5/21, Wednesday morning, 9 am
San Franciscans love their pastries. They're everywhere. On any given S.F. corner, you can exhale pot smoke in any direction and hotbox a fancy pastry shop.
On my last morning, we hit up La Boulange de Hayes, a kind of west coast Le Pain Quotidien. The darkly caramelized cannelés de Bordeaux are a little too boozy for me at this hour, but the almond croissant is making me happy (though I think I prefer the buttery, almond paste-overstuffed chocolate almond croissant from Mission Beach Cafe). My favorite thing at La Boulange is the free condiment station where you can load up on cornichons from a little glass jar. Like all-you-can-eat. Like my inner suburban immigrant is doing a happy dance in the frozen party snacks sample aisle at Costco on a Saturday afternoon. Also, the tuna nicoise sandwich and herb dusted potato chips I pick up for the plane trip are perfectly portable and delicious.
It's been fun, but I leave S.F. knowing that it's not my town. Not anymore. There was a time when I thought I'd take root there. All the buttery pastries and all the produce, all the fragrant flora and oversexed fauna, they're still fun to enjoy as a tourist. It's weird, I've been in New York for nine years now. We may not be able to grow Meyer lemons or avocado trees in my apartment; I still wish we had a dishwasher and a garbage disposal; I want to roll out of bed and have a yoga studio across the street instead of a White Castle; but NYC's home for me now, and I'm looking forward to getting back.
San Franciscans love their pastries. They're everywhere. On any given S.F. corner, you can exhale pot smoke in any direction and hotbox a fancy pastry shop.
On my last morning, we hit up La Boulange de Hayes, a kind of west coast Le Pain Quotidien. The darkly caramelized cannelés de Bordeaux are a little too boozy for me at this hour, but the almond croissant is making me happy (though I think I prefer the buttery, almond paste-overstuffed chocolate almond croissant from Mission Beach Cafe). My favorite thing at La Boulange is the free condiment station where you can load up on cornichons from a little glass jar. Like all-you-can-eat. Like my inner suburban immigrant is doing a happy dance in the frozen party snacks sample aisle at Costco on a Saturday afternoon. Also, the tuna nicoise sandwich and herb dusted potato chips I pick up for the plane trip are perfectly portable and delicious.
It's been fun, but I leave S.F. knowing that it's not my town. Not anymore. There was a time when I thought I'd take root there. All the buttery pastries and all the produce, all the fragrant flora and oversexed fauna, they're still fun to enjoy as a tourist. It's weird, I've been in New York for nine years now. We may not be able to grow Meyer lemons or avocado trees in my apartment; I still wish we had a dishwasher and a garbage disposal; I want to roll out of bed and have a yoga studio across the street instead of a White Castle; but NYC's home for me now, and I'm looking forward to getting back.
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