By Sylvia W. Chan

I'D ALWAYS THOUGHT that any music was better than silence while I ate. As a child, I liked to listen to Diana Ross's "Upside Down" as I spooned Campbell's cream of mushroom soup into my mouth. "Round and round you're turning me / You're giving love instinctively," Miss Ross would sing as I dunked balls of Wonder bread that I'd smooshed together.

But recently, at my local Carl's Jr., I found my beliefs questioned. Deathly hungover, I stumbled in determined to have the sourdough bacon burger a pal had raved about (I have highbrow friends). After obtaining my prize, I slumped into a yellow plastic booth, unwrapped my sandwich, and started to squeeze ketchup onto fries. Suddenly I was assaulted by sound: the restaurant's stereo began blaring Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On."

Eater's digest The question: What music is playing in your establishment right now? Zachary's Chicago Pizza, Berkeley "KFOG – it's some guy singing. He kinda sounds like Dave Matthews. But he's not." Potrero Brewing Company, San Francisco "Steely Dan. I don't know what song. Actually, it's between songs right now." Blue, San Francisco "Oh, you're just going to love this. I've got a CD compilation of really cheesy lounge music. It's called Martini du Jour Ultra Lounge with a French Twist. The song's "Vive L'amour.' " New Delhi, San Francisco "It's some Indian music from a CD, I don't know what. Some classical Indian music." Cliff's BBQ and Seafood, San Francisco "I couldn't even tell you what radio station this is. Thank you." Click. Kate's Kitchen, San Francisco "It's Prince – 'Pink Cashmere.' " Tropix Cafe, Oakland "It's Steel Pulse right now. But we play the Buena Vista Social Club disc a lot." Firefly, San Francisco "The standards. Sometimes Bryan Ferry, and that's nice." Barcelona, San Francisco "Let me check. Oh, OK, Brazilian music. OK? Bye." Cable Car Coffee Shop, San Francisco "What?" [Confers with her husband in Cantonese.] "We listen to 95.7. All the time." Howard's, San Francisco "We don't play music." Kasper's Hot Dogs, Oakland "I have it on KCSM, so it's a jazz song." On the Bridge, San Francisco "Pop music. Britney Spears." Blake's, Berkeley "What are we playing? Lemme see, it's called "Set Them Free," by Aswad, from something called Essential Reggae Jams." Soo Fong, San Francisco "No music. Next time you have question, fax to my boss. He's not here now. No more questions." SWC

My ears were ringing. I started seeing stars (which very much resembled Carl's Jr. stars). I suspected that permanent tinnitus, as well as dementia, was setting in. Unfortunately, the Carl's Jr. employees did not take pity when I begged them to turn Celine off. Clutching the remnants of my burger, I barreled outside.

At that moment, I decided my musical food theory had to be tested. Were there certain combinations that simply would not work? I knew I'd heard Dion's song in a dining situation before, perhaps licking frozen yogurt at a strip mall, or happily chomping a hot dog on a stick. But this time the mixture of nitrates, the bottle of Beam I'd drunk, and the anemic Canadian chanteuse was utterly wrong.

After a rejuvenating repose, I decided to set out on a search for unusual aural-oral combinations. I targeted the upper Mission (across the bay from my home), an area that had always offered me rather peculiar sensory triggers. I also made a tentative schedule in my head of places to visit that weren't in the Mission: the McDonald's at the Market Street cable car turnaround that always plays classical music to placate the European tourists and the native vagrants; the Boston Market near the Bay Guardian offices that was booming cheesy Christian rock last time I went in for a mac 'n' cheese fix; the cafeteria at Mills College where the cashier always has '70s soul pumping and sings along with Isaac Hayes, at the top of her lungs, as she rings up rice pudding. But as with most things that pass through my head, that schedule dissolved.

Accompanied by ace photographer Farika, I started my trek on the corner of Mission and 18th Street, at Country Station Sushi, a spot the Bay Guardian recently hailed Best Place to Eat Sushi While Listening to Country Music. It wasn't open yet, but the sushi chef, a handsome fellow with dreads named Toshi, and the owner, Koichi – a lithe man with a graying slipknot atop his head – welcomed usin warmly. When I asked why they play the type of music they do, Toshi smiled and said simply, "We like it." He ushered me to the back of the restaurant, where, next to a mammoth rice cooker, their tape and CD collection sat. It wasn't just country. Atop the CD player was a copy of a comp called Pure Funk. I scanned the shelves: selections by the Average White Band, Jr. Walker and the All Stars, Huey Lewis and the News, Osamu Kitajima, Garth Brooks, and Beethoven coexisted in perfect harmony.

Farika and I pushed onward, to Taquería Can-cun. Each time I eat there, I curse the fact that I didn't take Spanish in high school, knowing a salsa would make my salsa taste better. As I gazed at the titles under the glass ("Rompiendo barrero," "Suavemente," "Merengue Mix 2"), the jukebox remained silent. Then, as if by magic, the opening chords of a souped-up mariachi tune – "Nino travieso," by la Estrellos de los Bailes – kicked in.

Next Farika and I ducked into the McDonald's near the BART station. Ordering a 7UP, I detected faint strains of light rock. I asked the woman who brought me my drink if she knew who the singer of the song was. She shrugged and said, "Next." Fluffing up fries behind her, the manager interjected, "It's the company – they choose the music." Paranoid conspiracy theories raced through my brain. Were the powers that be at Mickey D's trying to lull us into submission, neutering our individuality? Is Grimace actually Big Brother in disguise?

The manager's voice snapped me out of my trance. "Why do you want to know?" he demanded. "You like it or something?"

"No," I mumbled, my face flushing. It was time to make our getaway.

By this time my trusted photographer had to leave, and I had one last place to visit: Sushi Groove, the supposed pinnacle of musically enhanced food. Opened by club promoters Martel Toler and Nabiel Musleh, the restaurant boasts two locations, the first on Hyde Street and the second on Folsom Street in the heart of SoMa. I was told that both spots played music, but that I should visit the newer location on Folsom, because a live DJ spins there every evening.

Although I couldn't actually afford to eat at Sushi Groove, it was quite nice to sit at the bar, sipping a sparkling water. I talked to the affable bartender, Dylan; the scent of strong wasabi tickled the back of my throat. As DJ Seth spun with small, discreet movements, I ambled up to two folks sitting in front of him and asked them what they thought of the blend of techno and sushi.

"Well," replied the male (who told me he was a massage therapist), "it's not really techno. It's ambient, good for the digestion, you know?" I was mortified. Not knowing the difference between techno and ambient, what kind of music writer was I? I considered becoming a dental hygienist, then decided to leave.

Driving home, I replenished my soul by listening to the Jurassic Five EP. Perhaps, I mused, each eat-listen situation is different; when the bad ones come, we simply have to accept them. I turned to my boyfriend, cranked up the beat, popped open the sunroof, and shouted, "Wanna get Wendy's?"

We went to the drive-through.

PHOTO OF TOSHI AND KOICHI AT COUNTRY STATION SUSHI BY FARIKA

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