Sarah S.'s Profile

Colour Drop is right below my apartment, and although I've been in there on a number of occasions, I believe my last (and final) experience sums them all up.

I walk in. Like always, no one acknowledges my presence. I have brought in a USB drive with a flyer I desire to print. I elect to stroll into the office nearest to the door. I knock the doorframe. The woman behind the desk glares at me as though I'm intruding. I explain the situation to her.

"We don't offer that service."
"You're a PRINT SHOP. You don't offer PRINTING?"

The woman rolls her eyes at me and grabs the drive from my hand. She plugs it into her computer and asks me a series of redundant questions about it as though I had never even been to a Kinko's. At this point, I'm rather flustered, so I just answer all her questions with "yes," although I would have appreciated options. I fill out the form and wait for the phone call to let me know my order is ready.

It never comes. I never return to the shop and, after passing it every single day, build up enough rage to write this Yelp review.

I work by the Wharf, so the burrito options are limited. Being vegan, I'm not sure what everyone else's beef (HAR) with Rico is. I think it's got it all: chips, two salsas, margaritas, vegan options... everything except carrot juice, which they were out of today. The choices at Rico's dumbfounded me -- do I want the Winter Burrito, the Rice and Bean Burrito, the Veggie Burrito, or all of the above? I ordered the Popeye burrito (spinach and mushroom) with guacamole instead of cheese. I thought it was odd that they spread the guac on top of the burrito instead of inside, but whatever, it was still good. Call me a gringo, but I love a soft, dry burrito, unlike the lone, crunchy, leaky veggie option at San Jose Taqueria #3 up the street.

The service was speedy and friendly, and we had a nice table by the window and a decorative birdcage. Prices were comparable to the other nearby and far inferior burrito places. It's no Mission burrito, but it's perfect for a fix.

UPON MY RETURN: Comin' back for the late-night vegan sweet potato tacos (HOLLA) and askin' for guac on the INSIDE. What it is.

I strolled in over a long lunch break, hoping to find a similar vegan-friendly selection as the Gelateria Naia in Berkeley has. I ordered a sugar cone of banana sorbet (should have had a second flavor as well). I left disappointed and overly bananaed.

I have to admit that the only reason my visit made me really mad was because the Berkeley store has at least ten vegan gelatos (no, not sorbettos -- gelatos, made with soy and coconut and the like) out at once, and they are SO GOOD. How many did the one in North Beach have? ZERO.

It would totally make sense for the North Beach one to have none if the Berkeley establishment had only one or two special vegan flavors, but that is not the case.

The guy who served me was very nice, though, explaining that their sorbettos were all vegan.

UPON MY RETURN: It won't happen unless I hear about them upping soy selections.

This is a great place to go if you like restaurants run by two giggling 12-year-olds. I went there for dinner. It took about eight minutes after we were seated for them to realize that maybe we needed water. I asked the tittering preteen in charge for a vegetarian menu as they had one on display outside. My dinner date had to get up and ask the other girl for it about 12 minutes later. After an additional ten minutes of my death stare, it occurred to them to take our orders.

The food was mediocre. We had fatoosh, "grape leaves" (dolmas), and falafel wraps. I'm not a falafel snob, but the falafel in the mall is way better.

I felt a bit sorry for the table next to us. She was allergic to garlic, and he was trying to find out what dishes could be made without garlic. The server didn't seem to understand or accommodate. Then the guy sitting alone at the table next to them started barking about how they could just order the cheese and olive plate and some bread and "make a meal out of that." I thought that was pretty rude; having my own dietary restrictions, it's totally lame to have to settle on, like, a salad made only of iceberg lettuce at a restaurant, where they seemingly would be able to cook something to order. Plus, a garlic allergy is, to me, a fate worse than death.

That guy acted like he knew the "working" girls but wasn't really concerned with whether they were working, which they weren't unless you count snickering behind a screen and squealing about texts they were receiving and sending.

We waited 20 minutes or so for our check; my icy glare did nothing but exhaust my eyes. At least they gave us mints.

UPON MY RETURN: There ain't gonna be one, suckas.

