Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) The Tennessee Grill, San Francisco, California

I probably eat two thirds of my meals out. And although I love nothing more than an exquisite dining experience, especially in San Francisco – a perfectly medium rare steak at Morton’s, the multi course tasting menu at Coi, the sophistication of Bix – ninety-five percent of the time what I really need is simple fuel to keep my motor running. But let this fact not lead you to believe I am indifferent to what food I’m putting in my body. Rather, I look for restaurants where quality meets value, where the portions are monumental and I’m going to get more than my dollar’s worth.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I please introduce to you the Tennessee Grill. Located at 1128 Taraval Street in San Francisco, the Grill is hands down the best bang for your buck in the City and County. In a town where soaring prices for everything from real estate to parking is the norm, it is almost impossible to fathom that a restaurant like this can continue to exist.

The description that is most used to describe the Grill is the ubiquitous “greasy spoon.” And yes, the phrase most certainly applies. (I know of no better hang over remedy than a prolonged visit to the Grill.) But it is much more than that, offering a selection of traditional diner faire, full dinners, a halfway decent salad bar and an all day breakfast that is hard to beat.

Upon walking in you encounter the definitive reality of the place: there are absolutely, positively no frills. The décor is awful; the interior has obviously not been painted in a decade. (Though a meeting room has been recently added in the back.) But it is just this lack of embellishment that makes the Tennessee Grill what it is. There is a long counter where diners can sit and watch the cooks go to work, as well as a large selection of tables and booths where bigger groups can congregate. Depending on the time of day, there are two or three waitresses working the room. If it’s busy, don’t expect the fastest service in the world, though if you are patient and pleasant you will be treated in kind. (Linda and Elsie are particularly sweet.)

The menu is where the action is. If it’s breakfast you seek, the Lou’s Special (basically a Joe’s special with corned beef) is very popular. And, if chef/part owner Lou is personally manning the grill, the omelets are especially incredible – fluffy and stuffed with ingredients. The pancakes are usually excellent, and you can never go wrong with a traditional bacon or sausage and eggs. All plates include a generous serving of hash browns and toast.

Unless it’s early and I’m drinking coffee, however, I’m more of a lunch/dinner kind of guy. The sandwiches – BLT, chicken breast, club, steak sandwich, hamburger – are all good and will fill you up. But it’s the dinner entrees that truly satisfy my desire. Every entrée includes vegetables of the day (which are admittedly uninspired) and your choice of fries, mashed potatoes or rice, with a starter of your choice of a heaping bowl of soup or salad bar and a generous portion of sourdough bread and butter. The soups are generally very good, with the navy bean and beef barley leading the way. For less than ten dollars you can have pork chops, teriyaki breast of chicken, hamburger steak, chicken tenders, roast beef, turkey or barbeque pork ribs, to name but a few. For $11.25, you can get grilled lamb. And at $13.25, the marinated steak is the most expensive item available.

A couple warnings: the coffee is really bad. I don’t know what brand it is, but it tastes like burnt MJB. I still drink it, but you can’t be blamed if your palate is a bit more discerning. I have witnessed patrons dining unmolested with a Starbucks cup at their table, so maybe that’s the answer. But there is truly no remedying the men’s bathroom. Located up a flight of rickety stairs, it is home to some of the worst atrocities in the human experience. Elderly men often perch themselves up there for half an hour at a time. If you can, do everything in your power to avoid this nightmarish scene.

In my (even more) sordid past, there were many days when I would roll into the Grill at 5:00 in the evening, my head pounding from the previous night’s adventures, my stomach grumbling for satiation and only $15.00 in my wallet. I would gather up what remains of the newspaper were available on the front counter, grab a booth for myself and settle in for my hour long feast. Often, this was the only meal I would consume all day, and I relished every single bite. Sometimes, I’d go through a whole sourdough roll in the process, but the bread kept coming. The waitresses didn’t even look askance at me when I answered them, “no, just ice water will be fine.”

Today, my financial situation is just a little less desperate. But the Grill still reigns supreme in my mind. It kept me functioning in the past and will continue to do so in the future. I’d trade it for Morton’s any day.

RIP Americo Delgado

On Friday evening Mexico lost one of its great legal crusaders, Americo Delgado, in a brazen, brutal murder outside the attorney’s home in Toluca, about an hour outside of Mexico City.

Witnesses state that Delgado, age 81, was attacked by at least three knife-wielding men who stabbed him in the neck. Authorities did not indicate a motive for the killing.

