Competitive Eating

I wouldn’t say my family is particularly competitive. My brother and I didn’t fight over who was stronger, smarter, or faster sibling growing up. My parents never pitted us against one another in order to make us work harder, incentivizing the spirit of competition. Us Berksons just aren’t built that way. Not on the surface, anyway. I think it’s the cherubic cheeks that are so deceiving. We appear friendly and generous, and we certainly are, right up until the topic of food comes up. Then, the gloves are off.

At our dinner table you either eat quickly, and with your elbows up, or you get poached. Whether it’s dad’s unapologetic thievery, my brothers quick, penetrating fork skills, or the infamous “mommy tax,” your food with be snatched up and gobbled down if you’re not careful.

I suppose that’s why, when dining out, ordering became such an intense sport: you had to be sure that regardless of the “sharing is caring” policy that applied superficially, you were confident with your menu selection regardless of what your dining mates chose, just in case. It is for this reason that today, I rarely eat out without having thoroughly researched the destination. Furthermore, if placed in a situation where I have not gather ample information to make an informed decision, I panic. I will ask every server, bartender, line cook his or her favorite dish, maybe even take a lap to the bathroom just to scout other tables to regain my confidence prior to placing my order. You may think me obsessive, however a chance to dine out is not an opportunity to be wasted on a dud dish.

Most people will sit down at a table and make small talk, or even launch into the main discussion before ordering. I am practically incapable of doing so. As long as the menu remains on the table, my eyes are darting back and forth across it, searching for clues as to which dish holds the greatest combination of flavors. Moreover, I find it difficult to make my own decision without knowing the choices of those in my company, even if sharing is not on the menu. My dad’s favorite response to the question is “It’s a surprise” which is both intriguing and immensely irritating.

Among family members and close friends who understand my insanity, entrée selection becomes an all out debate. I never thought I was stubborn, but try to sway me away from a seductively comforting bowl of pasta or anything with goat cheese, and you'll find yourself facing an immovable mule. My mother and I have been known to wave off servers 2 or 3 times before reaching an agreeable verdict. Just imagine the silent treatment and guilt trip that ensues if mistakes were made during deliberations. 

What a relief it is when the pronouncements have been made to the triumphant server, distracting menus cleared at last, and glasses of victory libations placed before us.

Now, of course, once the food arrives, you know the drill: Elbows up! Defend your plate! 

Smells like... adventure

I consider myself a very open-minded person, especially when traveling. When I find myself in a foreign place, I become sponge-like, hoping to absorb as much of the culture as I possibly can. To me, this is the only way to travel: with an open mind and a big appetite. It is this very attitude that propels me into strange, unusual, and (at times) uncomfortable situations all for the sake of food. Some of my most memorable meals have been in restaurants that were located in the wrong part of town, the ones that had no name, the ones that couldn’t be found except by the most seasoned residents or by suspiciously long lines. These are the places where you order by pointing at other tables because they have no comprehensive menu, names of dishes may never be known, nor ingredients revealed. But in these places, it doesn’t matter. These are the places where food memories are born.

While I was living in Thailand, my inquisitive appetite took my mother and I on one such adventure. We found ourselves being propelled down an uneven Thai street on the back of a rickety tuk-tuk. Careening around turns and nonchalantly blowing past stop signs, our driver turned to us with a toothless smile to reiterate that he had no idea where we were going. He brought the “vehicle” to a grinding halt before shooing us off and pointing out another driver, lazily lounging on his own makeshift vehicle. A moment later we were once again assaulted by the thick, pungent Bangkok air as we cruised through a deeper circle of an inner neighborhood. At last we arrived, but where exactly we were not sure. You see, we were seeking a restaurant with a name that seemingly not even a native speaker could pronounce, let alone a farang like myself. Sweaty, hungry, and intrigued we started down an alleyway that allegedly hosted Chotechitrl, an infamously tiny yet tasty restaurant.

As we came around a particularly dark bend, we smiled knowingly and inhaled the richly fragrant aroma. Our nostrils filled with the scents of sweet sugar, salty, acrid fish sauce, and sour chili-laden vinegar. Our brows were wet with perspiration and our eyes stung with the biting heat as we sat down at a small table in this hallway-like restaurant. We were greeted not with menus, but with tall glasses of Chang beer poured, Thai-style, over ice to battle the ferocious heat. We looked around eagerly, admiring the ample plates of food that surrounded us. From that moment forward, our entire dining experience rested in the capable, calloused hands of an older Thai woman, who waved her spatula in the direction of others diners and demanded, “Chai/Mai Chai?” Yes or No. That’s how we were to order. Like I said, we were entirely in her hands. We sat back and let the heat and our success wash over us as sipped our beers and laughed at each other. We had made it this far, and we were not the least bit concerned about what was about to happen.

These are the moments we remember. Adam Gopnik describes these as moments of arrival and expectation, when we sit down for a meal and our nerves alight with anticipation. Some of us never get over the thrill of the chase. Luckily, when it comes to food, there’s always another food adventure around the corner.

Full of Fuul

I love lists. I always have. They're linear, organized, clean, and efficient. You can add, subtract, or most satisfyingly, cross things off. I also love people who love lists, enter: Madeline. After sharing a series of escapades half way across the world in Thailand, Madeline and I found ourselves exploring the delicious and diverse city of San Francisco together. However, when it came to foodie adventures (my favorite kind), I was sadden by the fact that I wasn't able to fully share my experiences with Madeline as she was a vegan.

