My previous posts on San Francisco omitted other things, like the cranberry-orange brioche french toast at Mama's, the Filbert Steps, Chow, the perils of Yellow Taxi, and so on.

And this is to say nothing of things omitted because we didn't even go there-- sushi, Taqueria Castillito, the Ferry Plaza market on a Saturday instead of a Tuesday, a day-trip to Marin County, etc. My itineraries are always more full in theory than in practice. But at the very least, I thought I should mention the french toast.

Yesterday (Wednesday) involved a series of errands around the city, many of them food-related. We went to Mama's up in North Beach for its famously yummy brunches. My salmon-caper-leek omelette was yummy, although it could have done with less salmon and more capers and leeks. (My girlfriend thought it should have been runnier, but for once I disagree; it was holding enough stuff that runniness would have just turned my plate into an incoherent mess.) The grilled red potatoes were also astounding.

From there, we worked to acquire provisions for lunch. In addition to our cheeses from the day before, we acquired focaccia from a store that sold nothing but focaccia-- just two oldish women in a small barren storefront bringing out pieces of bread from the back room and wrapping them in white paper. Parisians and New Yorkers would approve. We then proceeded to Lucca at 22nd and Valencia, home of the famous "spicy coppa" (or "hot coppa", as one regular customer before us called it) as well as some equally yummy hot salami. Both are fatty, pork-based lunch meats that have been living in spices for a long period of time. We got some for our picnic and I got more for my plane-ride today.

After a few more interludes (to buy shoes, Quicksilver, and a new summer hat) we caught a bus to the Golden Gate park where we were offered illicit foodstuffs while greedily devouring our picnic. The crescenza from the Cowgirl Creamery was a revelation. All of this took long enough that we never got to see the park's main attraction's-- the de Young museum and the bison.

In the morning, we made another stop at Tartine, where I finally found out what I had been missing by not having a morning bun. Yeasty, buttery dough glazed with oranges and fresh sugar. We got another one to take on the train to the airport.

The St. Louis airport was something of a culinary wasteland, and the B terminal didn't even have a coffee shop, but I am now safely ensconced in Indiana for the next few days eating my father's ever-delicious cooking.

"Normal" blogging, and a roundup of correspondence and the like, will resume shortly.