Loco Moco in San Bruno

The DHGS loco moco (Yelp photo)

The basic loco moco --rice, burger patty, gravy, and fried eggs--is a simple dish that's on the menu of nearly every Island restaurant, from plate lunch take-out to fancy hotel dining rooms. A good loco moco is distinguished by quality ingredients and a rich, seasoned brown gravy, and we had not found one in the Bay Area until today.

The Diamond Head General Store is a small Hawaiian-themed store and restaurant on El Camino Real in San Bruno, several blocks south of San Bruno Avenue.

The shelves were stocked with snacks and foods (for example, Spam) that are favorites with the people back home. We bought a few items, but the main reason we were there was to order from the restaurant. In addition to the loco moco ($19)--which I liked but others found a little too peppery--we tried the mochiko chicken ($18), which was excellent. The mochiko flour gives the fried chicken crust a distinctive sweetness, and I'm surprised mochiko chicken's popularity hasn't spread beyond Hawaii.

Portions were generous, and there were enough leftovers to supply lunch or dinner the next day. We'll be back.

Worn Out

While shopping in San Bruno, I was ticketed for an unreadable license plate (picture, right). The plate is perfectly decipherable to human eyes, but traffic scanners have trouble discerning it.

I wrote a letter contesting the $50 fine. Not only did I point out that I didn't see(!) the problem, I also noted that the Camry had been parked outdoors for 16 years.

Any degradation in the license plate had to be due to wear and tear from exposure to the elements, and surely the law didn't mean to fine us folks who couldn't afford a garage or car port. The pity-me social-justice-y argument didn't work, and a harshly worded notice for $50 arrived four months later.

So I paid up.
1) Saving $50 wasn't worth pursuing the matter.
2) I did feel sorry for San Bruno. The plague of homelessness, drug use, and property crime has spread south from San Francisco, and SB is feeling financial pressure.

Later a Foster City cop pulled me over with a warning that the license plate was unreadable. At the DMV the cost of replacement plates was $22, under the condition that I give the old ones back.

The only advice I have after all this is to pick your fights with City Hall, because most of them aren't worth the price.

Tanforan Shopping Mall - Last Gasp

No spacing problem here.

In 2018 the decline of retail and the growing homelessness in San Bruno were warning signs for the Tanforan Mall.

The coronavirus lockdown was the death blow, and in November, 2020 the property was acquired by Alexandria Real Estate Equities for an eventual tear-down and conversion to a biotech campus / housing development.

But it would be a slow death, with designs and permits requiring years to process. Alexandria Real Estate Equities was in no hurry to buy out the leases, so tenants were running out their contracts.

In 2012 the Food Court bustled.

It was my first visit to the shopping center in four years. It was nearly empty. The once-bustling Food Court had a few diners, quietly picking at their food. Starbucks, Jollibee, and Burger King were already gone, while Chipotle, the movie theater, and Target were hanging on.

I ordered a teriyaki chicken lunch from Sarku, Japan, for old times sake. It was as good as I remembered but cost $3 more. Well, they have to make ends meet during the next year or two until construction begins.

The Tanforan Mall has been the site of a Peninsula race track, an internment camp for Japanese-Americans during World War II, and a shopping center. The recent 200-bp spike in interest rates and migration of people and business out of the Bay Area makes the biotech campus / residential housing plan by Alexandria Real Estate anything but a sure-fire moneymaker.

I wish them well.

Frozen in Time, But Thawing

San Mateo Ave. in San Bruno

San Francisco bears the brunt of it, but cities up and down the Peninsula also have sizable homeless populations....not just the working poor but also those most difficult to help, i.e., substance abusers and the mentally ill. The strapped cities issue fines at the drop of the hat--quick-to-trigger red-light cameras, ticky-tacky tickets for tail lights, etc.--but that's a story for another day.

San Mateo Ave.: few chain stores present

After dropping off the car in San Bruno, I hoofed south along San Mateo Avenue, parallel to El Camino Real. San Mateo Avenue's anchors are the San Bruno Caltrain station, the beneficiary of a $155 million construction project, and Artichoke Joe's, whose brightly lit interior is a welcome contrast to other California casinos.

