Despite its plain exterior and muted palette, this sandwich made my life. Last night, after much revelry at The Uptown (CONGRATS to Candice for finishing her nursing program(!)), I dreamed many dreams of all the foods I would ideally consume: a tall stack of gingerbread pancakes with a moon-yellow butter pat; pizza Margherita; the fullest goblet of orange juice. And so on, and so on.
We went to St. Francis for lunch, easing into a booth during the afternoon lull. I’ve been to St. F’s only a few times, but it looms larger in my memory than it perhaps should, decoying itself as a restaurant critical to my San Francisco identity establishment. Who can say: maybe it is? On my previous two trips, I ordered a bacontastic scrambler with a side of biscuits, which I recommend with the most sincerity. God, are those biscuits divine.
Alex and I ordered nearly identical meals: variations on turkey clubs with sides of fries and sugary coffee. I love the white descent of the cream into the coffee, the way it blooms and instantaneously lightens the liquid. I’m sad to say that the fries were pretty average, flavorwise, and soggier than they should have been. The sandwich, however, was killer: sourdough toasted to the perfect shade of golden, crispy-crispy bacon, and fresh iceberg ribboned into confetti. Turkey club, keep on doing what you’re doing.
I have a new haircut, and I’m ready to take on the challenge of using liquid eyeliner. At this moment, Alex is making soup from the chicken we roasted earlier this week. I’m curled in my bed, bundled in a hoodie; the lights are turned low. Things — all things — are good. And that’s all I have to say about that.