I got pegged with one of those blog-meme things by my friend Humuhumu. I feel obliged to participate, only because GREAT MISFORTUNE will befall ME AND MY FAMILY if I don’t. A blogger from Rome, GA failed to answer and IMMEDIATELY was beseiged by FLESH-EATING BACTERIA. Also, I want to celebrate Humuhumu’s honorable mention almost-win in the Least-Notable Wikipedia Article Contest.

The list is supposed to be “Best Places to Eat” in your area. The problem is that I really don’t get out much. I’ve tried maybe 0.01% of the restaurants in the city alone, much less the whole bay area. And once I do find a place, I tend to order the same thing over and over again. But the things I order over and over again are so awesome that they deserve a mention on the internets. So I’m going to list my five favorite things to eat in the bay area.

First, I’m supposed to include the list of participants:

The list:
Nicole (Sydney, Australia)
velverse (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
LB (San Giovanni in Marignano, Italy)
Selba (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Olivia (London, England)
ML (Utah, USA)
Lotus (Toronto, Canada)
tanabata (Saitama, Japan)
Andi (Dallas [ish], Texas, United States)
Todd (Louisville, Kentucky, United States)
miss kendra (los angeles, california, u.s.a)
Jiggs Casey (Berkeley, CA, USA! USA! USA!)
Tits McGee (New England, USA)
Joe (NE Tennessee, USA)
10K Monkeys (Chattanooga, Tennessee, USA)
Big Stupid Tommy (Athens, Tennessee, USA)
Newscoma (Weakley County, Tennessee, USA)
Russ McBee (Knoxville, Tennessee, USA)
Atomictumor (Oak Ridge, Tennessee, USA)
Oh Really? (Oak Ridge, TN, USA)
Mark Steel (Knoxville, TN, USA)
Swanky (Knoxville, TN, USA)
Humuhumu (Seattle, WA, USA, and Silicon Valley, CA, USA)
Spectre Collie (San Francisco Bay area, CA, USA)

And here’s my list of favorite dishes, expanded into the whole bay area:

Manpuku, Berkeley
Katsu Curry Rice
I didn’t know such a thing existed until my friend Matt started ordering it in as take-out while the office was working late. I don’t want to exaggerate or over-sell it, so I’ll just say that katsu curry rice is the single greatest achievement in the history of human civilization.

When I first moved to California, I spent years complaining loudly and frequently that I missed southern food. People would try to help by recommending “soul food” restaurants in Oakland and elsewhere, but they were always a disappointment — heavy on the collard greens and such, but none of what I thought of as real Cracker Barrel-style southern food. (And always with the sweet cornbread. What is it with you people?)

So I was surprised to finally find what I was looking for at a Japanese restaurant. A deep-fried pork chop covered in gravy with potatoes and carrots, served over rice. What could possibly be better? I’ve tried the katsu curry rice in various places all over San Francisco, and in Tokyo and Kyoto, and I’ve never had any as good as what they serve at Manpuku.

Thai Place 2, San Francisco
Panang Beef
The restaurant is pretty unremarkable overall; I wouldn’t have heard of it except that it’s close by and has free delivery. It wasn’t even my favorite take-out place. Until I tried the Panang Beef — stew beef in coconut-based curry sauce. Every time I order it, I spend the second day just eating the post-beef sauce remainder over rice, and it’s even better than the day before.

Casa Mañana, San Rafael
Enchilada Vallarta
Even Lou Dobbs would have to acknowledge the inestimable contributions of the Mexican culture if he were confronted with mole sauce. I don’t buy any of the crackpot theories about alien landing strips in Peru or extra-terrestrials helping to build the pyramids of the Yucatan, but I can believe that the idea of using chocolate in an entree is too ingenious for mere humans to have come up with.

Casa Mañana does it one better by serving plantains wrapped up in tortillas and then covered with mole sauce. It’s like a banana split for dinner. Genius, and eerie.

Sushi Ko, Berkeley
Tempura Fried California Roll
As sushi-ignorant as I am, even I can tell that this restaurant is fair-to-middling at best. I have a hard time recommending it to anybody, and the only reason I ever go is if I’m in the area to visit Comic Relief. But still, it’s the only semi-local restaurant I’m aware of that still sells the tempura-fried California Roll, which is another one of mankind’s greatest achievements.

It’s a well-known fact that dipping anything in batter and deep-frying it makes it better, but the difference between the average California Roll and the senses-shattering bliss of the fried California Roll is so profound, I can only compare it to alchemy.

House of Nanking, San Francisco
I Don’t Know the Name But it’s Beef in Lettuce Rolls
From the looks of things, the House of Nanking got over-hyped a few years ago, and it’s now suffering the backlash. I can’t imagine it actually changed in quality that much; it’s been at least a year since I went last, but every time has been consistent — loud, crowded, aggressive service, with phenomenal low-brow Chinese food. I guess that irritates the people who are sticklers for “authenticity” or “ambience” or “being allowed to order.”

