RAVE - The Fry Chronicles: An Autobiography

Even though many consider him to be an arrogant smart-ass - a description he readily admits as being accurate - I think Stephen Fry is a uniquely talented writer, comic and actor.

OK, so he probably wouldn't be my ideal travel companion for an around-the-world cruise, but that doesn't detract one bit from the way he writes. 

This autobiography is downright funny, and written by a person with an exhilarating command of English. Someone undoubtedly smart enough to explain away his shortcomings, but someone that instead would rather say it straight. Funny as hell, but straight nonetheless.

Fry's writing is such that you often find yourself reading a sentence a few times, either to work out what on earth the words meant, or simply because they sounded so good.

And scattered liberally through this libertarian's autobiography are plenty of insights into his friendships with actors and producers, managers and impresarios. 

And what a delightfully weird bunch they mostly are.

RAVE - Chimpanzee

Not just any old Chimpanzee, but a new documentary film co-directed by the guy who directed the BBC's Blue Planet. 

It's the story of a chimpanzee troupe in the jungle of The Ivory Coast, and focuses primarily on the life of Oscar, a baby chimp who .... ahhh, who am I kidding. It's a great film for the kids, and not a complete waste of time if you've got to sit there a watch it with the little animals. 

I mean, it's not a complete waste of time if you've got to sit there and watch the little animals with your kids.

REVIEW - Think Like A Man

A group of predominantly African American guys meet regularly to play basketball and hang out drinking beer in a bar. They talk about relationships.

Meanwhile, the four main girls meet up regularly to complain how they're not being fulfilled by those same relationships. They agree to put into action a series of tactics advocated by the author of Think Like a Man, Act Like a Woman, an Opra-approved piece. Those tactics range from forcing their men to answer questions about their short-term and long-term life goals, to refusing to give it up to those men until ninety days of abstinence and testing have gone by.

Bored? Well, I was in danger of being so, the main reason being this was all too predictable and well-trodden territory.

It was slightly better then tedious though, saved by just enough humor and just the right amount of feel goodness in each couples progression along that well-trodden path to happiness.

Alright, it was trite and mainstream. But the ladies will love it.

REVIEW - Drive

Much as I want to, I can't bring myself to give this a RAVE. It wasn't a movie for fans of car chases. In that respect, it was a bit like having a film called Bullfighter, dealing with the private life of a matador, completely outside of the bull ring. 

In this film, Ryan Gosling plays a film stunt driver - of which you see a scant 5 seconds of him in action - who has a day job as an auto mechanic and a night job driving for criminals.

His all-too-slow private life sees him hook up with a neighbor who's husband is soon to get out of prison. When he does, Gosling agrees to drive him on one last job.

Needless to say, that job goes pear-shaped and much messy killing ensues.

But none of it manages to pull the characters or the film up by their boot straps, and the overriding feeling your left with is one of disappointment.

REVIEW - Young Adult

Definitely one for the inflight movie watcher, and as I had 14 hours of air travel yesterday, I duly watched more than my share of slightly dull tiny screen fodder.

This was one of them: Charlize Theron plays an ex-high school hottie - now an alcoholic divorcée who's writing a soon to be canceled young adult fiction series. In a desperate move to make something happen in her slowing-to-a-stop life, she returns to her childhood home in Minnesota. There she embarks on a plan to win back her former sweetheart, played by Patrick Wilson. The fact that he's now married with a baby doesn't dissuade her. Along the way, she forms a bond with Patton Oswalt, another former classmate, who has been left disabled by a beating he took at school from a bunch of jocks.

It wasn't a complete waste of time. Well, it was for Charlize Theron, as she fails to win Wilson away from this married suburban bliss. But for me, it was better than straining my eyes to read when I should have been sleeping, and straining my backside to stay comfortable in coach.

RAVE - Tiggis, Preston

Just to show what a consummate global traveler I am, I spent last week feeling like I was submerged under water in Preston, UK.

When ducks want to show just how waterproof their feathers are, they go to Preston.

When the BBC weather presenters want to illustrate how wet it's going to be next weekend, they express it in Prestons, as in "there are going to be thunderstorms all over the north of England this coming weekend, with 4 inches of Prestons on average across the region".

Despite that, I had a fabulous time visiting my family, who live around Preston and nearby - equally rainy - Morecambe.

One of those rare evenings we did not spend camped out in the Shawes Arms, we dined out at Tiggis, an Italian restaurant handily placed near the Saturday night haunts of downtown Preston.

Tempted as I am to play down this eaterie for its Italian-with-a-Lancashire-lilt - and goodness knows my "little" brother is first in line when there's accent bashing taking place - that would only push aside the excellent flavors and dishes on offer.

