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Candelas on the Bay

1201 First Street #115, Coronado

“Sometimes life is so good,” I sighed, sipping my dirt-cheap caipirinha. Sam and I watched the ferry pull into the Coronado pier, disgorging commuters marching landward in their varied gaits and garbs. A white-sailed catamaran swanned out into the bay while the setting sun caught a silver-skinned downtown high-rise and turned the surface into Reynolds Wrap under a broiler. Little kids splashed and giggled at water’s edge as the blushing sun plunged. We were sitting in a cool, woodsy room just off the narrow beach, replete with wonderful food and drink. “Everything half-price,” I said. “I can have whatever I want, like a kid with indulgent grandparents at a holiday fair.”

Thank you, Thomas Jefferson — I’m really enjoying my constitutional right to the pursuit of happy hours. Especially when the quest takes me to the new Coronado branch of Candelas, so far, the best happy hour I’ve tried.

Sam and I are both fans of the mother ship, a stately Gaslamp bastion of Mexican haute cuisine serving chef Eduardo Baeza’s sophisticated French-Mex fusion dishes (of the sort you might find in Mexico City’s posh Polanco district) amid severely handsome Spanish decor: hints of a castle, with an Inquisition torture chamber in the basement. But we’ve liked the food less since the restaurant, in search of economic survival, has turned the space into a nightclub at certain witching hours, making subtle menu compromises to cater to club kids who’d rather down a fish taco than a fresh fish in cuitlacoche cream sauce.

So we both fell in love with the new bayside location, on the site of the old Bay Cafe (which we’ll never miss) — same fine food as Candelas downtown, but what may be more of the original menu available at dinner, and in a blissful atmosphere that validates those dumb new SD tourism board ads touting “happy happens.” If you’re coming for anything but happy hour, you can eat on a dreamy glassed-in raised patio with a close-up water view. Driving time from my digs in Golden Hill was maybe five minutes longer (but with a lot prettier views en route) than to the Gaslamp; parking took easily ten minutes less, and, of course, it was free. Sometimes Coronado seems like Bali Hai, some far-distant “special island,” but it’s actually right at hand.

Happy hour at Candelas takes place in the bar only, but there are plenty of booths and tables if you’re not fond of high barstools and cramped counter-eating. Sam and I chose a table with a clear view of the bay. The happy-hour bar menu consists of all the appetizers, soups, and salads from the dinner menu, plus a couple of standard Mexican lunch dishes, spicy Mayan-style pork pibil tacos, and a botanas sampler plate of varied antojitos (quesadillas, etc.) to share. We were tempted by the pork tacos but stuck to the alta cocina dishes.

Soon after you sit down, a busser offers the restaurant’s unique version of bread and butter. You have three choices of rolls: straight-up, dotted with sesame seeds and filled with soft creamy cheese (tastes more like mascarpone than Philly), or fortified with jalapeño and cumin. The fluffy, tan butter spread includes toasted ground hazelnuts, a hint of garlic, and a touch of anchovy.

Our first graze was an estructura de aguacate, a cone of cooked small shrimp and crab mingled with avocado slices, tossed with parsley, tomato, and onion. The dressing is a basil-mango vinaigrette (tasting of lime juice rather than vinegar). Although it’s by no means a strict Baja ceviche (of cilantro, lime, raw seafood), the citric freshness and clarity of flavor reminded me of the great street-vendor ceviche tostadas I ate in Ensenada a few years ago.

Stuffed calamari is one of my favorites from the Gaslamp location. Most calamari in San Diego is served deep-fried, but the species offers more interesting uses, and stuffing the bodies is one of the best possibilities. The tender-cooked sheaths are filled (almost like Middle Eastern grape leaves) with a loose rice-tomato mixture, swathed in a velvety coral sauce of tomato and blue cheese, with a touch of morita chiles for a hint of spiciness.

