Welsh Rabbit, Welsh Rarebit

Always searching for a happy, late-night snack, I recently turned my attention to Welsh Rarebit, primarily because I'd never had it before. I'm not Welsh.

I'd heard tell of rarebit, garnering sufficient information to know that rabbit meat was not involved, yet not enough to understand that this was not some vegetarian variation on S. O. S. , also known as chipped beef on toast. I was certain of two things: 1) bread and cheese were involved and 2) the Welsh were not being flattered in the naming of this dish. I did a little research.

Yes, it was cheese toast and, no, praise for Welsh culture was not intended. Though ostensibly an English dish (other British and European cultures have their own versions), the original name of the dish was Welsh Rabbit. In England, rabbit was considered poor man's meat so, in a rather clever, back-handed way, naming the dish "Welsh Rabbit" suggested that, not only were the Welsh poor, as they were, but too stupid and/or lazy to go out and capture their own prey, thus having to satisfy their hunger with bread and cheese. It's 18th Century insult food. But it's good, both as an insult and as a dish.

Sometime in the late 19th Century, some forward thinking, politically correct person or personess took pity upon the poor Welsh and softened the name by changing it to Welsh Rarebit, taking with it much of the bite. In a sense, making it blander than it need be.

Personally, I think the Welsh are doing just fine. How can one not love a culture that has given the world Tom Jones, Dame Shirley Bassey, and countless vowel-shy place names that no one but an insider can pronounce? And I would argue that this dish is for the lazy. Lazy is a grilled cheese sandwich. Think of this as a grilled cheese sandwich that requires a bit more effort.

Welsh Rarebit with Apples



The rarebit recipe is taken directly from New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman, a.k.a The Minimalist. You can go directly to a video of him preparing the dish here, which is what made me want to make it in the first place. In fact, I spent so much time sitting at my desk, watching his videos I got very little done that day. I've always enjoyed reading him, but I am now an even bigger fan of his as a result of seeing him on camera.

There are a great number of variations on the rarebit-like, cheese on toast theme. I have chosen to prepare Bittman's because, apart from being extremely simple to prepare, it has a little spicy kick. I added sliced apples because I like apples, which is reason enough.

Ingredients:

For the Rarebit:

2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon dried mustard
a healthy pinch of cayenne pepper
1/2 bottle of good, dark English beer, like Guiness Stout
a few generous shakes of Worstershire sauce
1 pound excellent English cheddar, grated

For the Rest:

1 loaf of good, hearty wheat or white bread. I do not recommend sliced sandwich bread. The results will depress you.

1 tart, sweet apple, sliced thinly. I used Pink Lady, because I like their flavor, they're available and I loved the pop duo as a child. Granny Smith will do, too.

1 bunch scallion, chopped

Preparation:

In a saucepan large enough to contain all of the ingredients, melt butter over medium low heat and add flour. Cook the mixture, stirring with a wooden spoon, until it is dirty blonde in color and smells faintly nutty.

Add mustard and cayenne pepper, then pour in the beer, stirring all the while. Add Worstershire sauce (if you add the sauce before the beer, the sauce will burn, sending up blackish flecks as you stir, so I do not recommend it). Now add the cheese and keep stirring until your efforts result in a smooth cheese sauce.



Pour into a bowl, large ramekin, or containing vessel of your choice. The rarebit sauce will cool into a solid mass, looking just like a cheese spread, which is precisely what it is. The sauce will keep covered in your refrigerator for several days, which is precisely the idea-- it's ready for you at a moment's notice.

When the moment has notified you sufficiently, slice your crusty bread to its desired thickness, place on a sheet pan and put it under a broiler. If you place the bread slices under your broiler and you notice that no change has occurred to them in several minutes, make sure your broiler's heating element is turned on-- listen to the voice of experience. Toast the slices well on one side, remove the pan from the oven and turn the bread over, replacing them under the broiler and toasting them less thoroughly than you have the previous side-- this will be the upside to your rarebit.



