Mike and I went for hot pot last week, and, I’m sorry to say, didn’t talk about Barry Bonds at all. First everyone wanted to know about our earthquake, now all my non-San Francisco blog friends are e-mailing me to see how I’m weathering the legal troubles of some baseball player. I, um… hate to say this, but…
I don’t really care much about Barry Bonds. Or the sanctity of baseball statistics. Sorry.
I go to a very occasional Giants game, but mostly for the garlic fries and portabella sandwiches. Barry Bonds? I dunno, he seems nice enough. You’ll have to rely on other sources for this particular bit of San Francisco news.
Now, on the other hand, if you want to know about restaurants in San Francisco, I am chock full of opinions. Mike took us to a hot pot place on Clement, which means that basically there’s a raw meat bar (adorned with bok choy and a few other veggies). You stock up on beef slivers and chicken chunks and then return to your table, where you cook everything yourself on a hot plate and a boiling pot of water. Kind of like dorm life, actually: that perfect combination of slightly scary and really tasty that makes for a real dining experience.
And what do two stay-at-home dads on the town talk about on their man-dates? Oh, you know, manly stuff: preschools, tantrums, playgrounds, that kind of thing. Only, sorry to say, not Barry Bonds.