1550 kinds of yummy

Caveat emptor: I'm not a professional gastronomist or even a seasoned amateur like this lady or this gent. And yes, I'm still a vegetarian. Even so, I feel this burning need to review the amazing meal I got lucky enough to eat recently at 1550 Hyde, a classy neighborhood spot in San Francisco that's now at the top of my semi-splurge list.

Every great dinner starts with great company, of course, so hats off to the ever entertaining A. Nomad and Miss C. Mobtown, who gets extra credit for wearing her new spring shoes in the pouring rain. If you believe hard enough, girl, it'll come sooner.

On to the food. After deciding to pass on their tempting prix fixe menu (including a seasonal maple tart) and California wine flight, I started with the arugula salad with Meyer lemon vinaigrette, pine nuts, and shaved pecorino—just the fresh taste I needed after braving the apocalyptic weather. A little salty, but I'm pretty sure that's more the fault of my palate than the dish. The other ladies started with the green garlic soup and praised it to the skies.

There was only one vegetarian entrée (and a pasta that could probably have been tailored), but I can't really argue with green garlic polenta with snap peas, asparagus, and parmesan. It was light, simple, flavorful, delicious. Wouldn't change a thing. A. had the hangar steak with cranberry compote (after rejecting the heritage red wattle pork shoulder because "certain words just don't make you want to eat something"), and C. had a gently prepared kind of fish whose name escapes me right now. RIP, anonymous fishie. It was a beautiful way to go.

C. suggested we might be too full for dessert—until we saw the cheese menu. They had an Abbaye de Belloc that would have been criminal to skip. Then our cheerful waiter made a lucky error on the ordering machine, and we wound up with a sampler plate of all three cheeses: Humboldt Fog, the Abbaye, and potatoes in...um...a melty thing. Raclette? [Dilettante food writer slaps own wrist.] Whatever it was, we ate it all up until there was none left.

And we drank wine. Left the choice to C. and her Italian roots this time—since she also picked the restaurant for us, clever boots—but I can vouch that the California and French lists looked equally good. Three cheers for the 2002 Rosso di Montalcino "La Palazzetta." A. had the California flight, but I couldn't read over her shoulder from across the table, so she'll have to enlighten you on that another time.

A picture of this feast should go next to the word "feast" in the dictionary, and it didn't even come close to bankrupting us. In the BCB's book, it gets a bucket of stars.