Delgado spent his career, which spanned over half a century, representing the cause of criminal defendants. His clients included the famed Benjamin Arellano Felix of Tijuana, Jesus Amezcua, known as the “methamphetamine king,” and Alfredo Beltran Leyva, (aka “El Mochomo”) a suspected Sinaloa kingpin who was arrested in January 2008.

Also killed earlier this month was Silvia Raquenel Villanueva, a Monterrey attorney who represented a number of suspected syndicate leaders. He was gunned down in a marketplace in what appeared to be an execution-style attack. Villanueva had represented Carlos Resendez Bertolucci, a member of the Gulf cartel who testified against convicted kingpin Juan Garcia Abrego on trafficking charges.

Delgado, honored by national lawyers groups and the National Autonomous University of Mexico for his contributions to the legal field, will be remembered for his stand for the rights of criminal defendants and his battle against the unending tide of tyranny and injustice.

A Quote From Thomas Szasz

"All drugs of any interest to any moderately intelligent person in America are now illegal."

Well I Guess its Official: I'm Moving to Mexico

For those of you who have not heard the news: small amounts of drugs carried for personal use are now legal in el Gran Nacion de Mexico. The law is as follows:

The maximum amount of marijuana for "personal use" under the new law is 5 grams. The limit is a half gram for cocaine. For other drugs, the limits are 50 milligrams of heroin, 40 milligrams for methamphetamine and 0.015 milligrams for LSD.

Are you kidding me? When are we going to catch up with the rest of the civilized world? Once again, our neighbor to the south has bested us in matters of government policy. Bravo, Presidente Calderon! I'll be closely watching your political career from my trailer in Tijuana.

¡Viva Hidalgo! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Morelos! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Josefa Ortiz de Dominguez! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Allende! ¡Viva!
¡Vivan Aldama y Matamoros! ¡Viva!
¡Viva nuestra independencia! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Felipe Calderon! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva!
¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva!

A Quote from Mike Tyson

“I think controlling money is an art. It’s an art to control money because…I’m an extremist, I either have a lot of money or I have none. I can’t live in the middle. I don’t know why I’m that way. No one can understand the mind of an extremist. People can judge me, but they can’t understand my mind. If they don’t have that extreme addict personality you can never understand how a guy can blow three hundred, four hundred million dollars. It’s as if I have to live at the top of the world or the bottom of the ocean.”

- From the movie Tyson

Addict Recommends: (Bar) The Silver Peso, Larkspur, California

There are myriad reasons why a person goes to a bar. Sometimes, it’s because the bar is trendy and people want to be seen in the “right” place. Other times, individuals are lonely and need some friendly conversation. And let’s never forget, very often people are horny and simply looking to get laid. As for me, I go to bars to drink and lose my worries in a fog of inebriation.

If you’re like me, you’ll love the Silver Peso.

Nestled in the now trendy hamlet of Larkspur, California, the Peso in an anachronism from a better time. It is said that the Peso was literally purchased by a returning World War II GI with silver Pesos he recovered from the bottom of Manila Bay. In its heyday, it was a rough and ready biker bar, filled with the toughest sons of bitches around, and scene to more than a few all out brawls. Over the years, however, most of the bikers moved on, though there are still a few grizzled survivors who continue to frequent the place.

In a county that has been deprived of its authenticity and aboriginal denizens by an endless stream of nouveau riche transplants, the Peso stands alone as a symbol of the once great Marin traditions of true liberal freedom and joie de vivre. A dive in the proper and most complimentary sense of the word, it relies on the fact that it is a one of a kind joint in Marin County, a real drinker’s palace, a place where getting appropriately loaded is accepted and even encouraged, assuming, of course, that you are not driving home.

The Silver Peso is undoubtedly a little rough around the edges. She is beat up and worn down. The bar itself – which has undergone some level of repair lately – is broken in places and slants awkwardly in others. The staff – which includes, but is not limited to, Pete, Scotty, Gordon, Tom, “Rebel” and the gold chain bedecked Arturo (with the occasional cameo appearances by Bryce and all purpose utility bar-back “Chuckeye”) – can be gruff and downright slow in their service. Usually, this simply means they are too busy to get to you. Sometimes, it might mean that you’ve had too much to drink and are about to be cut off. And every once in a while a rare but not unseen event occurs: they just don’t feel like serving you at that moment. Now, this isn't to say that these bartenders aren't the best at what they do, because they are. You try controlling a room full of drunks while pouring a hundred drinks an hour. Nevertheless, it's important to know that these guys aren't going to kiss your ass just because you expect them to.

