Sugarbaker's Cafe & Bakery.

Sigh.

That new shopping-center-slash-apartment-complex, recently opened between the Quarry and the big hole in the ground where the quarry used to be, is becoming somewhat irksome. First it blocks our view of the big hole, its rim now nicely adorned with gi-normous McMansions built from parts ordered out of a catalogue; then it ramps up the traffic on a section of road already infested with more than its share of amateur drivers. Now ... now it's clogging up with pretentious restaurants in need of sampling by this particular foodie. 

Ah, well: it must be done, and I have done it.

I resisted the idea of going to Sugarbaker's. Any restaurant that announces its presence with an out-of-work actor waving a giant placard on a street corner, in the manner of a fast-tax-refund shop, surely doesn't warrant serious attention, does it? Yes, it does, and it got it.

In some ways, Sugarbaker's is exactly what I expected it to be: yet another hangout for the '09-er set, dyed-blonde creatures who drive around in late-model luxury-model cars and SUV's, and consider part-time real estate to be a career. If we're lucky, it'll remain fashionable with that crowd long enough to get established, so the rest of us can drift in at leisure and sample the goods, and the goodies.* For now, though, it's probably a good place to meet successful women of a certain age, if you're into that sort of thing. (Me, I'm not: I already have a trophy wife, even though she dresses funny and will unthinkingly eat the lettuce garnish from her chicken salad.) All I know is that when my lunch partner and I walked in, the testosterone level in the place shot up from zero to ... well, whatever we were carrying with us. Probably not impressive, but certainly more than zero.

What does that mean?

Sugarbaker's is light food and baked goods. Having recently resolved yet again to get my beach-body out before heading to the beach in 2011, I opted not to have any of the baked goods; though I think I might have gained a pound just looking at them in the case. Some day, when I'm thin, or when I've stopped pretending I will ever actually be thin, I will want to go back and trawl through that selection like a pig rooting out truffles; but for now I'm being good. I had just a sandwich, and water, and my friend and I traded sandwich halves, so I got to sample two.

I ordered the chipotle chicken sandwich. A suspiciously plump chicken breast on deliciously fresh foccacia bread, with melted cheese and all the appropriate trimmings, and a luscious, though messy, chipotle sauce. On the side were some sliced veggies and a fruit cup with a little yogurt dressing. This yogurt dressing was so good, it almost overshadowed the sandwich, at least in memory.  But not quite. I restrained myself from licking the ramekin it came in, and just scraped it with the last surviving chunk of melon.

If I were evaluating the restaurant solely on my own order, I'd've given it another half a chile pepper. But I traded half of my succulent chipotle chicken sandwich for ... pimento cheese.

Honestly, do they still make this stuff? It must be made in-house. It's nothing like the revolting processed dreck they used to fill future juice glasses with, back in the '60s, but there's a lot of leeway between "not dreck" and "cuisine." The burst of nostalgia, having prompted my friend to order this sandwich, subsided, leaving us to eat it, and to contemplate Jacqueline Kennedy eating finger sandwiches spread with similar substances during Jack's second Senate campaign. It's probably been that long since pimento cheese was considered fashionable enough for the '09 zip code. 

Well, the pimento cheese wasn't really so bad: fashion aside, the pimento cheese qua pimento cheese was tangy and nicely textured.  Surprising to find it on a menu in that part of town, more surprising (and a little bit embarrassing) to actually like it. It's just that, however tangy and nicely textured it was, it was still pimento cheese. And I can't get those damn juice-glasses out of my head.

*and yes, I'm talking about the food. 

Perfect Choice for a Fine Afternoon: La Fogata

What does that mean?

When I look at the ratings I assign to La Fogata, I wonder why it isn't my favourite Mexican restaurant in town.

I think La Fogata must have the most pleasant patio dining in town. Seated in a small courtyard, seven tables around a central fountain, with flowering plants growing all around in such profusion as to make it seem that those seven tables are the entire restaurant (they aren't, not even close), we could really appreciate one of those fine September afternoons that so quickly make up for summer in this subtropical desert. 

We started with shelf margaritas, which were large and cold and tangy. White and purple orchids in each were a slightly frou-frou touch that emphasized the bahia atmosphere --- I felt at times like I was in Guanajuato or San Miguel de Allende ---  without seeming just too girly. The drinks were potent and tart, and if they never make anyone's Ten Best list, still they serve their purpose well. The chips were reasonably fresh for the down-slope from the lunch rush, but they could easily have been a little better. The salsa wasn't the tomato-based traditional salsa that I generally prefer,  but was roasted dark and spicy and good. The sparrows like it, too: one threw a small bit of tortilla chip into our bowl and waited while I fished it out, then pounced on it like a cat on a cockroach. (Ooh, I maybe shouldn't mention cockroaches, even in passing, when favourably reviewing a restaurant. Oh, well, too late.) And the tortillas were fresh from the grill, hot and soft and yummy.

