If
we have learned anything while consuming 180 Best Thing I Ever Ate
dishes (and even more cocktails), it is this: when you hit a wall from
exhaustion/fullness/tipsiness, there is only one solution -- get
yourself another alcoholic beverage, and stat.
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| It's Not Even Naptime Somewhere |
It is in this mindset that we weave through the San Francisco
Financial District on our way to Tadich Grill, home of Tyler Florence's
favorite OLD SCHOOL sand dab filets.
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| By the Looks of the Sign, This Place Is Even "Older" Than "School" |
Tadich Grill consists primarily of
one gigantic bar, which is obviously right up our alley. One portion
of the bar is designated just for drinkers, while the combination
drinkers/eaters can be found on the other side of a brass pole. For
obvious reasons, this is where we station ourselves.
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| Oh, How We Love to Drink Alone |
By this point in our afternoon, to say we're not thinking clearly
would be an understatement. Therefore, when we order our fourth
cocktails of the day (wine), and Ginger asks Vodka if she wants her to
move her glass closer for picture purposes, Vodka responds, "No, just
put it next."
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| Delirious, Party of 2 |
We turn our attention to the menu, where two glaring problems leap out at us:
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| Listen, Tadich -- We Spend Our LIVELIHOOD Splitting Dishes |
Before
we go any further or, you know, consult a member of the staff about
this, we are hostile. Considering that the restaurant is all but empty
at 4pm on a Thursday,
we figure we should be spared this additional charge, but if we are
not, "They'll be sorry on the star front!" (Note: no restaurant has
ever actually been "sorry on the star front," as nobody pays attention
to the star ratings of two perpetually-tipsy nitwits).
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| But Vodka's Mother Will Never Come Here! So THERE, Tadich Grill! |
Before we can actually order the sand dabs, Ginger comes up
with a "brilliant" plan: "If they say they're going to charge us to
split the food, you move to that side of the brass arch," she points to
the drink-only side of the bar, "and say you're just here for the
drinks. I'll slip you bites under the pole."
Needless to say, we are endlessly amused by our own schemes.
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| If Anyone Found Us As Funny As We Find Ourselves, We Could Really Go Places |
When
one of the many white-coat-clad waiters wanders back in our direction
(after we had turned him away no less than four times, what with all of
our cheapskate plotting and all), we order one plate of sand dabs,
boned ("Boned means without the bones, right?!" --questions straight out
of the School for the Gifted). The menus (which we notice they print
every day -- perhaps without all of this wasted paper, they wouldn't
need to charge extraneous plate-share fees to their patrons) remain in
front of us, and Ginger makes a great show of doing a dramatic reading
of the history of the restaurant, which is riddled with about four-times
as many adjectives as needed.
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| This Menu Should Be Submitted Into a Yet-To-Be-Created Restaurant Novella Contest |
Despite our rather stingy ordering practices, the Tadich Grill
staff deigns to place an enormous bread slices in front of us. When
Vodka reaches for it, Ginger starts mumbling incoherent phrases, mostly
consisting of "Oh no! Oh no!"
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| Not the Carbs! Not the Carbs! |
"I'm not eating it. I'm taking a picture," Vodka correctly
interprets Ginger's plea that we not stuff ourselves any more than
needed. When our sand dabs arrive, complete with a side of steamed
vegetables (bleh), thick-cut French fries (even more bleh), and an
overflowing bowl of tartar sauce (stellar), Vodka begins cutting into
the fish meat with abandon, assuming that the dish has been "boned" as
requested.
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| The Head Bone's Still Connected to the [BEAT] Tail Bone |
About halfway through her patty, she notices a Fred
Flintstone-worthy pile of fish bones stacked up on the side of Ginger's
plate.
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| Well, THIS Isn't Going to End Well |
So either Vodka got the side of the sand dab that Tadich Grill managed to
pull all of the bones from, or she is now assembling a fish skeleton in
her stomach.
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| Only Time Will Tell How Well This Scenario Will Play Out |
The sand dabs themselves taste like... well,
not much. The coating is fried very lightly (some would say "too
lightly"), and while the meat is flaky and pleasant in texture (except
for the prevalence of bones), it just doesn't have much flavor
whatsoever.
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| Was ANYTHING On This Plate Seasoned?! |
In order to combat this problem, we scoop a solid teaspoon
of tartar sauce onto each forkful, and proceed to essentially consume an
entire bowl of the condiment, instead of the delicate fish itself. And while this practice isn't so bad in our opinion, it does
reflect how unremarkable this fish really is. (Incidentally, while Ginger
laps up the tartar sauce, Vodka finds it a tad too chunky for her
taste. Maybe THAT'S where all of her sand dab's bones went).
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| Everything's Better with Condiments |
Maybe if Tadich Grill had managed to actually BONE (we would still
say "de-bone") the fish as requested, the dish would have hovered in 3 star territory, but as is, it is simply too much of a hassle for us to
label it "mediocre."
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| And Start Straining Your Tartar Sauce a Bit, Will You? |
To Tadich Grill's credit, they let us laze around on our bar stools for well over an hour and a half without rushing with
the check, and they do not end up charging us the extra $9.50 for
splitting the dish.
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| So They Essentially Saved Themselves a Little Talking-To With the Manager of the Place |
But those two positives do not negate the fact that they are
seemingly incapable of identifying and removing the inner skeleton of a
fish. And for that Tadich Grill, we are granting you only 2 stars, no
bones about it.
Tadich Grill's Sand Dab Filets: 2 stars
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