service, message and many more + great salary + full benefits and equity... It is a new buzz in Palo Alto. if interested contact your number 1 recruiter... we match our candidates 110% to your company opening! We have a special format which we seat down with decision makers and evaluate their recruiting needs. After that, we go to our pull of candidates and database and we find the right match. We do screen these candidates 2-3 times..."

I have not sunk so low in my self-esteem to consider speaking to such a non-professional. I'd rather play piano in a whorehouse. Come to think of it... anyone know of a whorehouse which might be hiring?

I'm obliged to give this place two stars rather than one, in order to remain calibrated with my own existing one-star write-ups... but I was sorely tempted to render the honor anyway. The buffet cafeteria on a lower level is pretense-free and much more comfortable, and cheaper.

Waiting on line is a bit of a mob scene. The hostess barely has control of the crowd, which today comprised a mix of squalling children whose parents acted as parents often do - with a sense of entitlement about personal space - and well-healed Europeans from those countries where queuing isn't the norm, attempting to skip ahead of those waiting patiently, feigning ignorance of American norms.

The menu was straightforward, posted near the hostess. We'd already decided we'd have the salmon dish, advertised with sturgeon caviar, so we only gave the table menu a cursory glance, not noticing they'd changed the salmon dish to something else, containing something vaguely hinting at salmon, with no tasty fish roe. Boiled all to hell, and served over some nondescript yellow paste which had been given the spoon-push plating treatment.

Backing up a bit: we were seated after only a few minutes' wait, unaffected by the would-be line crashers. The table was well situated near the windows, opposite the popularly misnamed Cleopatra's Needle. Ten minutes seated, I managed to flag someone down for water, then someone else for our food order. Getting bread was a chore, getting butter for that bread, another chore, getting anyone for anything a general annoyance.

Drinks overpriced, bottled beer $8 a pop, including an intriguing bottled labeled "Harlem Brewing Company Sugar Hill Golden Ale" which had been made in Saratoga, New York.

The only thing this place has going for it is location.

So this place opens up right around the corner from campus, and next to the Hungarian Pastry Shop, replacing the unlamented Bengal Cafe which seemed to have held on far too long. I'm walking by on my way to class, so I don't have time to take lunch, but I do take a menu and vow to come back soon for a proper sit-down with my lady. Which I did tonight, to my profound regret.

Walking up at night this time, I was heartened to see it brightly lit and apparently busy. We were seated near the back, near an upright drink cooler next to the kitchen door.

The dread set in.

I so very much wanted to like this place. Before having moved to Manhattan a couple of years ago, I'd spent a decade in California, and while not dragging high expectations for Mexican cuisine to New York, I do desire it not to suck so badly as to compel an angry exit.

First awkward moment: after having seen bottles of wine on the tables of a nearby noisy birthday party, we found the place was dry, having opened without its liquor license. No big deal, even if a bit disappointing on a weekend night: it's not uncommon for the local protection racket cum alcohol control board to drag their asses interminably even after having been paid their tribute, forcing shops to ply their trade for weeks while reassuring customers "you'll be able to buy beer soon, I promise." Nearby Blockheads suffered the same awkward period before they were able to offer their now well-known cheap & cheerful happy-hour-without-limits margaritas, but at least offered solid Cal-Mex food with attentive service in the meantime.

So, the people near us had known to BYOB, accounting for their more sanguine disposition. In our case, however, we had to make do with ice water and diet cola, the latter having been initially forgotten.

Oil-soaked, stale chips and bland salsa arrived, the latter store-bought bland with no pretense of preparation and no vegetables. Every self-respecting Mexican mamacita makes her own salsa, but this place doesn't.

I fixated on their pollo de mole poblano, the one thing I'm guaranteed to try if I find available, much the way some fixate on pad thai when dining Thai: a deceptively simple dish, but so disappointing when botched. It's a "calibration dish": if they screw this one up, there's no hope.

In the meantime, we ordered an appetizer, the most expensive pre-made guacamole I've ever suffered, served with a side scattering of the same stale chips we'd had before the meal. Our main courses arrived, and I could tell immediately that something was horribly wrong. My mole sauce was clumpy and congealed, and the bistec a la mexicana blanched and unwelcoming.

Every mole poblano I've ever ordered has had as its centerpiece a single chicken breast bathed in its signature sauce. The menu even specified chicken breast. Instead, I was handed a couple of very bony drumsticks in lumpy, oily pools of rancid, unemulsified hell-tar. Our waiter didn't seem surprised, and quickly offered to replace the dish.

I awaited the replacement and tried a bit of my lady's bistec, hoping I'd experience a that's-so-much-better-than-it-looks recovery of spirit from my own disappointment, but to no avail. The "grilled steak" was indistinguishable from boiled tripe.