Enjoying the 1970's ambience of the street, I only stopped once--at the Starbucks, naturally--to pick up a coffee with an added shot of espresso. Starbucks had by far the most traffic of any of the store fronts, portending an area ripe for development.

Given the proximity to both Caltrain and BART stations, it's only a matter of time before the whole street is demolished in favor of high-density housing. Many of the businesses and the land under them are family-owned, so there's a good chance tradition and nostalgia will slow the wrecker's ball. But development won't be stopped, so a word of advice: experience old San Bruno while you can.

One venerable business is the popular Millbrae Pancake House, which employs third-generation family members and has staff which rarely turns over. The restaurant makes few concessions to modern cuisine (no explicit vegan, gluten-free offerings) and has multiple breakfast meats and styles of pancakes that are problematic for diners who worry about cholesterol. After a two-mile stroll in the heat and humidity, it was the perfect way to end the morning.

On my 5th visit I took a flier on the chicken and waffles. It was OK, but I'm going back to bacon and eggs.

Sober Outlook

Now that I'm back in California, fun time is over. There are cards to write, gifts to buy, taxes to plan, and donations to make.

My sober outlook was reinforced by the first sobriety checkpoint that I've ever gone through.

Heading east one evening on San Bruno Avenue toward SFO, traffic was narrowed to a single lane. I held up my driver's license to the window; the friendly cop handed me a MADD flyer (right) so I wouldn't be stopped by another officer 50 feet ahead. No such luck.

Another cop asked me to roll down the window. "Where are you going?" Home, while he inspected my driver's license. "Have you been drinking tonight?" No, I said truthfully, while he gazed intently at my non-reddened eyes and listened to my clearly enunciated one-word answers. He waved me through.

Afterwards, looking at the flyer, I was taken aback by the $15,000 cost of an infraction, $10,000 of which is increased insurance costs.

Mind, we are not talking about causing an accident, just being caught driving under the influence.

Contrast the DUI penalties with those of texting while driving:

With assessments and fees, convicted drivers face a first-time ticket costing at least $159, with a second offense climbing to $279. Hardly pocket change, but far below the penalties for first-time adult DUI offenders, which include fines up to $1,000, plus a minimum four-month license suspension and up to six months in jail.

The LA Times article quoted above stated that national DUI deaths were about 10,000 per year while "distracted driving crashes caused 3,500 fatalities and close to 400,000 injuries", not as bad but clearly in the same league. Whether one believes DUIs are treated appropriately, it's clear that the penalty for texting-and-driving is not proportionate when we look at the consequences of each.

Self-driving cars can't come soon enough.

Friday in San Bruno

Dropping off the Car
Having disposed of the 1997 Dodge Caravan in 2015, I hadn't seen Jack, our trustworthy mechanic, for at least three years. When I drove up in the 2004 Camry, he instantly placed me: "How's the van?" Well, I had to junk it because problems were occurring nearly every month. Re the Camry: he wouldn't be able to get to it till the late afternoon, even for routine maintenance. No problem, I could hang out at the mall.

The Wait for Plates
The dealer where we bought a Toyota RAV4 was a quarter-mile away, and it was my first stop after Jack's repair shop. After two months we still had not gotten the license plates. We had bought four new cars over the years, and the wait for plates had always been less than 30 days. Of course, those experiences were all in the previous century. The dealer told us that receiving the plates from the Department of Motor Vehicles can now take up to 90 days. As we've written before, if the DMV is an example of our government at work, why in the world are so many people eager to embrace socialism, where we would have DMV-like grocery stores, hospitals, farms, airlines, etc.?

The Panhandlers
The female panhandler was ensconced at the median strip by a stoplight on El Camino Real. She was of indeterminate age; years of hard living on the streets wore her body down. She darted across the street, trying unsuccessfully to avoid a police van. The two officers grabbed her brown paper bag, and after sniffing its contents, poured the liquid on to the sidewalk. They continued to talk to her as I walked past; my guess is that they weren't going to arrest her but try to chase her out of San Bruno.