Among the many soups, it was hard to choose between four-cheese soup with shrimp or poblano cream with a lobster-tail garnish. I’ve had the four-cheese downtown; it tastes like great mac ’n’ cheese, hold the mac. (I love it, but it fills you up in three spoonfuls.) This time we went for the poblano cream, another winner. It was spicier than I’d anticipated: A lot of locally sold poblanos are actually the hotter pasilla chiles, which look similar but pack more wallop. The dark-jade broth was creamy and nearly soothing but seethed with banked fires. In the center was a very small Pacific lobster tail (slightly overcooked) propped up on a pillow resembling mashed potatoes but…not. The slightly glutinous, rough purée of (I’d guess) Yukon Golds was undercooked, and probably Cuisinarted. For me it vaguely evoked meals in South America; it’s nobody’s grandma’s mash north of Juárez. It starts out as structural support to the lobster, but once you broach the mound, bits break off to enrich the soup with a starchy, near-grainy texture and homey taste, changing the soup even as you eat it. Given the artisanship of chef Baeza, I’m inclined to think it’s a deliberate effect. Sam and I were bewitched by the original soup/mash combo and then by the transformation as they blended.

Alcachofe Mestre, stuffed artichoke, is named for Alberto Mestre, the restaurant’s owner, slyly indicating a signature dish. It’s a de-choked, trimmed steamed thistle served cold with a stuffing of top-quality red ahi tuna and roasted bell peppers, topped with Parmesan and served atop a golden purée that turns out to be a sauce made of zucchini flowers. Very nice. But somehow it used to be better at the Gaslamp — oh, don’t ask why.

Callos Jean features scallops, possibly the smaller of Baja’s two species (the other is the huge, meaty “lion’s paws,” manos de león). Mild and dainty, the midsize scallops are lightly browned and tender, if a bit pallid in flavor. (Could they have been phosphate-packed for shipping?) They mingle with a haystack of sliced portobello mushrooms and onions in a light sauce of jalapeño, lime juice, and white wine. The mixture is good but doesn’t quite relate to the delicate divas of the scallops. I think these bivalves want to strut around with a little bichon frise puppy poking its head out from a Fendi handbag — or a light cloak of beurre blanc, or some sort of Mexican designer-cream sauce wrapped around their shoulders.

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Comments

Fred Williams May 13, 2009 @ 8:15 a.m.

Naomi, what's the difference between playing with silly cocktails and getting serious with wine?

Either way, I usually end up a bit tipsy...

:-)

As to narcissistic writers...well, kinda by definition...if you write, you've got to be either a fool or extremely confident in the worth of your words. Otherwise, what's the point?

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SDaniels May 6, 2009 @ 1:05 p.m.

"I think these bivalves want to strut around with a little bichon frise puppy poking its head out from a Fendi handbag — or a light cloak of beurre blanc, or some sort of Mexican designer-cream sauce wrapped around their shoulders."

Naomi, you've got a way!

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Naomi Wise May 12, 2009 @ 9:50 p.m.

To Neil Allen: (Letters, May 7)

I was flattered that you named me (and several of my other favorites on the paper) among your favorites. I didn’t read the article that drew your ire (too busy scribbling to deal with those front-page monsters). But my Cousin The Shrink (Elan Golomb) wrote a respected book about narcissism. (Her dad, my Uncle Louis, was Exhibit A).

There are three manifestations: First, there’s healthy,if wounded self-regard, that allows people to write for publication (which means sticking your neck out of the foxhole and letting unseen foes snipe at your ego.) You’re right about broken hearts – they must inspire this irrational need to communcate with strangers, maybe win/seduce some appreciatiation, and above all to create an alternative tribe (of readers) where the writers at last aren’t the tribal outcasts but respected scribes/story-tellers.

Then there’s classical narcissism-- obsessive self-love and self-absorption, where all that is perceived is the self in the mirror – Others not allowed. Think models.

Finally, clinical narcissism is the dangerous type. It’s not self-love but fierce self-hatred. To these types of narcissists, everyone who is at all accomplished is “superior” and wounding, and must be dragged down and destroyed. Clinical narcissists gravitate to positions of power, becoming the nightmare bosses who’ll publically humiliate their brightest, best-functioning employees. A lot of negative “isms” – racism, class-ism, sexism, size-ism, seem to be politically-manipulated manifestations of this dark impulse: “I may be trailer-trash but at least I’m not a Welfare Queen!” and all that. As I said, I didn’t read the article, but from the sound of it (unemployed, scornful of the employed) could be a Clinical Narcissist writing. Those hearts never break, they’re empty, hard, hungry shells. .

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SDaniels May 13, 2009 @ 1:08 a.m.