But this is the whole point. If you want polished, overly professional, well kept and sociable bartenders, go to a downtown San Francisco hotel bar, preferably one that is staffed by Local 2 employees. Or go to the Left Bank restaurant right down the street. But if you want a stiff drink, or a shot and a beer, to listen to some decent music, maybe a game of pool or shuffleboard, go the Silver Peso. You’ll get your buzz on. I always do.

My Malady

Sometimes I really do think about just hanging it up, giving in and admitting defeat. After the past few days, it’s an especially tempting prospect. Indulge me, if you will.

I had been out of town for five days and hadn’t seen the Girl. So on Thursday I went down to Marin and decided we would have a little party night. We met for a quick cocktail in San Rafael. I thought we were just going to have a few drinks and call it a fairly tame night. I was wrong.

We left for the City and a bar which shall remained unnamed. Pusher man showed up with the cocaine unexpectedly. Since I had already consumed three vodka-tonics I was feeling in the mood and I purchased a gram for me and the Girl. The night flowed pleasantly enough, though the Girl and I did get yelled at by her neighbor at about midnight for being loud and obnoxious when we returned. But, as I am always very polite in these moments, the situation resolved itself easily enough. All in all, it was a good night.

The next morning I woke up at seven, feeling bad but not terrible. I had an 8:30 appointment, so I had brought my suit with me. Fortunately, I had nothing else to do for the rest of the day, so after the appointment I went by the office for a moment, checked my email, played Mafia Wars on facebook, then went home for a nice nap. I didn’t awake until past three o’clock.

I thought I was going to stay in for the night, but very late I got an invitation from Rick and The Jew (a self bestowed moniker) to go see Inglorious Basterds at the AMC theaters in San Francisco. (Two thumbs up. The Jew, of course, loved it!) We caught the 10:45 showing after a couple of cocktails and a number of Billy-bat hits. It’s a long drive home for me from the city, so I didn’t get in until after 3:00 in the morning.

The next day also belonged to the Girl. Unexpectedly, she brought a gram of blow along with her, and we got revved up before going out on a long night of partying. Now, it was certainly a celebratory night, but nothing insane. We got in about two-thirty or three in the morning. It was my belief that everything was going to be fine.

She bailed out from my place at nine o’clock in the morning – I know this only because I asked her what time it was as she was leaving. My only plans for the day were to have dinner at my parent’s house at around 5 o’clock. No problem, right? Piece of cake. I went back to sleep.

I woke up at some time and began watching television. There is no electric clock in my bedroom – I can’t stand the glow of the digits at night – and my cell phone was in the living room. So after a couple episodes of Newhart I got up and went into the living room, thinking it was probably about 2:00 in the afternoon. To my shock and chagrin, the clock on the VCR read 6:15.

Now I don’t know about your family, but in mine missing dinner is taboo. I immediately called my mother, who answered the phone crying at the other end. She explained they had been calling all day and thought some terrible accident had befallen me. She then informed me my father was coming over to my place to see if I was still alive. It’s a forty minute drive from their house. I apologized profusely and hung up. A moment later the old man arrives and I apologized some more. I explained that I was sick, but the look on his face told me all I needed to know about how well that excuse went over.

I was awake for six hours then went straight back to bed. I slept in until ten o’clock today. Now I don’t know exactly what happened, but this was a pretty strange reaction to a mere few evenings out. Of course, it’s possible that the series of long nights might have led to some kind of over exhaustion. I even think it plausible that somebody might have slipped a “Ruffie” into a drink intended for the Girl and I drank it. Who knows? All I do know is that right about now I’m feeling like this is no way for a thirty-five year old man to be behaving.

And that’s just how I felt at thirty, at twenty five, even at twenty. “This is the time for change!” Jesus, sounds like an Obama campaign promise. (Let’s see how much “change” really takes place in Washington, God bless the president and his efforts.) Or do you remember the line from Half Baked when Dave Chappell's character promises his girlfriend he is going to quit smoking weed: "It's a new Thurgood Jenkins today!" But ultimately I know that this is it; not the result, mind you, not the exact events of the weekend or their consequences. But this is who and what I am. I can fight it. I can resist; and it is in the resistance where the nobility and meaning of the whole effort lies. But there is no denying that I am stuck with this malady for life. I just know it.