Two other panhandlers were seated by the freeway exit ramp by the shopping center. Both middle-aged, the Asian man and the Caucasian woman did not appear to be a couple but chatted like they knew each other. They were dressed neatly but inexpensively and appeared to practice better hygiene than most homeless whom I have observed (indeed, they may not have been homeless). In fact, in my worn jeans, flannel shirt, and Nikes I could have fit right in with them. We avoided eye contact, and they didn't approach during the four minutes it took the light to change. When the walk signal came on, I handed them each $20, much to their surprise. I like giving money to non-aggressive panhandlers and do enjoy confounding expectations.

The shopping center was built on the Tanforan Park racetrack.

At the Mall
Several homeless people wandered the Food Court. One went upstairs and, after shouting for a while, assaulted a worker at Burger King. Three security officers eventually subdued and carried him from the building.

A pretty blond girl sat at a nearby table and was engrossed in her phone. A non-white man (I could be but won't be more specific) approached her and asked if she would come with him. She politely declined, and he went away. A few minutes later, she got up and left, too.

Picking Up the Car
The Camry was ready at 4 o'clock. Jack looked tired. I asked him how long he planned to keep the business going. This stretch of San Bruno Avenue is pretty run down, I said, and given the development occurring all over the Peninsula the whole area could change in the next ten years. Everything's so expensive, he said, the taxes and regulations are killing him, and two houses on his block sold for over $1.2 million! Are you thinking of leaving the Bay Area? Not just the Bay Area, California.

A Day for Respect

We pass by the Golden Gate National Cemetery frequently but have never visited. Today, Memorial Day, it was time to rectify that omission.

The San Bruno cemetery is the resting place for over 130,000 veterans and family members. At 161 acres its scale must be seen to be appreciated--rows upon rows of markers, each with a flag.

To my knowledge our family doesn't have anyone here---not like Punchbowl, where over a dozen relatives are interred.

The traffic leaving the morning ceremony was intense, with long lines of cars waiting to exit on the single-lane road.

No one honked. Today was a day to show respect--both to the honored dead and the living.

Thursday Night Shopping

Waiting in line for a scratch-off ticket, I won a $10 gift card.

Because all the cooking and clean-up were done Wednesday (see post below), Thursday evening was open. What else was there to do but get an early start on Christmas shopping?

The parking lots were half full when we arrived at the San Bruno mall at 6 p.m.

There were long lines at Gamestop and Target, both of which had Black Friday promotions.

Not intending to buy anything, I headed for Starbucks, which turned out to be one of the few stores that were closed on Thanksgiving night. I picked up dinner at the Food Court. It wasn't turkey.

Retro Carbo

We are fans of Krispy Kreme, especially when the doughnuts are served hot, but steady price increases, plus their diminutive size, made us yearn for a traditional offering last week.

So we made a detour to San Bruno. When we moved to Daly City in the '70's, we made regular stops at Rolling Pin Donuts, and we're happy to confirm that RPD is still in business. (The sign reads "since 1958.")

We ordered a baker's dozen (13 for the price of 12--take that, Krispy Kreme!) of the non-fancy doughnuts, which by the way were plenty good. While prices are slightly higher than KK, two Rolling Pins more than satisfy, whereas your humble blogger has been known to partake of three (or more) Krispy Kremes in one sitting.

Rolling Pin is open "Midnight to Midnight, 7 days a week". You hardly see that any more.

Below is a review from two young foodies who show off their jiu-jitsu moves during the first two minutes ("it was tiring, but I think we had no asthma attacks").

To Go Global, Cook Local

Jollibee in mid-afternoon had more traffic than others.

Jollibee, the Philippine fast-food chain, has had a spotty reception in the U.S. It closed its outlet in downtown San Francisco but thrives wherever there are concentrations of Filipino-Americans or Philippine expats hankering for a taste of home.

I found the Jollibee at the Tanforan Food Court to have a menu (spaghetti, fried chicken, and hamburgers) that's okay but a bit heavy for my taste. Apparently, I'm not alone.