Naomi, I have a bit of background in psychoanalytic theory, from a literary perspective, and think there is more to be mentioned about the possibilities of the concept of a "healthy" narcissism.

The mythical figure of the pool-gazing Narcissus of yore could not hear Echo's amorous repetitions of his self-absorbed cries; if we consider that Echo was actually a projection of Narcissus, then, well, it appears that while Narcissus could look, he could not even listen to himself :)

Therein lies the rub. This oblivious lack of self-examination you describe of the third type is present to degrees in all three you mention--the emptiness comes from an 'othering' of the self that is incomplete, hollow, and projectional. Hence the narcissist's inability to find satisfaction in relationships, despite the futile compulsion to attempt to define and project one's self onto and as others.

Here's where I think a "healthy narcicissim" can and should enter. We all have need of mirroring, and the larger social identity you hint at with "dark impulses," especially in the form of nationalism, demonstrates at its core a complex need to define what we are by a perceived opposite--what we are not.

If we can use this need for mirroring to become self-reflexively open to examination of ourselves and others, we can at the least rediscover and redirect this 'othering' process to allow glimpses of "difference" with more understanding than hate and fear.

At any rate, here's to the delicious balm to the wound of self-and-other that is your regular column!

I am not familiar with Elan Golomb's book, but will be sure to see if it is check-out-able at Geisel. Thanks!

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David Dodd May 13, 2009 @ 2:41 a.m.

Writers are narcissists not necessarily by nature, but by default. I think it is part of the craft for a storyteller to bare one's soul, at least the good writers do. The not-so-good writers will, too, bare their soul, and I reckon Nasreen was caught up in that unavoidable trap.

But it doesn't make the writer a clinical narcissist.

I'm a very private person in many respects. I'm sort of lucky though, because I have the luxury of not caring at all what anyone might think of me. I'm immune, I don't much worry about how I come off, and I realize that part of writing is using my own life experiences in combination with whatever else I come across that might be compelling to a reader. The vehicle is important, because it drives us there.

Nasreen was unlucky. The vehicle she used in her story (sea turtles) wasn't strong enough to drive her story home in the eyes of Neil Allen. For Neil, she was being narcissistic. I only hope that Neil would be kinder to me were he to read one of my stories. Hopefully, my vehicle won't break down.

After all, it really isn't about me. It's about you, Neil. And about SD and Naomi and any other reader.

For a good example of what I'm driving at, read Charles Bukowski. Here was an ugly man who was beautiful. His life, and his life experiences, although all about him, were really about me and you. Narcissus? Almost the opposite.

I think I'll cut Nasreen a break, and give her another chance. William Carlos Williams' red wheelbarrow is a great vehicle, perhaps she'll try that one next time.

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burgess May 13, 2009 @ 11:37 a.m.

Hi Fred, I think you know who I am. How ironic we are talking about Happy Hour. I don't think we will be at odds on the blogs anymore. Let's just say I have seen the light. Drinking should be done in moderation. Being a moderate politically this makes sense to me. I have developed a certain disgust for those who do not drink moderately or show the immaturity to handle things with moderation. I think moderation is the key to happiness. It would be nice to hear from you. You may remember a certain friend of mine who shared your political persuasion. If you still have this persons phone number give him a call this person also shares our respect for moderation. Unlike someone who shall remain nameless who doesn't seem to have the ability to moderate anything. If you would like to contact me feel free to contact me on my myspace page. Have a Happy Happy hour.

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Fred Williams May 15, 2009 @ 7:28 a.m.

Hmmm. Now I'm wondering.

I think I know our mutual friend with a problem. He's been in the news a bit lately, heh?

But I'm still trying to figure out who you are...adding a face to your moniker.

I'm in Prague at the moment, drinking moderate amounts of the best beer in the world. Soon as I'm back in S.D., I'm looking forward to seeing you in person again.

Fred

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eajsandiego May 20, 2009 @ 8:22 p.m.

HEY WHAT IS GOING ON? THE SDAME NAOMI WISE PIECE 3 WEEKS RUNNING? terrible! very disappointing Eric Jones, San Diego

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jerome Sept. 2, 2009 @ 9:16 a.m.

holy cow....... and i thought she was just pimpin the resturant,which by the way is coolllio for me when i can afford it.

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