Best deal in San Francisco: In the Tenderloin, on Larkin Street, between Turk and Eddy is a little hole-in-the-wall called Saigon Sandwich. I’d been meaning to go there for some time now and finally made good on my intentions.
I parked one block over, on Hyde Street. Four rather non-descript and somewhat inebriated gentlemen greeted me on the sidewalk. While I was busily pumping quarters into the parking meter one of them slurred, “Cops don’t have to pay for parking.”
I said, “If you touch my squad car I’ll hunt you down and nail you.”
All four left.
All sandwiches at Saigon Sandwich begin with an excellent French bâtard. Though bâtard literally translates to “bastard,” it really refers to a torpedo-shaped loaf, from 6 to 12 inches in length. There, aren’t you glad you know that?
The bread is crusty on the outside while the crumb (that’s code for the inside) is elastic and chewy. At the base of the sandwich is a finely julienned pickled carrot, on top of which is a mixture of fresh cilantro, scallions, other greens, enough hot peppers to instill some character, and your choice of meat. I chose the roast pork.
The sauce is a kind of Vietnamese aioli (my take on it, anyway). What would you be willing to pay for this scrumptious treat? Do I hear $8.95? Do I hear $6?
Go to this little hovel of sandwich heaven and all this can be yours for $2.75.
Hurry, supplies are limited.
I decided to finish my feasting somewhere slightly more upscale than the homeless and disenfranchised environs of the San Francisco Tenderloin, so I headed over to Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley.
Years ago, when we lived in a foreign land, my wife and I knew a lady from Eritrea, who was generous enough to open our hearts and mouths to the wonderful food of her homeland. Eritrea was formerly the northernmost province of Ethiopia (it’s about the size of Indiana, for all you mid-westerners out there reading this).
I remember how satisfying it was to take little pieces of the traditional thin, pancake-like bread, known as injera, and use it to pick up a bit of the main course and transport the little package to one’s mouth. So I thought I’d see whether it was possible to recreate a facsimile of the experience on Telegraph Ave, where there seems to be an Ethiopian restaurant on just about every block (in the area around 50th – 60thStreet). I settled on one at 6100 Telegraph Ave (actually in Oakland), called Addis.
When I entered I noticed that I was the only white person and the only one not speaking a foreign language. I knew I was in the right place.
I was greeted warmly and made to feel at home. I ordered Yemeser Wot, a lentil dish made somewhat spicy by the addition of berbere (pronounced BER-ber-ee, a spice mixture that includes chili peppers), which came with salad and a big basket of injera. No fork, or spoon, or knife – just injera. I was a happy guy.
I washed my impromptu lentil wraps down with an Ethiopian beer (if you decide to visit Addis, I’d recommend a Heineken – there’s a reason Ethiopians are not famous for their beer). I managed to finish about half the meal. I asked for the check and looked around. Several UC Berkeley types had snuck in while I’d been entranced with my lentils. They (and I) had each been given 2 napkins, while the native-speaking patrons had none (and didn’t appear to need any, either). Entire meal, with tip – $16.
Injerais traditionally made using teff, a type of grass native to Ethiopia. The seeds, which are much smaller than wheat kernels, are ground into flour. The flour is used to create a very loose, sour-dough-like batter, which is turned into injeraatop a griddle. Although injera is always referred to as bread, it really more closely resembles a crepe.
Even the Ethiopians I spoke with didn’t know a good source for teff flour. (They said, “You can substitute wheat flour.”)
Well, you can find teff flour online at bobsredmill.com (my contribution to international good will and diplomacy).
Check the April 2008 issue of Saveur for a recipe.
Fred de Picciotto has been an avid cook for more than 30 years. In his spare time he develops software and practices medicine.
