Episode Twenty: Restaurant Review: Chouchou's

Chouchou
400 Dewey Blvd
San Francisco, CA
415-242-0960
Five out of five stars

A few episodes ago, I made a list of my favorite places to dine in, and apparently, I must have made a colossal mistake by not including Chouchou’s. Pronounced shoushou, this little French bistro in Forest Hill is an absolute find, a polished gem hidden in a somewhat odd place to have a French restaurant, right across from Laguna Honda Hospital (which still gives me the Haunted-House-eerie vibes every time I pass by it), smack down in the middle of residential homes.

I’ve been to Chouchou’s previously, but it was under a different management. This time around, I went with Kat, whom I went to Paris with, and Megan, her co-worker and my dear friend who makes THE best chicken schnitzel and green beans casserole EVER.

Megan was friends with Nick Ronan, the owner of Chouchou’s, so reservations were a breeze, especially for a Saturday night. We elected to be seated at the bar, so we can people watch and so we wouldn’t feel bad for taking up prime real estate for too long. Chouchou’s definitely have the Parisian bistro vibe, right down to the close proximities of tables that you’d have to be a skinny Frenchie to get through.

We got started with a bottle of white wine, the name of which is escaping me at the moment. I’m not a huge white wine fan, but given that we were going to have mussels later, I made an exception. By the time the appetizers rolled out, we were already on bottle number two; I’m not sure if that’s a testament of the service time, which I thought was excellent considering the place was crawling with patrons, but more of our thirstiness and eagerness to have a good time.

We decided to order a bunch of appetizers and share mussels for the entrée. The French Onion Soup Gratinée was delicious, though, I’ve had better ones. The Warm Goat Cheese Tart was absolutely incredible. There’s something about goat cheese that makes it a holy-union-good companion with tossed salad, especially when it is accompanied by crispy pancetta and balsamic vinaigrette. The Home Made Foie Gras au Torchon was so good that Shakespeare would be inspired to write a sonnet trumpeting its greatness. The sautéed dry plum figs reduction sauce that came with the foie gras was a nice touch, complimenting the dish superbly. The Masami “Kobe” Steak Tartare was incomparable; I don’t think I’ve ever had it better, and this includes Parisian bistros and restaurants. It was so good that I forgot that I have endangered myself eating the raw meat with each bite, especially since I get food poisoning quite easily.

The Steamed Mussels Marinieres, oh were they to die for! It’s pretty unassuming enough, with only shallots, garlic, parsley, and white wines as ingredients, but boy do they do the job well! It’s the kind of sauce where you throw all caution to the wind, abandon your Atkins attitude towards carbohydrates, and carelessly dip your bread in this heavenly concoction to your hearts’ content! Or sometimes, sip it by itself like soup! The possibilities are endless!

With its convenient location near the Forest Hill MUNI station, Chouchou’s is pretty accessible (though parking could be a bit of a problem, given their tiny parking lot). But what makes this place special for me is the overall atmosphere. It’s that kind of place where you feel like you’re home, almost like a “Cheers Bar” type vibe. It’s that kind of restaurant that you can come to in a weekly basis and make it “your” restaurant, with friendly faces to greet you. Chef Nick was very accommodating, and not just to us, but to his other customers as well. He would check on us every so often, and every so often, he’d pour us some kir royale and we’d be chin-chin!-ing to the wonders that is Paris, after which, he’d give you a bear hug that makes you wonder where the bitchy French stereotypes come from. Aya, the bartender, was a delightfully insightful young woman; she tolerated my feeble attempts at speaking French, and we had that living-in-the- seizième-arrondissement experience in common. Anatoliy, our Bulgarian server, was an excellent source of entertainment; we especially liked how he turned making cappuccinos into an artform. They seemed to be allergic to the notion of empty wine glasses, so we definitely got our share of whites and reds, champagnes and dessert wines. My share of the dinner came out to be around $55 with tax and tip, which is not too bad, considering the amount of food and wine we had throughout the night. I’m definitely coming back here for more!

