City of Sandwiches

I completely tired myself out this weekend with my second expedition to the Ikea in Emeryville (via bus, bus, then another bus......it's a long trip. Especially when you consider the fact that I had the theme song from those old Just for Men commercials stuck in my head the entire time. "You'll look so natural, no one can tell with Just for Men gel! No one can tell with Just for Men gel!" There. Consider that a gift from me to you for the next four hours.)

Consequently, today was a day of assembling furniture, organizing my room, taking a break to stroll through the Marina district, and eating a sandwich of epic deliciousness at The Grove.

Flank steak. Arugula. Avocado. Tomatoes roasted for six hours. Salsa verde. And O, such bread!

This sandwich, in case you can't tell from my fuzzy iPhone picture, was INCREDIBLE. The steak was tender, the tomatoes were caramelized and juicy, and the bread was absolutely perfect. One day I will bake such bread. When that day comes, you are all invited to bask in its glory.


The deliciousness of this sandwich got me to thinking about other delicious sandwiches I've had in the past week. Just the other day I got a roast beef sandwich from this totally unassuming little corner deli on Chestnut street. It's not even really a deli - it's more of a beverage depot with a sandwich counter tucked away in one corner. But let me tell you -- that was a sandwich. I was totally blown away by the quality of the ingredients and the amount of roast beef they gave me. I learned an important life lesson that day: sometimes the best sandwiches come from unexpected places. (Why yes, I do plan to trademark that.)

I continued to follow this marvelous sandwich fantasy train back a few weeks, to my very first trip to the ferry building when I visited SF:

Feast your eyes on the Bacon Maple Breakfast sandwich from 4505 meats. Arugula, aged gruyere, and a farm fresh egg on a brioche bun. 

Look at that beautiful thing!! Oh it was so fantastic...very gooey and eggy and breakfasty. The arugula really took it to another level -- it was a very soft and savory sandwich, and it really needed the crisp, peppery sharpness of the arugula for balance. Also -- putting it all on a brioche bun? A fantastic idea. I simply cannot say enough about saturating egg-bread with eggs. It's an excellent combo. It's like Sam & Diane. Beatrice & Benedick. Buffy & Angel. (WHERE MY NERDZ AT!?...except not like Buffy & Angel because eggs don't turn egg bread evil and ultimately force it to leave town.)

I hope you all had a beautiful Sunday. I wish you joy. I wish you sandwiches. If you don't have a sandwich with you now, feel free to ease the ache of longing in your breast with some pretty pictures of the Palace of Fine Arts:

There was a wedding under this dome today. It was very strange. You can't tell from my photos but there were hundreds of people milling around taking pictures. They had a 19 year old kid in an oversized dress shirt acting as "security" by one of the more heavily trafficked archways. He had an inflated sense of power and really enjoyed telling me I couldn't go through that archway.

Lies I Told My Taxi Driver

The time? Midnight. The place? 4th & Geary. Hardly a seedy neighborhood, and I'm sure public transit would have been a perfectly suitable life choice. But when a cab presented itself, I figured...why not? I've only been in this city for a week, and I would hate to be one of those tragic "she was only in the city for a week before she was _____ed by a ______!" stories. And I am nothing if not extremely cautious about my personal safety. Some say paranoid. I prefer "street smart."


The taxi driver: Russian. Extremely smiley. With a big ol' silver tooth. 
"Your name...is Sonja?" He smiles at me through the rearview mirror.
"Yep."
"You Russian?"
"Well...way back when my family was Russian."
"You speak Russian?" Still smiling. Why isn't he looking at the road?
"I know one thing in Russian. Ya Lyublyu." [Why did I just tell my taxi driver that I love him?? Argh!] "My mom used to say it to me when I was little." [Yes Sonja, mention your mother!! That should neutralize the situation!]
"Ahhh ya lyublyu!" He grins & his tooth flashes. "Sonja. Sonja. Beautiful name. Beautiful girl. I love Sonja. Yummy yummy."


...Interesting development. I would have to say that "yummy yummy" was the turning point. It was then that I decided that everything out of my mouth would henceforth be a lie.


"Where do you go Sonja?"
"To my boyfriend's house."
"Ah. You have boyfriend."
"Yes. I do."
"You live in Presidio?"
"My boyfriend does."
"Where do you live?" [Jewish mother lesson #1: if a stranger asks you where you live...LIE.]
"The Richmond." [At least I was coming from that neighborhood....semi-plausible.]
"You have roommates?"
"Yep."
"How many?"
"A boy and a girl."
"Your boyfriend have roommates?"
"Yes he does."


And on & on. This continued for about ten minutes. In the end, he did not kidnap me and take me back to Russia with him. It felt very bizarre to lie so confidently to a total stranger. And...wait a minute, what's that faint sound that I hear carried on the breeze? Is that my mother patting herself on the back all the way in Philadelphia? That'll do, mom. That'll do.

Hic Est Sonja.

In case you didn't spend 5 beautiful years of your adolescence studying Latin, the title of this post means "Here is Sonja." Fitting. Because I am here. 


What's that? You're wondering where I am? Why, I'm in San Francisco, you nerd! As of 5 days ago, I am a newly minted, fresh-off-the-plane California resident. It's been an unbelievable whirlwind of packing, giving things away (Calphalon pans, you live in my heart), and a very special, very intense brand of anxiety reserved for cross-country moves, triple-bypass surgery, and watching high school kids forget their lines onstage. I actually gave myself psychosomatic heart pains.

Did you know...that a smarte carte costs $5 at SFO?

But I finally made it! The first few days in a brand new city are absolutely magical. Even the street names have a special ring to them. Fillmore, Vallejo, Geary, Mission, Embarcadero....so charming! 


I don't know what it is about street names that just gets me. I remember my first few days in Chicago, being completely enchanted with names like Clark, Lake, Monroe & Dearborn...A great street name has personality, imagery, and can communicate so much about a city. (And sometimes, if you have the sense of humor of an 11 year old boy, street names can be hilarious. Here's lookin' at you, Avenida Maipú!)


My dear friends, I hope you will not hate me too much when I show you pictures of my new neighborhood. And Foes....you can suck it. This is my backyard.

That's right suckaaaaaz! I live in a national park. This means several things.

1. The air smells like Eucalyptus.
2. I am surrounded by the most perfect grass in the universe. It is cushy, lush, green.....it would humiliate Philadelphia grass. We're talking Retirement-Community-Level grass. This grass is not kidding around.
3. This is federal land so....NO MARIJUANA ALLOWED. Also no pedophiles! (...silver lining.)
4. I frequent the same Starbucks as all the employees of Lucasfilms. I get to add a little pizzazz to my mornings when I convince myself that every old man with white hair and a latte is George Lucas.
5. I can see Alcatraz from my backyard, and I get a sweet view of the Golden Gate Bridge every morning on my way to the bus.

I mean...it's really just beyond description. 

Well that's all for now. A girl must leave something to the imagination, non? I will continue to document my adventures on this blog, don't you worry. 

Adios muchachos! As my father would say...¡vaya con huevos!