Because they don’t really seem to let you order there, from what I’ve seen. You kind of suggest animals or schools of food, and then they bring you one to three plates that fit the category. So I don’t know what it’s officially called, but there’s something there that’s made of beef and corn and a bunch of stuff I don’t recognize, that you spoon up into a roll of lettuce and eat. And then keep eating, and then mention how good it is, and eat some more. Since they go heavy on the sauce at that restaurant, and everything is kind of syrupy sweet, the beef-in-lettuce-wraps is the closest I’ve had there to “light” fare.

So that serves as my list of five, as well as explaining why I’ve got a weight problem. The next thing I’m supposed to do is tag five other people. I’m not sure I know five people with blogs, or at least ones who wouldn’t hit me for sending them a chain letter. But the thing is, I’m genuinely curious and looking for recommendations on good restaurants. So I’m calling out:
Jess Hutch
Musty TV
Six Seven Six
And anybody else who wants to jump in, but I didn’t think to mention here because it didn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d be remotely interested in.

Although San Francisco has somehow become my home city, I haven’t been taking advantage of it as much as I could be. This place is supposedly known for its great restaurants, but when I got asked to name five of my favorites, I couldn’t name more than three.

A few weeks ago, I resolved to at least try to expand my horizons: I’ve been recording “Check, Please! Bay Area” for suggestions, and whenever I go out or order take-out, I’ve checked yelp.com first to see if they can suggest a better alternative. And even if I go to a place I’ve been before, I’ve resolved to try at least one new thing off the menu.

Today for lunch I tried the sushi bar at Takara Restaurant in Japantown. I’m pretty far from being knowledgeable about sushi; I usually know just enough to keep from making a scene. It’s taken me years of training just to force myself to be able to tolerate it. But once I turned the corner, I actually like it a lot. At least, the standards — sake, hamachi, maguro, and ebi. The versions of those at Takara were fine — nothing mind-altering, but still good stuff.

But I’ve always seen amaebi listed on the menu as “sweet shrimp” and have been curious but never tried it. So I ordered it as “dessert.” See, here was my line of thinking: I’ve had tamago (egg) nigiri before; it was recommended as good introductory sushi. Both versions that I tried were basically a sliver of an omelet infused with a five-pound bag of sugar. I figured that “sweet shrimp” would be the same thing, ebi plus sugar.

As it turns out, and apparently this is old news to everybody but me, amaebi is raw shrimp. And the difference between the raw and cooked variety is the same as the difference between toro and maguro — nearly identical to the undereducated, but one’s trashy and commonplace while the other is a treasured delicacy.

Here’s a good time to point out my shrimp aversion. I love all varieties of cooked shrimp, minus the tails. But the animals themselves are third on my list of most vile and stomach-turning creatures on the planet (1. slugs, 2. Ann Coulter, 3. shrimp, 4. squids). Just the sight of them can make me queasy. I know that eating shrimp isn’t “Fear Factor” material — I’m from the southeast, so I’ve seen people with big buckets of crawdads, and I know that they do unspeakable things with the heads. But not only have I never tried it, I can’t even look at it. I usually have to close my eyes and think of something else if I even get the thought of it.

I thought I was behaving pretty well today — not scraping my chopsticks together, not dipping the rice in the soy sauce, ordering everything I could in Japanese, and saying “oishikatta desu” instead of “it was delicious” to offset the fact I’d ordered a Coke. But here I’ve got a plate sitting in front of me with a couple of raw sea insects; and they look pretty much like the cooked variety, albeit unnervingly slicker and more translucent; and the chef is staring at me, so I’ve got to eat one.

I managed to get it down by imagining it was just like the cooked variety and holy cow that’s an odd texture but don’t think about it and I wonder if they de-vein these things and then swallow and immediately go for the ginger and it’s done.

And there was still another one left on the plate. At that point I wanted to point behind the chef, shout “Is that Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto?”, and take advantage of the confusion to make a quick getaway. But instead I decided to be a man and just eat the damn thing. I asked for the check and hoped that I could pay it and get out before I horked raw fish and sea-bug all over their sushi bar.

But the chef pointed at my plate and said, “Oh, you aren’t finished yet!” I thought he was chastising me for not eating the tails, but after a couple of rounds of confusing half-sentences between the both of us, he pointed out that my shrimp heads hadn’t come from the kitchen yet. “No really, that’s okay,” I protested, and may have even done a childlike belly-rubbing “I’m full” pantomime, but he was insistent. The other chef assured me, “No, the heads are the best part,” and then, “That’s why people pay seventeen dollars for amaebi.”

While I was processing this bit of information, and trying to come up with a graceful exit strategy, they came back from the kitchen with a plate of delicious fried shrimp heads. “Squeeze the lemon on it, it’s delicious.” I must’ve had an easily-translatable look of revulsion on my face, because the other chef quickly asked me if I would rather take it home with me. I said “yes” in a manner that I hope adequately conveyed “Oh God yes bless you for the rest of your life,” paid my ginormous bill, said “domo arigatou” in a last attempt to save face, and escaped.

So now I’ve got a plastic container with a pair of $20 fried shrimp heads in my refrigerator. I’m obviously not going to eat it, but I’m thinking of saving it as a trophy of my resounding whiteness.