A tale of two SoMas

By Paul Reidinger

IN KEEPING WITH the binary nature of our times, the neighborhood we've come to know and love as SoMa has evolved two faces. From Fifth Street east to the bay, it's chic (and ever more chic) city: the Metreon, the MOMA, the W Hotel, the Moscone Center, and a slew of fancy restaurants, including Hawthorne Lane and Boulevard.

West of Fifth, it's another story, and something of a boneyard for restaurants. Buried out there, amid the mass graves of the dot-coms, are Acorn, Jessie's, Hamburger Mary's, ˇWa-Ha-Ka!, and others we must struggle to remember even dimly. The space at the corner of Ninth and Folsom Streets, in particular, has been a kind of black hole, devouring every food joint brave enough to pop up there. Every time I went past, it seemed to have become something else.

The current occupant is a bar-ish place called Ninth and Folsom. I like the utilitarian name; if you agree to meet people there, you can be fairly sure they won't forget where it is. And I like the moody, spare, slate gray interior, which is something like a cross between the Zodiac Club and the briefing room of Captain Kirk's Enterprise during a power outage, with the industrial edge softened just a bit by ridges of high-backed banquettes. The place has the flavor of a contemporary speakeasy, yet the great world is very much present, mainly as a stream of onrushing traffic. It isn't difficult to imagine a speedy car straying ever so slightly from its appointed course to come crashing through the glass doors into the dining room.

That would be a real drama, but most likely you wouldn't much care, being liquored up, as you almost certainly would be, on one of the wealth of serious drinks – various flavored martinis and other, more eccentric concoctions, as well as beer on tap and wine for those who might want it – available from the bar. Many restaurants include bars; Ninth and Folsom is a bar that includes a restaurant.

And what about that restaurant? As is de rigueur these days, the menu emphasizes small, or at least smallish, plates. They are easy to share, and they offer the kitchen a broad palette for the creation of its (also de rigueur) multiethnic doodlings. The food's aura is mainly Asian, but you can also get a burger, a burrito, or beef carpaccio.

We found the carpaccio ($7) to be pleasantly tender but otherwise undistinguished, despite the usual scattering of capers, shavings of Parmesan cheese, and squeeze of lemon juice. Far, far better were the Korean-style short ribs ($7), flaps of beef still attached to coins of bone in a darkly spicy sauce. Pan-seared calamari ($6) over bok choy was a good idea – a welcome change from the usual breaded and deep-fried preparation – but unfortunately it drowned in a soy sauce-laden sauce. Also too rich in soy sauce was the promising pepper-crusted ahi ($7) with chunks of sweet, ripe mango.

The must-have item among the smaller dishes is the plate of Folsom frites ($4), with chipotle aioli. Even in the dim light the frites struck us as dark: bronze rather than the pale gold or yellow of ordinary french fries. Initially we suspected the sticks had been dusted with some secret ingredient, but it turned out they're made not from potatoes but yams. So, at last, someone has found something attractive to do with yams. For that reason alone, Ninth and Folsom deserves to flourish.

One of the great verities of any kitchen is that the best dishes are generally the simplest ones. A cup of smooth, substantial carrot soup ($3), for instance, was lifted above the ordinary by a healthy dose of black pepper. (And may I say here how happy I am to see the poor old carrot being made alluring use of, not just at Ninth and Folsom but other places too. Carrots may never be glamorous, but with a little attention and craft, they are quite capable of carrying some dishes.) And a chicken and black-bean burrito ($7), accompanied by chips, salsa, guac, and sour cream, was competitive in price, bulk, and flavor with its Mission counterparts.

Assuming you and your party need a conversation piece and a car doesn't come sailing through the front door, you might try, for dessert, the mochi sampler ($4). This consists of four pats of ice cream (for us, cappuccino, green tea, mango, and strawberry-vanilla) wrapped in rice paper.

"It's like eating clouds," our server assured us.

"It's like eating ice cream wrapped in chewing gum," my companion countered after nibbling at them. I liked them more; they were odd, but in the best possible way, as Dame Edna might say.