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PS: Last week’s column was my April Fools’ edition. So, for the record, I’m NOT engaged, nor did I get swept off my feet by an Italian hottie and his irresistibly romantic yet cheesy proposal at the cliffs at sunset. To those who were tearing up and filled with happiness, I’m glad that there’s still hopelessly romantics out there as my friends, and for those who saw through it, well, at least you have two things going for you: an eye for detail and a dose of cynicism.

Episdode Nineteen: Single no more! Engaged in the City!

Just like Carrie, I thought I’d stay single forever. But I guess every man has his match.

I met Antoni while I was at Le Six Seven in Paris a few months ago while I was there for New Years. I was hanging out with my crew, and he was hanging out with his, and immediately, he stood out from the rest of his Italian mobster posse. Not necessarily because of his looks (though he’s a definite looker), but because of his shirt; it read “Fiscally Republican, Socially Democrat, Sexually Liberal”. I thought, “Hmm… an interesting fella, I gotta talk to that guy.” Like I’ve said before, my foreign language skills (not to mention my bravura) increases exponentially while in the liquored-up stage, and so we did, for what felt like hours. I learned that his name is Antoni Diamante, he’s 24, and he’s an Italian student studying architecture from Rome in Paris for the holidays. We danced a bit, he introduced me to his friends, and I did likewise. He asked if I wanted to go with him to Le Milliardaire, an afterhours club nearby, but I told him that I was with my friends, and I couldn’t leave them (Kat and Frances know very little French). I gave him my French number, and I told him we could have lunch the next day.

I didn’t expect him to call, but around 11am the next morning, he sent me a text, inviting me out to a late lunch at L’Ambassade d’Auvergne in the Marais. I said yes, figuring it was safe enough. Dinner is definitely a date and breakfast is definitely just breakfast, but lunch? Now, that’s up for debate.

One of the millions of things Parisians do best is eating; they’ve got it down to a science. Aperatifs, then salads, cheese, appetizer, entrée, dessert, more cheese, and bottles and bottles of wine; before you know it, you’ve spent four hours in a restaurant. In those four hours, Antoni and I basically talked about everything under the sun. One of the things that I like about him is that I could talk to him about virtually anything, from the inane to the intense, and every shade in between. He’s funny to boot. Not the beer-bong-slapstick-comedy kind of funny, but more of the I-read-a-lot -funny variety. Rule Broken # 1: No relationships with people I’ve met in clubs/bars.

For the next few days, we played tourists in Paris together until Kat, Frances, and I left for Prague. Antoni and I kept in contact, mostly emails, and on some occasions, video chat, but I thought nothing of it. After all, I don’t do long distance relationships.

Then came spring break; I think it all came too fast, my head is still adjusting. He had mentioned a couple of times that he wanted to visit California; he even asked for my address, but I brushed it off aside, thinking that he’s not really going to come. To my surprise, when I got home, he was sitting in my couch next to my mom and my nephews and nieces. I couldn’t believe it at first, but I guess he was the surprise that my mother was talking about; I thought it was my auntie from Vancouver whom I haven’t seen in awhile that’s visiting.

We spent the next few days together. I took him around my favorite spots in San Diego: South Carlsbad Beach. SeaWorld (and of course, the requisite beer pairing sessions courtesy of Anheuser-Busch). La Jolla Cliffs. Blacks Beach in La Jolla. Mount Soledad. Mission Beach/Ocean Beach. San Ysidro Outlet Mall.

On Thursday, while we were enjoying the sunset at the cliffs, out of nowhere, he dropped in one knee (I know, how traditional of him), revealed this beautiful bracelet (because he knows I’m not a big fan of rings), asked for my hand and said “I’m yours forever, will you be mine?”

I’ve learned from some people that there’s no preparing anyone for “the moment”, but when it happens, you’ll know. And in this instance, I did. Rule Broken #2: No long-distance relationships.

Luckily, Prop 8 didn’t pass, and so we can get married. He’s still has a few months before finishing his degree in architecture, and I still have a couple of years until I’m finished, so we’re in no rush. He’s trying to get a job out here in California, but with the way the economy’s tanking like Arizona’s performance against Louisville on the Sweet Sixteen this year, prospects are a bit gloomy.

Mark Anthony Diamante. That has a good ring to it.