Spread a little of the now-solidified cheese onto your toast. This will adhere your apple slices to the bread. Arrange apple slices over the cheese.

At this point, I like to warm up a bit of the sauce in my microwave on low, to make it softer, therefore easier, to spread over the apple slices. Cover the apples generously with the cheese. Place the hopefully well-constructed toasts under the broiler. Do not remove them until the cheese bubbles and browns. If you have a conventional, broiler-on-the-bottom oven and your kitchen floor is clean enough, I might suggest lying down on the floor with one hand propping up your head and the other clad in an oven mitt, leaving the door of the broiler open a bit in order to get a good view of the action. If you are prosperous enough to have two oven mitts, I would suggest wearing the second one on the hand that supports your head for added comfort.

Remove the toasts from the oven when they have reached the desired doneness, transfer to a serving plate and sprinkle with the scallions. If you eat them immediately, the cheese will very likely burn the roof of your mouth. The time it takes to walk to you refrigerator, grab a beer and pop it open is sufficient cooling time.

Russia House

For years, I've driven by Russia House-- it's large, red letters and neon-framed windows staring me down every time I head south on highway 101. I've wanted to go there for a long time, but just never got around to it. This week, I finally stared back.

Very little information could be gleaned from a Google search of the place and no one I know had ever been there. The most information I could find was a list of seven comments on Yelp.com. The reviews were decidedly mixed. Rumors of all-you-can-eat (and drink) Russian food, dancing, and either a hostile welcome or no welcome at all were all I had to go on. To me, that sounded almost like a dare. I discussed the restaurant with a friend of mine who felt equally up to the challenge. In fact, she said she already had her Russian name picked out for the evening-- Katinka. While I googled her stage name (which I learned means "pure"), she made the reservation. We gathered a group of eight people together, figuring there was a certain safety in numbers.

While I busied myself snapping photos of the Russia House sign upon arrival, the three dining companions I showed up with were confronted by a man of about sixty dressed in blue jeans and leather jacket standing near a sign that read "Dress code strictly enforced." A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was anything but welcoming. After explaining that we had a reservation, we were allowed entry.

Once past the Russian Cerberus, we stepped inside the zodiac-themed blue doors and walked upstairs to the dining room. The first thing I noticed were the enormous crystal chandeliers that seemed to be in some sort of battle with the neon of the bar for who could throw off the most light. It was extremely bright.

The second thing I noticed was a little girl, maybe seven years old, in some sort of ice dancing outfit. My friend Gary asked if that was the RussianJonbenet. Several other children of varying ages were all dressed up and running about.

The third thing to capture my attention was the group of about thirty people standing about two banks of long, platter-filled tables. Some of them stared at us blankly. Others stared out the window, waiting for someone or perhaps something to happen.

The fourth thing I noticed was that no one came to greet us. After about a minute of standing around trying not to look helpless or uncomfortable, my friend Lyle stopped a waiter who was rushing past us. We mentioned the name of our reservation. He pointed to a table for four and said we could sit there. When we explained that more were joining us, he pointed to a larger table next to the large party with all that shrimp cocktail. We sat. And then we sat some more.

What was I hoping to accomplish by being here? Was this a big mistake? Was the big, Russian dinner I've been promoting among my friends going to be a big, Russian failure? I wondered.



After a thorough examination of a wall mural we decided could only have been inspired by Russian fairy tales filtered through the mind of a Chernobyl survivor,we tired of sitting without benefit of food or drink. No one had approached us for minutes. Lyle pulled some money out of his wallet and beckoned a blond woman who was standing under the neon sign of the bar to come over. He asked for her name and how we might procure some service. While he did this, he handed her the money. She handed the money back, telling us that she wasElya , the owner. When I asked her if she wanted the name of our party for reservation purposes, she said, "No, it's okay. I don't need that." At that point, I knew we needed some vodka. Fast.