I'd spent more than two years in the Bay Area unable to find a decent artist recommendation. Then an acquaintance whose tattoos I adored gave me the business card of Megan at Picture Machine. I went it, talked to her about my idea, and set a date. After our initial consultation, I emailed her wanting to change it slightly, so it was not without trepidation that I approached the day.

I walk in on the day of my tattoo and positively FREAK at her sketch -- it is more perfect than I had even imagined my chest piece would be. She also surprises me by saying we should be able to finish it that day. So we get started.

Of course it hurts. Of course I almost cry and pass out and ask for breaks and whine about it. But she is a true professional, remaining totally sweet and understanding and talking to me to try to take my mind off it the pain.

It turned out perfectly. I have seven tattoos now, four of substantial size, and this is my favorite one.

Oh, right, the shop... The shop is clean and pristine. Everything is kept sanitary. There are plenty of idea books and lots of flash (not that I recommend that). Everyone to whom I've ever spoken on the phone has been more than courteous. However, they do NOT do piercings or sell any jewelry; they are highly specialized. I strongly recommend this place, especially Megan.

UPON MY RETURN: You can find me working on a full sleeve -- with the beautiful Megan, of course.

Guys, Burma Superstar is overrated.

We stopped in here on a whim one evening after deciding against the barren sushi restaurant a block over. Despite the relatively spacious -- not to mention beautifully decorated interior -- we had to wait 15 minutes or so; the place was poppin', and with good reason.

We ordered the samusa soup and the spicy tofu with vegetables. The samusas were crispy yet tender and full of tasty veggies, and the broth was delicately spiced and plentiful. The spicy tofu left some to be desired; it had neither much sauce nor many vegetables, and it was not as spicy as we had hoped it would be. But the addition of a little hot sauce kicked it up to a much more delicious level, and the tofu itself was prepared perfectly.

My only complaint? A couple of kids running around, throwing noodles all over the place, leaving tiny shoes in the aisle, and generally being annoying. But that's not Mandalay's fault. I felt sorry when the waitstaff was cleaning up after them.

Anyway, Mandalay will now always be my first choice above Burma Superstar or B-Star or whatever other satellite restaurants they have. It's just as good if not better, and it's far cheaper.

UPON MY RETURN: I'll order the tea leaf salad and some sangria. It was a mistake to go without those.

I've been working near the Wharf for more than a year, and I didn't know this place existed until a coworker turned me on to it last week. He said they'd remodeled and gotten a new chef and new servers, so I can't compare the current state of China House to its former.

But I liked it. I don't usually love Chinese, but they had -- not one! not two! but three! -- veggie options. I ordered the orange-flavored tofu. I couldn't eat the (non-vegan) hot-and-sour soup that came with it, but it looked and smelled tasty. My dish was spicy but delicious and amply portioned. My fortune cookie said I would receive a surprise visitor.

The restaurant was hoppin' when I came in, but it cleared out before I finished. I don't know what it looked like before the remodel, but I felt pleasant and relaxed at a small table by the window. The service was redundant yet sparse; two people tried to come take our orders, but we had to fill our own water glasses. However, this is a perfect place to go when the weather is yucky and you want something greasy in your belly.

UPON MY RETURN: I'll bring less money. China House is incredibly value-oriented: $6-7 + tip for tea, soup, wonton chips, rice, entree, a decorative orange garnish that you might also be able to eat, and a fortune cookie.

Happy Shabu Shabu was not crowded at all for my first visit on a Tuesday night. We sat right down in a row with an electric stove burner in front of each of us, and I temporarily got over my hangup of sitting across from an empty space. We ordered some sake (natch), two veggie plates, and one beef plate. If they had offered veggie appetizers, rolls, or other such option more substantial than soup, I would have ordered that in addition.

I'm glad they didn't; two plates piled high with fresh tofu, cabbage, mushrooms, bok choy, carrots, and "veggie ham" (not listed on the menu) arrived, hot on the heels of a plate full o' raw beef (gag), three pots of hot, mysterious broth (miso?), and three sauces for each of us (sesame, spicy, and something sweet with which you were supposed to accompany green onions).

I tried to stagger the food dropped into the pot to cook appropriately, but to no avail: Everything was mega-cooked before the server returned to turn off the burners. But even then it was delicious. However, charging $12 for a veggie plate that probably cost $2.50 to assemble when I have to cook and season it myself is a little outrageous, especially when they don't stock any to-go containers (what restaurant does that?!).

