We had a mostly mild summer in the Bay Area, to the point where I felt a pang about wearing a cardigan on work calls while other areas grappled with searing heat. Several weeks had a local high of 72°F. Mid-July, we donned puffer jackets for outdoor dining in San Francisco.
Then the sun began beating down and our air conditioner rumbled to life. I craved something green and cool.
Read MoreI was a weird little kid, as anyone who knew me growing up could tell you. For my birthday, the biggest treat was going to a restaurant downtown, now long gone, and having the French onion soup.
Carbur’s was all dark wood and 1900s ephemera. Tabletops featured old newspaper drawings of ladies with Edwardian hair and dapper men riding penny farthings. For a PBS Mystery-obsessed tween, the place was bliss. At cake time, the servers brought it over while playing assorted musical instruments.
But the best part was when the small brown earthenware pot covered in a thick crust of melted cheese arrived.
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