My lunch was chile relleno, served with rice and charro beans (substituted for the frijoles refritos that are normally served with the dish). It was lightly fried in a good batter, generously stuffed with beef, but the mixture seemed to lack something: it was all beef and seasoning, and while some people might actually prefer to have just meat in their chile relleno, I like the mixture of meat and veggies that I think of as customary in the dish. It wasn't until I looked up their on-line menu while writing this that I realized I hadn't gotten the guacamole that was supposed to come with the plate; but since I don't much like guacamole anyway, and would have pawned it off on my tablemate, I'm not going to count off for that ... though I will mention it.

My lunch partner had fajitas rancheras. He didn't say much about it, but considering how quickly it disappeared, leaving nothing but a small puddle of juice on his plate, I guess he liked it just fine. 

As revenge for him not offering me a taste of his dish (and since he was paying for lunch) I tried the pastel de tres leches, which was served in an elegant presentation with small designs of chocolate sauce around the plate and a mutilated strawberry on top (I'm too snobbish about strawberries to eat any that don't come from my grandfather's farm), and it was sooooooooo good. Just writing about it makes me think maybe I'll go back for another piece. But better not. Still, it will incline me to think of La Fogata when lunch rolls around. As will good weather.

So: overall, the food at La Fogata is good, but there are at least 37 Mexican restaurants in San Antonio with better. The prices are reasonable, and when you compare them to the prices at those other 37 restaurants, they seem better than average; hence the three-chile rating. What really sets La Fogata apart from its competitiion is the excellent service --- in our case, provided by Xavier --- that is attentive, courteous and prompt (and thorough, except for the guacamole issue) but not at all overbearing; and, of course, that marvellous patio. This is the time of year to enjoy La Fogata.

Back to the Purple Garlic

I wrote enthusiastically about Cerroni's Purple Garlic when it returned to its original location on Austin Highway last year. I've become something of a regular there (again), because it really is excellent, outstanding, superior, fantastic pizza. I could go on and on about that, but there's more to a restaurant, and more to a dining experience, than just the main course, and I think I've made that point already.

Unfortunately, the other things that go into making a pleasant experience are somewhat lacking.

When you get to the Purple Garlic, you're escorted to a table, given menus, and then expected to go to the counter to place your order ... usually. This time, though, we were greeted by a somewhat unenthusiastic kid of about high-school age, who asked us if we wanted menus. We said we did, so he handed them to us and waved vaguely about the room, indicating, we surmised, that we could sit wherever the hell we wanted, he didn't care. We chose a place, examined the menu, and made our choices. I went to the register and placed an order for two salads, a pizza, and two glasses of wine. I paid the bill, gathered up the wine, which had been poured and left sitting on an adjacent counter, and went to my table.

About twenty minutes later, I remarked that, for the second time in a row, the salads were taking forever to arrive. Last time we went, about a month ago, the salads arrived just before the pizza. This time, they seemed to have been missed altogether. We mentioned it to the waitress, another disinterested high school student, who said she would check on them.

They duly arrived a couple of minutes later. They were not worth waiting for. I've given up on complaining about the lost art of salad preparation. Apparently, culinary schools no longer teach that nothing in a salad should be so big that a lady has to open her mouth to an ungracious width; and nothing in a salad should have to be cut by the customer. Tomato slices, onion, cucumber, and especially lettuce leaves should be reduced to an unobtrusive size before serving.

What does that mean?

Well, like I say, that sort of graciousness is out of fashion. But these salads consisted mainly of whole lettuce leaves, with a single (intact) slice of tomato, a single (similarly intact) slice of red onion, a large crouton, and a pepperoncini. The whole thing was bland, in addition to being gauche. And the salad dressing (Italian, in my case) added nothing. 

The place is generally pleasant, especially in fine weather with its large outside seating area, hidden from Austin Highway by shrubbery; in August, of course, there's no way I'm sitting outside when there's air conditioning to be had. But we were there on a Saturday night, and at the Purple Garlic, kids eat free on Saturdays (and Wednesdays). 

This isn't really a bad thing, at least not for me. I'm at the age where a flock of moderately well-behaved infants and toddlers is a charming sight, and the common refrain of "Mommy, I have to poop" brings only a smile and a fond memory. But I can see where it'd be unpleasant for, say, a twentysomething out on a date. Just be forewarned: if that's you, go on a Friday night.

But do go. The pizza really, really is first-rate, good enough to warrant the four-and-a half chiles rating. Just don't get a salad.