My wife headed off to a meeting, and I set out for breakfast. At 8:30, the sun was bright on the older buildings surrounding the Hilton, the air cool, crisp and clear, without a touch of wind. Getting up and out into the city this early was worth it: as I passed, a cook outside on break exclaimed "Man, what a
beautiful day."
I kept climbing the hills north to Canteen. It’s common advice to visit a popular and pricey restaurant at lunch to both find a seat and afford it, but this was the first time I’d seen that advice for breakfast. Canteen is adjacent to the Commodore Hotel, and almost certainly started life as the hotel coffee shop. It’s a small place: it holds maybe 20 people, tops, in four four-person booths and about a half-dozen counter seats. Along the booths, pine trim and single-shelf bookshelves are hung on a sea-green wall (the shelves
do have books). Behind the counter, spotless diner-like stainless steel predominates, with a row of clear glass, low-wattage light bulbs on long cords. The kitchen is here behind the counter, giving real intimacy to the event of dining here (particularly if you sit at the counter, as I did). The whole room (which can’t be more than 500 s.f.) seems compact but not crowded; but that might feel different with more than four customers and three staff.
I ordered juice, coffee, an omelet with toast (which I chose instead of home fries), and began an off-and-on conversation with the young accountant/ballet student who was hostess and waitress. For most of my time, I was the only customer, so between filling my coffee cup and readying the small trays of butter and jam for the upcoming brunch crowd, there was time to chat. In the background, two kitchen staff worked quietly and efficiently in the galley kitchen, combining their preparation for the rest of the day’s meals with making breakfast for me and the others who eventually arrived, including a young woman from London who, like me, had put this on her list of must-dos.
The omelet was simply the best I’ve had: thinly sliced asparagus, spinach, small mushrooms, and an occasional tomato to provide a burst of tanginess. The egg was a thin, flavorful wrapper, not dominating the dish and not fluffy. I spent an hour talking with the hostess, sipping coffee, and writing in my journal. I was anxious to return for dinner another night, but unfortunately, the place was closed the remainder of the week—the chef was off to Paris with his fiancé (without the staff, we joked).
It's the type of place that must have a regular clientele, and finally two people came in and jokingly ask for their ‘regular booth’. Headed east on Sutter, I mistook a young family of three for natives. After a block or so, they stopped to ask a doorman for directions. He shrugged; I stepped in to help, happy to send them back the other way to a new favorite.
From journal Back to the Bay