Kung Pao Frog, Anyone?

Eating my way through San Francisco, one bite at a time.

Discovered a new place Monday night, Nopa, which is already entrenched in the permanent rotation (more on this later). Instant classic story in which two weary travelers arrive at SFO hungry and cranky (and having missed the second half of the Duke/Butler final, which had the audacity to be a great game because why would the first final I’ve missed since 1987 –when I made the wise and unregrettable choice to see The Pretenders and missed seeing Keith Smart’s last second jumper beat Syracuse– be a typical, forgettable blow-out game?) and head directly for my colleague’s favorite SF establishment only to find out it just closed (at 9:30! WTF?). Colleague is crushed; I point out that arriving at a place you really wanted to go at 9:33 PM means it just wasn’t meant to be, and you have to trust in the karma of the universe, which is always out there waiting to be tested, especially for weary but adventurous and humble travelers. So, colleague’s companion (also known as myself) spies two women walking out of said establishment and decides to ask them where we should eat: “My friend is beside himself that we can’t eat here…are there any other places around here you’d suggest?” Before the final word was out of my mouth they both said, in unison “Nopa”. The rest is history but let it be stated, for the record, that Nopa is culinary sex.

Tuesday night we were, for different but similarly unavoidable reasons, running late. And out in Santa Clara (where our hotel is), everything closes at 9:30, even the bad places. A few fruitless attempts and a great deal of driving around office park hell would have discouraged lesser men. But once you are feeling –and soliciting the assistance of– the karma of the universe, you start to see every false start as a signpost. This time it involved walking into the lobby of the hotel next to the third location– which had already closed (at 9:30!), and asking the very kind woman behind the counter where we should go. A very long conversation and several phone calls (sample call “Are you still open? No? Okay, thanks.”) later, we asked her where she would go if she were hungry and just getting off work. “Do you like Asian?” she asked. “Only if it’s authentic,” we replied. “Do you like holes in the wall with good food?” she asked. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?” our stomachs replied. “Well, there is a great place that serves all kinds of authentic dishes, and it’s open until 1 AM.”

The rest is culinary history.

So, in that picture above? Those brown squares? Those aren’t chunks of chocolate. If you’ve ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant and looked at all the various ways they serve Pho (noodle soup), you’ll begin to get an understanding of what parts of the pig are partying in that pan.

Not many places (at least that I’ve been to) have a section on the menu dedicated to frog.

The adventurous, humble and hungry diner knows enough to know it’s on there for a reason. (Verdict: too many tiny bones, and not enough to serve as an adequate meal, but ideal as an accompanying dish, which it was.)

This is the kind of place where you want to convey to the staff how incredible everything is, but you don’t, because it’s the kind of place where they would just nod their head and say “We know.” And you have no choice but to appreciate a place like that.

Wednesday night: from one extreme to the other. Can you say “dollar dogs” at Oakland Alameda County Coliseum? I can, and they do. Whether or not scarfing down a few of those bad boys was a salubrious decision is between me, the next morning and the relative stability of my lower intestinal tract. And Stomper.