The Continuing Adventures of The Dining Out Amateur: Another Mission In The Mission

You might be surprised, but sometimes life gets a bit busy, too busy to check out new restaurants. Thus, the relative dearth of entries on this blog, particularly regarding new restaurants and my reaction to them. I even considered writing about eating pizza at Chuck E. Cheese in Sacramento for my future nephew-by-marriage's birthday, animatronic rodents and all. (Nephew-by-marriage seems awkward. Nephew-in-law? Bonus nephew? Mascot?)

This is not to say we haven't eaten. That's just not plausible. For one thing, even Chuck E. Cheese pizza can technically be considered food. But we have tended to rely on the standard choices recently, good as they are.

So yes, we've cooked, but we haven't dined out as much. But there are some days when enough is enough and you just have to get out and go to Rosamunde for gourmet sausage and delicious beer. And then when you find that Rosamunde is packed to the gills, you have to find a new place to eat.

La Traviata

We were on Mission Street, between the Bart Station at 24th Street and 25th Street, trying to decide where to eat. We talked about walking around to Valencia to Pi Bar, but we knew that might be crowded too. We settled on choosing between Italian and Mexican, and that seemed to present an obvious choice.

I've walked past La Traviata on Mission Street almost every day on my way home from work. Being a fan of Italian food--pasta and wine and garlic bread? Who, other than my crazy friend Jeff, wouldn't love it?--I've always been tempted by it. It has a small, modest entryway, a recessed alcove with a door oriented perpendicularly to the street, and a friendly, well-used wooden sign. It seemed a welcome prospect.

Or not. Yelp's review, which seemed favorable, assured us it was open at 5:30. The glowing red open sign was another good indication.

The locked door, however, was not so favorable. No signs in the window indicating closed for a private party. No sign of life when I tugged on the door. There was a small doorbell next to it. Maybe they wanted us to ring the doorbell, which seems paranoid. In any case, we decided to move on. If they didn't want our money, we didn't want their food.

I'm sure there was a reasonable explanation. But deny me Italian food and you've earned my enmity; there is so much good Italian food in this city, I feel like I have no reason to try La Traviata again.

So instead, we strolled down to 23rd and around the corner to the Velvet Cantina at Bartlett.

I had a couple doubts at first. The layout of the place, two separate, darkish rooms connected by a narrow hall, threatened to feel oppressive.

But two words: watermelon margaritas. Yeah. Words can't do justice.

The fish tacos were also quite satisfying, and I actually liked the rice and beans even more. It also seemed to avoid being too crowded; maybe because it was slightly off the beaten path. I guess writing about it could be risky, because now other people might be there when I want to go.

Yes, on that thought, I should tell you that I totally made up the Velvet Cantina. It doesn't actually exist. Forget I mentioned it.