We made our vodka selection-- not expensive, considering we had to buy it by the bottle, but decent. 750 ml of Absolut for $60. When it was brought to the table, we asked if there was any real Russian vodka to be had. Elya replied, "No, not yet. Soon." Lyle asked how long Russia House had been open. 20 years. Russian vodka must be harder to obtain than I had previously thought.



We also asked about the menu. We had heard of an all you can eat and drink feast, but what we had in front of us was an a la carte menu. She told us, yes, she did that sometimes on Fridays. Fridays? I told her we understood the restaurant was only open to the public on Saturdays. She shrugged her shoulders and said that sometimes she felt like opening on Friday, too.

When she noted the empty seats around our table, I explained that we were still waiting for the rest of our party.

"Your girlfriends?" she asked.

"Sort of," I replied.

"Are they Russian?"

"No. Not Russian." I thought of the fake Russian names they'd be using tonight.

"That's surprising," she said. "Ninety-five percent of the American men who come here have Russian girlfriends or wives. So why have you come?"

I thought about how to answer that one, but settled on, "To have fun!"

She smiled and got our waiter. I think at some point in that brief exchange, it was decided that we liked each other and the mood of the room shifted. The girls arrived, we settled into our first drink, and Lyle took charge of ordering appetizers.

What came to the table were baskets of soft rye bread and butter, platters of beef tongue, smoked salmon, smoked sturgeon beef piroshke, and shrimp cocktail. Lots of shrimp cocktail.



The beef tongue was good with a little mustard sauce and soft rye bread...



The beef piroshke was excellent. We were certain there was more that just meat in them. We briefly discussed which organs might have been included.



The best dish, to the unanimous decision of the table, was the smoked sturgeon. Salty, faintly smoky and butter on the tongue, it needed nothing but perhaps a little vodka to keep it company on its way down my throat. We had two platters. They even threw in more shrimp cocktail.



Our table livened up after some food, cold vodka, and soda water served in iced pitchers. I looked over at the birthday party next to us. I still didn't see anyone smiling. Just people milling about in fur stoles (women, naturally) and not touching their food. I thought they might be having a wake instead. Commenting on the brightness of the lights, my friend Gary looked to the birthday crowd and commented that he now understood why Russian women wore so much make up-- it was to hold up under those damned bright lights. He wondered where he could get a make up mirror with a Russian setting. I drank a little more vodka.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. Everyone's attention turned to the bandstand. A woman who looked remarkably like Jan Wahl started singing. The lights, mercifully, were dimmed. Everyone started smiling and moved to the dance floor. Apparently, the party had begun.

People danced, moved back to the tables to drink a little, and then danced some more. We watched from our table, since our main courses had arrived. Chicken Kiev, which seemed like a must-have since I frequently ate theStouffer's version as a child, was a bit of a dry disappointment, and shashlik -- kebabs of fish and chicken, we found tastier. Lots of potatoes made their way to our table, as did some excellent pickled vegetables. The hands-down favorite was the watermelon. The eight of us were stuffed and ready now to give our full attention to what was about to happen on the dance floor.



The little girl in what we thought was an ice dancing dress w as partnered with a dancing boy. Everyone in the restaurant crowded around the dance floor. We were shown the proper way to swing dance, fox trot, and just about every other kind of trot. The dancers were cute and we laughed and clapped for them, but the Russians looked on humorless, as if this were something to be taken very seriously, which doesn't seem so surprising when one considers that Russia has produced some of the greatest dancers the world has ever seen. Think Nijinsky, Pavlova, and Baryshnikov. I felt as though I might be missing something important. I had another sip of my vodka.

A much older couple then took over, showing us hot Latin-inspired moves that loosened up the crowd a little. Decency (or simply poor photography skills) prevents me from showing you the 13 year-old girls costume, but I can show you an example of her excellent hand movement...



Having been shown how it's all done, we took to the dance floor ourselves, working off the shrimp cocktail and vodka. Everyone else in the room seemed to have the same idea.





Back at our table for a little resting and watering, I saw that the birthday club had finally sat down to their meal. For a minute or two at a time. Some ran off to dance, some came over to flirt with a couple of my friends.