Undeterred, we assembled a list of all the restaurants within city limits that served one of Madeline's favorite vegan dishes known as fuul. While it is a dip that can be spelled many ways (see foule, ful, moudamas, or ful medames), the preparation is typically the same. It is an Egyptian dip made from cooked and mashed fava beans mixed with olive oil, cumin, parsley, garlic, onion, and lemon juice and served with pita bread and pickled vegetables. We narrowed down our list to five lucky restaurants and established the criteria upon which they would be judged. Yes, we took it extremely seriously, and no, the restaurants had no idea what they were in for.

With our list as our guide and armed with a multitude of punny "fuul"jokes (because who doesn't love punny food jokes?), we set out in order to bestow upon one restaurant the title of Best Fuul in San Francisco. Our first stop was none other than Old Jerusalem Restaurant, which sits on the outer edge of the Mission District. We burst through the doors full of excitement, enthusiasm, and expectations... we were met with an empty restaurant, a magnificent mural, and blank stares from the server. After the initial niceties, we set about our task ordering.

Our first ful, we could hardly contain ourselves, pictures were quickly snapped before we dove in, fork first of course. The dip arrived on a beautifully arranged plate replete with hummus, babaghannoush, pickled vegetables, pita, and falafel. The dip was texturally very interesting, while the fava beans were mashed, the skins had been left in the mix creating a chunky consistency. The flavor itself left a little something to be desired. The rest of the plate was delicious, however the ful was quickly eclipsed by a bottle of secret hot sauce that we convinced our server to gift us at the end of the meal. All in all, our first stop was a successful entry into the world of ful.

Final Score: 18
Presentation: 4; Flavor: 2; Texture 3; Ambiance: 4; Accompaniments: 5

Our second stop was Palmyra in the Lower Haight. Named for the ancient city in Syria, Palmyra is entirely family owned and operated by Mohammed and his sons. For this meal, we enlisted another Thai travel companion, Kristina. After an enormously warm welcome from Mohammed, the three of us settled into our booth and ordered moudamas as well as the usual suspects hummus, babaghannoush, taboulah, falafel, and a piquant salad called fattoush.

Palmyra's version of ful had an entirely different texture. The beans were left entirely whole and were swimming in a broth thickened by olive oil and tahini, which we loved. The bowl was topped with fresh tomatoes and a sprinkle of sumac. The resulting dip was delicious. Unfortunately, the pita bread went rock hard within a matter of minutes, leaving us to enjoy the beans solely by way of the spoon-- not a problem to dip lovers who commonly eat hummus by the spoonful, but it did cost Palmyra a few points.

Final Score: 18
Presentation: 4.5; Flavor: 4; Texture 3.5; Ambiance: 4; Accompaniments: 2

By now we were beginning to consider ourselves experts in the field of fuul. With confidence and hunger we strode into Mazzat in Hayes Valley. The ambiance was drastically different from the first two restaurants. There were beautiful swaths of fabric hanging around tables and delicate twinkly lights encircling the dining room. There were low lights on tables and gentle music emanating sweetly from the ceiling. This was a true dining experience, in fact, our most expensive one yet. We felt justified in
indulging in a glass a wine each before ordering the mazzat platter.

The presentation was breathtaking, the pita fluffy and warm, and the ful, delicious. It was at this point during our quest that Madeline and I reached our first disagreement. The soft beans were soaking in a pool of luscious olive oil: I wanted to bathe in it, Madeline wanted to pour it off. Being a lover of olive oil, the deep green pool was like liquid gold in my eyes, and I dragged many a pita through each and every crevice until our platter was wiped clean. Mazzat had earned itself the highest marks yet.

Final Score: 20.5
Presentation: 5; Flavor: 4.5; Texture 4; Ambiance: 3; Accompaniments: 4

On a rainy Friday night, Madeline and I made our way across the city to a little known spot in the Inner Richmond called Twilight Cafe in search of our fourth ful experience. It's a funny little restaurant, almost like a deli counter, with all manner of Middle Eastern delights in the case. We placed our order with a spry middle-aged woman (the cook, owner, and operator) before settling in at the table by the window. Our food arrived shortly after along with a curt warning that they would be closing shortly.

Perhaps it was because we were coming from the high note of Mazzat or perhaps we were feeling the eerie moodiness of the rain, either way the ful was rather unremarkable and left us feeling underwhelmed. We quickly departed and braved the rain, holding onto a paltry piece of baklava and the hope that our final stop would reignite our love of ful.

Final Score: 13
Presentation: 3.5; Flavor: 4; Texture 2; Ambiance: 1.5; Accompaniments: 2

One would never suspect that the beacon of Arabic cuisine would be located in the depths of the Tenderloin, Saha truly earns the title of a hidden gem. The dining room itself is quite dim, but punctuated by colorful mirrors, and oddly shaped lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The names of exotic dishes jump off the menu, but we have come with a mission: to finish the ful tasting.

Within moments we knew it would be the winner. The pot of ful was served warm in a petite cast-iron pot. The pita was ever so slightly browned and crispy and paired well with the creaminess of the dip. It was spicy, well-seasoned, and flavorful. It was perfect. Our dining companions sniffled their laughs as Madeline and I groaned and smiled, continually dipping all the pita, and eventually just our spoons into the rapidly empty pot. Stopping just shy of licking the pot, we leaned back onto our vibrant pillows and absorbed the moment of triumph and finality.

Final Score: 23
Presentation: 4.5; Flavor: 5; Texture 4; Ambiance: 5; Accompaniments: 4.5

In just a few meals, we had completed a culinary journey. We had traversed the city, and the globe, in search of San Francisco's best ful. The ultimate title went to Saha, with Mazzat coming in a close second. However, it was Madeline and I who felt like winners. Not only had we accomplished what we set out to do, by completing this countdown we could cross so many restaurants off our list, but we had created a new tradition of culinary adventures, and in doing so had spawned an entirely new series of lists...