Prime rib. Baked potato. Fried calamari. Elk. Little Debbie’s swiss rolls. Biscuits and sausage gravy. My American food wish list. Short. Specific. And very much doable in San Francisco. Dinner at the House of Prime Rib knocked two of those off my list. Prime rib and baked potato. Established in the late 1940s, it’s an institution. The waiters are happy, energetic and enthusiastic. They only serve prime rib – and getting a reservation requires some forward thinking.
Everything is done with great fanfare. Waiters wield the fixings like cocktail waiters play with bottles. Lots of waving of arms, a running commentary, and a genuine appreciation for what they are doing. It’s a joy to watch them work and a very vivid example of how you can work a table for tips. These boys make some money. I know that American customer service is the prototype that many attempt (and fail) to copy. Think Budapest. Think Dublin. I can’t think of anywhere I’ve been in Europe where customer service even comes close.
The cuts come in four sizes ranging from 6-8 oz to the King George – a hefty 15 oz. All cooked to perfection and cut to order. Served with a choice of creamed spinach or creamed corn and a house salad, tossed with great aplomb at your table. Culinary heaven.
Next on my list was the fried calamari – from Fisherman’s wharf. The place is jammed full of stalls and stands and restaurants selling fresh crab, lobster, mussels, oysters, seafood medleys – fresh and fried. I had a double dose – a crab and shrimp cup with some prawns – and then my battered, crispy, calamari. Walking down by the famous Pier 39, I was in fish heaven.
Later that night, we cooked duck and elk back at the flat. Score 3! I have my order in for my swiss rolls and am heading back shortly for some of Helen’s famous biscuits and sausage gravy. List complete. Cravings satiated. Waistband expanded. One very satisfied customer.
2 responses
You forget those little breakfast sausages that you poach, blueberry pancake stacks with bacon, decent burritos and peanut butter cups. God bless America!
I have finally nailed how to make the pancake stacks from scratch when the need comes calling, but the bacon is all wrong, but the little sausages, I had to get two packets each day, one for me to eat while I cooked the rest of the breakfast. I fear we can’t claim Europe is civilised until we have them.
Absent as I have been trans-Balatonically I’ve only just found this. Marvellous . . .