In order to expand internationally

the company has gradually come round to the view that to reach its goal, it needs to buy foreign restaurant chains with menus better suited to the tastes of non-Filipinos.

Jollibee has bought a minority interest in Smashburger, the privately held U.S. chain that, IMHO, makes a flavorful seared burger that's better (and twice as expensive) as In-n-Out.

I can't see an integration of the menus: Jollibee's fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy would not seem to appeal to the same clientele as Smashburger's truffle mushroom burger. Let's hope that this union doesn't result in the ruination of either or both.

Klay Thompson

Klay Thompson and fan

The line circled around the second floor of the shopping center. 500 people were waiting to take a picture with Klay Thompson, Golden State Warrior shooting guard.

Klay Thompson and point guard Stephen Curry have been nicknamed the Splash Brothers. Their three-point shots have been lighting scoreboards around the NBA. Their coach has called them "the greatest shooting backcourt in the history of the game".

23 years old, earning $2.3 million this year and $3.1 million next, Klay Thompson's future is brighter than most of us will experience or imagine. Greeting every fan with a hug or handshake, he seems to be a nice guy, too. The world is his oyster. © 2014 Stephen Yuen

Hangin' at the Food Court

The shopping center was built on the Tanforan Park racetrack.

I like hangin' at the Tanforan Food Court.

Lured by $5-7 lunch prices, young families line up at the food kiosks. The crowd is noisy, young, and working class, reflective of a suburban shopping center that has Sears, J.C. Penney, and Target as anchor stores.

It's a world away from the tony Peninsula country clubs that are just up the hill.

The Starbucks provides free Wi-Fi, and I can surf to my heart's content.

Since high school, I've acquired the ability to tune out ambient noise and focus on the book or video display in front of my nose.

Of course, one man's focus is another man's obliviousness. My wallet had fallen out of my pants pocket and was under a chair. The bus "boy"--actually a guy who was about 40--pointed it out to me, then hustled away to clean tables, empty garbage cans, and sweep the floors.

I glanced at him periodically over the next  hour. He was always rushing about, pouring his energy into a job that likely didn't deserve him. I thought about how much trouble he saved me because I had not lost my wallet stuffed with credit, debit, and membership cards, not to mention my driver's license.

I walked up to him and slipped him a twenty. Initially he wouldn't take it, but I insisted. It was a win-win for both of us, and I got the better end. © 2012 Stephen Yuen

Hoofing It in San Bruno

Huntington Ave.: behind the BART tracks are 101 and SFO.

The minivan was due for an oil change and a transmission check, but there were twelve cars in front of it. I would have to leave the van overnight in San Bruno.

My more intense, younger self would have called for a ride or taken a taxi, but now I welcome opportunities for contemplation. I began hoofing south toward Burlingame.

San Bruno is a working-class community. Crowded with older homes on small lots, it boomed during the post-war decades. Much of the city was constructed long before city planning became a discipline.

Light industry and commercial buildings intrude among the residential areas, which have narrow winding streets resembling San Francisco more than Orange County.

The Tanforan race track operated for 64 years (during World War II it was a Japanese-American internment camp) until the property was converted to a shopping mall in 1971.

San Francisco International Airport on the other side of the 101 freeway is a source of business and employment, as well as pollution and traffic.

San Bruno's best-known landmark is the Golden Gate National Cemetery, whose 161 acres comprise one of the few green expanses on the developed Peninsula.

We are always driving around or through San Bruno but rarely stop. Hoofing through the city allowed me to wander (like in this post) around the neighborhoods. There were a few run-down houses, but most were well-kept. Children played in front yards. A kid waited for a ride to his violin lesson. Trucks were parked on each block.

Burlingame fire station on Rollins Road.

The atmosphere is far from bucolic. Streets are being torn up. Construction occurs along miles of train tracks. Planes fly overhead. But it wasn't unpleasant; in San Bruno everyone is trying to create his own slice of heaven.

In tonier Burlingame, where I met the family for dinner, people seem to be trying just to keep what they have.

Rescued from Oblivion

Like its owner, the car's undercarriage is not very attractive.

