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Cheap Eats By Dan
Leone The longest yard DID YOU HEAR ? I made a doo-doo that was 36 inches long. Thirty-six inches! That's three feet! I shat a yard, in one circlish, unbroken strand. And I measured it with a cloth tape measure, but, no, I did not take a picture. I was too excited at the time to think of it. Dang, man, I could of made a mint selling prints over the Internet. I could of designed a T-shirt or screen saver. If only I weren't such a no-count slacker. So, anyway, that's why no one could get in touch with me for a couple days there. I was calling everyone I knew (except for my dad, 'cause he was in Ireland) and telling them about it. Most common response: "What'd you eat?" Well, I'll tell you. I'd had a cup of coffee from Fellini's, my new favorite coffee place for life, and nothing at all to eat. That morning, I mean. The night before, I'd had a slice of cold pizza and some leftover Indian food while riding in a car, and then two pieces of barbecued chicken while standing up backstage at a Neville Brothers' concert. I shook hands with Aaron Neville. Didn't know who the hell he was, at the time, but that's OK because neither could he have known who I was going to become the following morning. I had a huge plastic cup of red wine and slosh-sway-danced in the aisle through their whole set, mostly with my eyes closed, and not even imagining what kind of magic was happening in my gut: old cardboard pizza; crusty, cold leftover lamb curry with rice; barbecued chicken; couple bites of lasagna all mixing up and coming together. Shaking it down to the music. I'm sorry y'all, but I'm flying high right now, still. And if you want to write to me and complain like you do every time I write about poo-poo in my food column, then you know what I have to say. What I've always said: That's cool too. Hey, not everyone wants to lead a whole and wholesome life, according to the laws of real, live nature, where every action has an equal and opposite reaction, where what goes in must come out, where, prudish morality be damned, yin and yang paisley into each other like day and night, and ping and pong lie down together like lions and lambs, or chicken and pizza. Or in other words: Fuck you, motherfucker. Just cause you never had no three-foot poos to write home about, you bottled up, repressed, church-going, rabbit-poo-pooping Goody Two-shoes, that don't mean you have to rain on my parade. Shit happens, and this is Poo-Poo Pride Month, speaking of parades. I just decided. July. Brace yourself, or else hide your eyes and plug your nose because all month long I'm going to talk about poo-poo in Cheap Eats, starting now, with San Vicente. I ate there on Sunday, last month, with the Choo-Choo Train. He's G and I'm B and T, but we poo-poo'd all the big Pride stuff going on that day in order to eat the best pupusas either one of us had ever eaten, put together. I feel sorry for San Vicente, having to be the subject of this crappy review. They deserve better treatment, and if I think of it I'll remind you what a great place this is in August. Meanwhile, I just want to say that I always kind of didn't like pupusas very much, everywhere else I had them. In fact, I wasn't going to get them at San Vicente. I was going to let the Choo-Choo eat pupusas, and I ordered fried plantains with beans ($5.50). But then I decided to get one little pork and bean one ($1.75) by way of a kicker. I don't know what to tell you about why, but it was better than anything – better than the fried plantains, which were good, and better than El Zocalo and all the other places where I've ever tried pupusas. Choo-Choo Train agreed, and he'd never even had pupusas anywhere else before this. Check it out: You can stand in the window on Mission Street and watch her making them, if you want. Thick, doughy disks of corn and rice flour with whatever combination of pork, cheese, and beans you want in the middle of it. Served with that great vinegary cabbage brew. OK. Now, until next week: Be proud. Wipe hard. Don't forget to wash your hands. Have another cup of coffee, and always ask yourself: What can you do for Brown? San Vicente. 2893 Mission St. (at 25th), SF. (415) 642-0104.
Daily: 10 a.m.-9 p.m. Takeout available. Credit cards not accepted. No
alcohol. Wheelchair accessible.
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