UPON MY RETURN: I'll bring plenty of money, an extra-empty tummy, and my own Tupperware.

Cheap, fast, and not too full of clumsy, cross-language conversation. This place is close to my work, and I can easily go in during my lunch break and still have plenty of time to loiter around that telescope shop in the same plaza afterward. It's certainly not a "spa" atmosphere, and I would never go here to get waxed, but you get what you pay for. My biggest complaint is the massaging chairs: You know how you have to turn a little bit to one side so that the manicurist can get both of your hands without having to move to the other side of your body? When those weird mechanical arms are moving around your back off-center, it kind of hurts. Next time, I'm going to ask them if I can turn that off. I hope they let me keep the vibration feature on, though.

This is less a review about Pat's Cafe than it is about the after-effects of Pat's Cafe. The only reason I gave it two stars is because my man likes it and because I think the location, ambience, and service are nice.

Anyway, Tuesday afternoon at Pat's Cafe, I'm having lunch, eating a perfectly delicious meal of roasted vegetable sandwich (eggplant, portabella, zucchini) and garlic-cilantro-lime french fries. Everything is yummy. Nothing I ate raised a red flag. But a couple of hours later, I start to feel somewhat queasy. So I decide not to go for a swim and instead hit the bus a little earlier than usual.

The instant I get on the bus, I smell steak, which grosses me out further. A few stops later, someone saturated with the olfactory pleasures of cigars and men's cologne sits next to me. When he gets up twenty minutes later, someone else wearing way too much floral perfume takes the seat next to me. I'm more scent-sensitive than a three-months pregnant woman with morning sickness and hotter than a cat in heat. I get off the bus a stop early, thinking I'd rather barf on the sidewalk than inside the bus on myself and others.

I don't puke, but when I get to my apartment, I open all the windows and flop onto the couch. I alternate between too hot and too cold before a friend stops by to say hi. I'm a horrible hostess; the place is a mess because I unwisely decided to put off cleaning it after I returned from Austin, and I can hardly move, talk, or listen. Once I get the dry heaves, I send him on his way.

Heaven knows how long I lie sweating and shaking on the couch before my man (who serendipitously lives two blocks away) sends me a text. I think I respond along the lines of "PLZ HALP," so he brings over some Walgreen's brand stomach-soothing pink liquid. I take some immediately and five minutes later, sweat through my clothes and quite literally lose my lunch as I had been dying to do since about 3 p.m. into the handy red bucket I keep around for such incidents. Every muscle in my body tries to aid me in eliminating the offending fibrous purply-pink stomach contents. I retch until I can retch no more, and then I experience the chills again. Once that's over, I start to think that maybe I'm in the clear. Cue three more cycles of Pepto-fever-vomit-freeze in the next hour and a half or so, and nothing is left in my stomach, so we call my health insurance's 24-hour nurse line. The nice lady asks me what happened and whether I suspect heart attack or stroke and quizzes me on my symptoms. She politely tells me to get to the emergency room or an "urgent care" facility. I babble at her about not knowing what an urgent care facility is, but she gives me a reference number to call back with anyway once I've decided on a course of treatment.

At this point, I honestly think it would be less hassle for everyone if I just die in my apartment than if I try to get to the emergency room, so I just get naked, curl into the fetal position, and sleep fitfully until the next morning.

It feels like the worst hangover ever. Also, my muscles hurt from clenching while throwing up, and my throat hurts from being the exit point. Naturally I don't go into the office; I sleep for about four more hours, wake up, and do some work from home. I eat a piece of toast and drink some orange juice and water, thinking I am on the upswing. An hour or two later, I crap my pants.

Although I am able to shower and get last night's vomit out of my hair, my well-being steadily declines throughout the afternoon. My man is a doll and brings over jello, Gatorade, tea, and saltines. I keep thinking I'm going to have another accident because my intestines are rumbling all night.

Today I have eaten jello, rice, and bean soup, all of which nauseated me and caused my stomach to make more weird noises, but at least I can get out of bed and go out of sight of a toilet. I don't know if I'll ever be back to normal.