Lawrence began with the perennial Funghi All'Aglio - or Garlic Mushrooms Lorenzo as they're better known - while Beverley and I had the Bruschetta and Bocconcini di Pollo respectively. With those dispatched, we tucked into the Bistecca Diana - another of Lawrence's regular and reliable selections, while his missus had the Misto di Carne - a meat lover's paradise - and I had the Porchetta - roasted suckling pig with a garlic, rosemary and wine sauce.

It would be crude to say it was all washed down with a fine Montepulciano D'Abruzzo, so take that as read.

All in all, aside from hanging out with Lawrence and Beverley at the aforementioned Shawes Arms, there couldn't have been a better way to spend the evening.

RAVE - 25 Lusk

This is an unattractive name, although it is at number 25 Lusk Street, so there should be no problem remembering where the place is - on a little street not far from the ball park, but with valet parking that means you're never encumbered by its proximity.

Once inside the restaurant, you're wafted into a loft-like space oozing style and charm.

We were wafted and oozed last night, and found the team has softened its sauce-heavy style. The sauces are still there, on most dishes, but they're not as in-your-face as I remember from the last time we visited.

After "eating" my cocktail at the bar - a Smoking Jacket for the hard core martini drinker, comprising bloom gin, smoked bacon salt, vermouth, olive juice, and smoked olives - we went upstairs to the cool dining room and started with the Gnocchi (which was crisply fresh, but not necessarily like your Italian grandmother would make), the Octopus Salad (which surprised our friend by consisting of a whole tentacle), and the Pork Belly (always reliable, always good). Then the ladies had Arctic Char (to my mind, a lump of unappealing fish, but which my wife scoffed appreciatively) and the Ahi Tuna (more appealing lumps of rare fish, but equally appreciated by our friend), while I thoroughly enjoyed the Pork Loin.

Various desserts were forced on us, so without an ounce of restraint we found space for Strawberry Lasagne and a trio of small desserts that I can't remember the details of. Suffice it to say they were richly sweet, and no doubt very bad for us.

As usual, we ate the whole lot with each of us muttering about diets.

Another night out in the city. Beware.

RANT - Transit

I'm not really sure why this one's called Transit.

It's basically a "family camping trip meets gang of murderous thieves on the run" kind of movie, of the "typically low budget and not too taxing on the brain" variety.

Jim Caviezel was a weird pick as Jesus, in Passion of the Christ. We know that now, because he's been in nothing but rubbish since that film. And this is just one part of that collection of trash. 

He plays the father taking his wife and kids on a camping trip, only to bump into a quartet running from the law after robbing an armored truck in Baton Rouge.

It's one of those lame films where every car chase shows shots of the car's speedometer as the needle spurts from 60 to 90, and as the car accelerates further, again shows the needle still heading toward 90.

The location adds the unfulfilled threat of swamps ridden with alligators and inbred locals, although following through on those threats would have meant the filmmakers simply added still more cliches.

REVIEW - Bourne Legacy

I'm a big fan of the earlier Bourne films, but if they'd all been like this one, my view would almost certainly be different.

That's not to say this one was bad. It just wasn't a great film. It rattled along at a decent pace, but never seemed to break out into a real nail-biter.

There was plenty of frenetic activity, but it all seemed a little pointless. That was, until half way through the film, when Jeremy Renner - who plays Aaron Cross, Bourne's replacement from now on - said that "they" - presumably the CIA - were now trying to eliminate everything and everyone who had anything to do with Treadstone, the not-too-secret operation that permeated the earlier films.

Anyhow, back to the activities. They were all very Bourne-esque - an adjective that evokes much hand to hand combat armed only with a deadly newspaper. 

But Jenner ain't no Matt Damon - at least he hasn't warmed on me yet. He'll have plenty of opportunity to do that in future, seeing as the ending so clearly set the story up for Bourne, The Next Chapter. Although quite how long they can go on using Robert Ludlum to "inspire" their writers, and the Bourne name to sell tickets, remains to be seen.

And a final word about Stacy Keach and Abert Finney. They should both be replaced by computer animations that look and sound like they used to, 20 years ago. Right now, their real selves are too bloated and wheezy to appear live, in any movie, let alone an action one.

RAVE - Boxing Room

We went early - i.e an hour before our reservation - to have a cocktail or two at the bar before dinner. The bar is fine, but has no liquor license, so no cocktails. So we had a bottle of wine and looked around at the not-too-convincing decor, an attempt to recreate the atmosphere of its 100-year old forbear, a denim and shirt factory (where they boxed their products, hence the name). Boxing Room looks closer to its immediate predecessor in that space, namely The Cake Factory.