My replacement mole poblano arrived. They must have known they were in the wrong in their original choice of meat, and had attempted reconciliation with two flat strips of "chicken breast," dessicated strips of reheated meat slathered with the remains of the original plate's sauce.

I was so very pissed off, and my waiter knew it. He hovered solicitously when I eventually pushed my unfinished plate off to one side, enquiring what was wrong, as if it might be a surprised. I told him, and he informed me the "chef" was not there that night, so some other cook was there in his stead. He was *expecting* failure. He knew he was delivering crap to my table. To his credit, he offered to make good, but accompanied with an awkward bit of haggling, alternating between striking from that bill that $14 failure or the earlier $8 guacamole failure.

Time to leave. Another waiter mishandled the bill, initially handing us a fiction which *added* a spurious charge.

Word limits here prevent a scathingly full description of the lack of decor, but suffice to say they haven't even tried: they've got Bengal's old schlock, including ceramic elephants, with dirty bare walls, and a Mexico Tourism poster.

This travesty needs to die a quick death soon.

There is no separate entry for the Santa Fe Steakhouse co-located on the premises, so I'm writing my review here, although I've not stayed at this hotel.

We were immediately seated, without reservations, last Sunday night in a warm, comfy booth with pillows brought to us on request (I'd seen them elsewhere in the restaurant) and friendly service. Several reasonably priced draft beers available. Nice looking place inside, warm Southwestern feel, and even a group of lighted Cocopelli sculptures outside... in the snow! I couldn't resist the groan-inducing observation that they should be called... Snowcopellis!

I apologize for that.

Anyway....

Good cheap beer, decent martini, but disappointingly lackluster prime rib, soggy on the edges when it should have been crusty. Decent salad bar and a selection of Bailey's-variant chocolate cups for desert rescue this hotel restaurant from 2-star damnation.

The fact this place is right next to Snowshed means I might consider giving it my business next time, but I'll need to order something Vermonters make well... which I'm now given to understand means "not steak."

The only considerations which keep me from giving this place a single star are the moderately priced tap beer and the decent clam chowder. Otherwise, we had a very sad seafood pasta and an unmemorable rack of pork ribs, dry with a sticky, over-sweet barbeque sauce.

Like most of the other restaurants on the road leading to the slopes, the major appeal of this joint is... refuge from the cold. We were alerted to the cozy, elevated "caboose" seating on our departure - the place is built up around a railroad car, hence the name - but that novelty wouldn't be enough to bring us back.

This place is a pleasant little surprise which I stumbled into after an exhausting day of bargain shopping at nearby Paragon Sports. I had a fantastic lamb dog and a couple of yerba mate drinks. The butcher block table with slide-out seats in the center of the shop is an awesome piece of furniture engineering, and I expect to see it imitated elsewhere.

I used to be a somewhat-regular at Abbey.  I'd do the occasional dinner-for-two-with-drinks, especially during this previous summer.  No longer.  Last night, I visited with a number of friends, and my lady friend and I - who'd arrived early to secure a table for our group - ordered meals with drinks and specifically requested that we be on a separate check.  Our waitress made an unnecessarily big deal of the issue, but finally caved in.  We'd pointed out that there would be a number of different people coming and going, some ordering drinks and dinner with others only ordering drinks, and some even wandering to other tables; we did *not* want to have to tie our finances to the behaviors of those people.  We were trying to avoid the "Who ordered the Lobster Thermador?" problem that bedevils large groups.

We ordered our food and drink, and paid up as our friends were arriving.  From that point forward, the waitress refused to consider even the question of separate checks.  My lady friend and I still wanted to drink, but we didn't want to deal with the check splitting thing again, so I bellied up to the bar to order a couple of draughts.  The bartender acted as if he'd caught me doing something I was trying to hide, and insisting that I order my drinks through our obstructive, bovine waitress.  I protested, and told him that in no other bar & grill in the neighborhood would I, a regular, have been treated that way.  He retorted lamely that it was the owner's policy, not his: like a Good German, he was only doing his job and he "couldn't help it."

I replied that he'd not only lost out on the additional half dozen or so drinks that my lady friend and I - who'd regularly ordered some drinks in past sessions - were ready to order, but that we were finished with the place, and that we'd let all our friends know.  This review is the beginning of a personal boycott.

I should add also that their hamburger is sub-par at best.  I'm sure they use Wonder Bread for their buns, when a kaiser roll would have been more appropriate.  If you're looking for an excellent hamburger in the area, go to the Heights at lunchtime, or Le Monde anytime, where they separately melt their cheese toppings in gratinee fashion.

Abbey Pub has no special charm, no grand selection of food or ales to make up for bad service.  I give this place 2 stars rather than 1 star simply out of respect for my memory of better, long-gone times.  Avoid it.