Each menu item is like a Renaissance whirly-gig of different elements, many of which involve multiple steps to prepare. Mr. Swischuk, who after becoming stifled by the stale fart air of academia entered the California Culinary Academy (graduating in 2008), credits his long years in the field of architecture to his approach to building a sandwich.

Without – one assumes – papal consent, artists in two Mexico City neighborhoods have created and venerated their very own patron saint, Santa Mari de Juaricua, protectress against gentrification. Santa Maria de Ribera and Juarez are two adjoining neighborhoods in CDMX which have been hit hard in recent years by

I’ve got some awesome news! We received a grant from the Civic Joy Fund to put out a literary magazine celebrating SF and acting to counter the stupid “Doom Loop” narrative. It’s a gift to the people of San Francisco. And after months of working on this project it’s now available

San Francisco belongs to no one and everyone. There have been thousands of would-be claimants but she eventually wriggles out of every one of their grasps.

Western Addition (SF) – Two Bartenders pit two beloved bars against one another using a set of aesthetic and practical criteria

Highway 101 blows a continual load of cars onto a zone of central San Francisco difficult to define. Not the Mission, not QUITE the Castro, nor Hayes Valley (although realtors would disagree with that), and not precisely the newly-minted “Mid-Market” either, it’s an odd knot of sinew connecting a variety

Off Menu Screed: Two distinct camps: those who champion the Mission Burrito and them who wave the flag for the San Diego version

Restaurants are in a perpetual state of flux. A dishwasher at Gracias Madre is caught smuggling quinoa back to the Bolivian farmers who originally produced it and is shown his walking papers; a pastry chef and assistant manager at Gary Danko, nude except for a couple of heavy parkas, are interrupted in the walk-in freezer mid-coitus, white powder rimming their quivering nostrils.

The Richmond. Utter that small collection of phonemes three times in a row a la Beetlejuice and you might suddenly find yourself clad in a thick, grey knit sweater, gazing thoughtfully over the thick foaming head of a pint of stout from a plush barstool at flocks of angry asian women fighting over dragon fruit and flip-flops on the sidewalk outside