Nevertheless, we had the interesting - and that's not a euphemism for "lousy" - fried alligator appetizer. Now, to call alligator - fried, raw, or curried for that matter - "appetizing" might sound like we starved for ten days before stepping in there. But surprise, surprise, it was tasty in its spicy sauce, and not at all alligator-ish. Mrs Page thought it tasted like fishy chicken, but as you know, I'm not exactly a fish fan and therefore would have detected any fishy taste.

After that enjoyable spell at the bar, we switched to our table and had the cochon du lait (slow roasted pork belly), with turnips, purple potato, and kale, and the duck and sausage jambalya, replete with crispy duck confit, andouille sausage, and brown rice.

I loved my jambalya, even though the duck wasn't the least bit crispy, while my lover had the "less successful" pork.

To cap the evening off, we retired close to home at Serpentine, where we had (basically, I attempted to get a spoon into the shared bowl of) the strawberry and blackcurrant crumble, while I glugged a whisky smash.

Basically, I drove halfway across the city, and we ate our way around the world. Nice.

RAVE- Bar Agricole

I know I've posted applause for Bar Agricole before, but so close after visiting Central Kitchen and Commonwealth - both of whom vie for Bar Agricole's position atop the hip tree - it's worth comparing the three.

Bar Agricole undoubtedly has the best bar scene, the best cocktails and the best cocktail-making bartenders.

It also has the wider seasonal appeal, with its inside and outside dining areas.

Service-wise, it's a tougher choice. Central Kitchen is newest. I don't know whether that lends the place its "eager beaver" demeanor when it comes to explaining how each dish is comprised and made. With Commonwealth it looked like despite serving their customers, the staff had a lot of time to stand around and chat with each other, spend an age drying a few glasses, and basically not occupy themselves with making things zing. Bar Agricole has always offered great service, from valet parking, bar and table. Although - and this has nothing to do with service - the place felt a little quieter than its normal Saturday night rowdiest. I wonder if San Francisco is getting too used to what this restaurant has to offer.

Considering the food, it's equal first for Central Kitchen and Bar Agricole, with the caveat that we've only been once to Central Kitchen compared with five or six times to BA, so further visits are required to the former. It's a tough job, but ....

REVIEW - Commonwealth

Well, this place gets a big "Meh" from Mr & Mrs Page.

Michael Bauer - San Francisco's self-appointed official restaurant critic - can blow his glowing review of Commonwealth out of his Bauer-hole. Heaven knows what he saw and tasted that warranted glowing praise for this overblown and ordinary place.

I should have recognized hyperbole when I read it first at their web site. The self-important "questions and answers" section posed altogether pointless questions, with out of date answers. What turned out to be a series of trumpets blown by the restaurant owners just led to a big let-down when we sat there waiting to order our meal. The decor was bland - so much for the "Aztec art work", the "disco ball", and the "Chinese posters in the restrooms". They were either dull, or non-existent.

"But what about the food?" I  hear you clamor. What about the food indeed? It was fussy but poor. Complex but shallow. There was great attention paid to the arranging of miniscule portions of food; the size and taste of which did not justify their too-high-for-what-they-served prices.

We both had the tasting menu, which gave us ample chance to experience what Commonwealth had to offer.

The shishito peppers, goat cheese mouse, and rose petals made for a tasty appetizer, as did the grilled rabbit sausage, with peach mostarda. So far so good. 

But then the radishes, fromage blanc, lovage, ancient grains, parslane, cucumber, almond, and black olive had, as quipped Mrs P, a list of ingredients that took longer to read than the dish took to eat, yet still looked "like a lettuce cut up and arranged all over the plate".

I had the cherry tomatoes, idiazabal cheese, shelling beans, smoked crostini, and tomato consomme, which tasted fine, but again lacked enough volume to be described as a course.

Next, madame had the dayboat scallop, popcorn purée, hearts of palm, and yuzu kosho emulsion which, being a single scallop, looked lonesome on the plate, and while it was cooked and tasted perfect, really could have done with something to accompany it.

Then she had the pork belly, salted and fresh plum, wheat berry, romano bean, radish, and cilantro which was good, but not as good as that served at Redd, or RN74 for example.

We sampled the brandade stuffed squash blossoms, chilled artichoke cream, celery, and soft boiled egg, which was my favorite dish of the night, but then ruined it all by having the grilled wagyu beef, burnt eggplant, siracusan onions, haricot verts, horseradish, and kinome, which was extremely disappointing.

Commonwealth crows on its web site that it donates ten dollars from each of its tasting menus to local non-profits. On last night's performance we, the customers, were clearly making that donation.