The 1997 Dodge Grand Caravan, like its owner, is on a slow glidepath to oblivion. Something, usually minor and not worth fixing, goes wrong each year. Until recently we've adapted to the inconveniences, such as having to open the doors with a key because we've lost both remote controls.

In the latest series of problems the airbag light has remained on since October; the mechanic said he couldn't solve it without removing the airbag, a fix that would cost more than the aged van is worth. Next the cruise control stopped working, then the horn. The last straw was the emergency brake light, which remained on after the brake had been released.

Last Monday we began to test-drive new minivans and SUVs, the cheapest of which would cost $40,000. We decided on a SUV, and after performing several calculations, decided that a three-year lease would provide for the most flexibility in case our driving needs changed. But first we needed to make sure that the minivan trade-in had no safety issues.

Our mechanic performed his diagnosis and replaced the van's brake pads, calipers, and water pump at a cost of $800. He also gave us some very good news: the airbag, cruise control, and horn problems were all probably solvable by replacing a faulty clockspring, which Chrysler had recalled and would repair free of charge.

Yesterday the Dodge dealer replaced the clockspring, and the van is working better than it has for the past five years. I felt so pleased that I paid $200 for two re-programmed remote controls. That's how one behaves when one rescues an old car from oblivion and doesn't have to spend $40,000 on a new SUV.

Not Ready for the Bug-Out

A distant conical haze marred the sky as we headed home on a clear Thursday evening. We turned on the radio, listening for a possible report of a fire. Our concern about the effect on traffic vanished when we heard the news.



Blocks of homes in San Bruno were burning. Maybe an airplane had crashed. No, SFO responded that there were no planes missing.

Perhaps a gas station blew up, but someone said there weren't any gas stations in the hills above San Bruno. The latter statement, too, proved false; a gas station next to the Lunardi's market did exist, but the gas station was undamaged and not the cause of the fire.

A horrific and smaller-scale echo of the events, rumors, and speculation of nearly nine years ago, we were glued to the TV for information. The youngster's friend, Harry, lives on Trenton Drive. Harry's family evacuated their house, but luckily they live about three-quarters of a mile from the fire and their home was undamaged.

The fuel source turned out to be a natural-gas pipeline, and in the days and months to come more questions will be answered. [Update - 9/12/10: four people are confirmed dead, and five are missing. The City of San Bruno has listed 37 homes destroyed.]

Meanwhile, the San Bruno fire prompted a much-needed discussion in our household about bug-out emergencies. We are semi-prepared for a major earthquake, in that we can live for a week on supplies that we have stored securely. The advice for earthquake survivors, however, is to stay put.

If there were a fire, tidal wave, or other disaster that allowed us only a few minutes to pack and leave, would we know what to throw in the car? Should we stay together or take all our cars? No answer is perfect, but this is one case where any decision is much better than inaction. May you, dear reader, never experience a bug-out situation, but please spend a few minutes thinking about what you are going to do. Your life may depend on it.

Toto's Pizzeria

Toto’s Pizzeria in San Bruno is one of my guilty pleasures. The decor is basic American diner. It doesn't have the faux-downscale atmosphere that one finds in new suburban restaurants. The floors have the scrubbed, worn linoleum that shows it's the real McCoy.

At Toto’s they prepare the pizza right in front of you. I usually order the extra garlic, which is spooned generously from a bottle over the entire surface of the dough. (I've learned not to order the garlic if I have a business meeting the next day.) The wait, including oven time, is about twenty minutes, during which we enjoy the crisp iceberg lettuce salad, a pitcher of soda, and watch the games on the old CRT sets mounted in the corner.

Toto’s has raised its prices to make them equivalent to the major chains. They’ve added sandwiches and spaghetti, even calling the latter “pasta” in a bow to modernity. But diners would never confuse them with upscale pizzerias that serve eclectic combinations or deep-dish fare. The selections are traditional and the pizza comes out a little too wet and gooey for contemporary upscale palates.

But I’ll keep returning until my cholesterol needle hits the red zone. © 2006 Stephen Yuen