I thought perhaps we'd gone about our dinner all wrong. We ate then danced. The Russians danced, then ate. Perhaps there was sense in that. Do we see dancing as a digestive activity while they see it as an appetite stimulant? I wondered.

I also wondered what all the fuss about hostile service was about on Yelp. In my opinion, the people that walked away from the place weren't trying hard enough (Yes, I know-- they have a good point). I regarded the experience as a bit of travel adventure.

I'm certainly no sociologist, but given centuries of strong-armed governments, pogroms, and war, I don't think it strange that Russians might be a bit tight-knit, insular, and suspicious as a group. Once we got past the doorman and actually started talking to people, we found them warm and lively. It just takes a little while. To more pat generalizations about the Russians, I think that any civilization that has made such incredible contributions to literature, music, and dance is worth the effort to get to know a little better. And those littlematrioshka stacking dolls. Sigh.

What started out as a rather uncertain evening ended up being a hell of a lot of fun. If you can see yourself making it past the doorman, I say put on your (fake) fur hat and your dancing boots and just go.

Here's a sped-up video of the place. Stop at any frame to get a good look at the joint:



The Russia House is open to the public on Saturday nights. Please don't ask the hours, because I have no idea.

Russia House is located at 2011 Bayshore Boulevard in San Francisco, 94134

Call 415-330-9991 for reservations. Be strong.

Getting Serviced

After a pre-shift service meeting at work the other night, a colleague of mine turned to me and said, "You know, when I go out, I don't even expect good service anymore." I found myself identifying with him.

The following evening he came up to me with a revision-- "Actually, I've come to expect bad service." I thought that was rather harsh, but it got me thinking...

How hard is it to find a good waiter around here? This is one of the great restaurant capitals of the world. Thousands upon thousands of foodies live in the Bay Area. Surely, more than a few work in the service industry.

Of course, being a foodie does not necessarily make one a great waiter. It might provide an excellent culinary knowledge base from which to build, but a great waiter also needs patience, an eye for detail, a battle-tested calm, great diplomatic skills, and human warmth.

Taking care of strangers' needs is a tricky business because, often times, the need goes beyond mere feeding and watering. Taking care of a woman who is trying to impress clients? A man attempting to seduce his date? A table full of women with scrapbooks and wrapped presents on a "Girls Night Out"? Grandma's 80th birthday? If you've been a party to any of those parties, you know what I mean. A great waiter can take any of those situations and turn them into triumph. A bad waiter can turn them into one of those horror stories you tell at cocktail parties.

We all have our opinions as to what great restaurant service is. I think a great waiter has the ability to either wholly incorporate him or herself into a guests dining experience or, if need be, create an environment where the needs of the guests are met with an almost Beauty-and-the Beast-like invisibility. And I am talking Cocteau, not Disney. As a server, I find that I am much more suited to the former rather than the latter.

Following my colleague's comments on the state of San Francisco's service industry, I thought about my own dining experiences. Had I had any great waiters lately? Mostly, I drew a blank. One only remembers the really good or the exceptionally bad. In the good category, I could come up with only two in the past couple of months and both examples occurred where I least expected great service. The best of those two was a young server at Kate's' Kitchen in the Haight. It's hard to pinpoint precisely what it was about her, aside from keeping the coffee cup filled, warning against my ordering too much food, her sense of humor, or her deft analysis of the pros and cons of the cheddar pancakes versus the hash. In my opinion, what made her a great server was all of this and that human warmth factorI have already mentioned. She actually seemed concerned, like her eye was on us, and not in an are-you-stealing-the-silver? sort of way. The fact that she managed this when the restaurant was packed to the gills with a waiting list half a mile long impressed me. I watched her. She wasn't just singling out my table for special service. She treated everyone like that. I think I was a little bit in love.

I'm not getting into the terrible service experiences I've had in the recent past because I'd be typing here all day and I've got another 200 or so people to help take care of at lunch today. I just needed to tell myself something positive about the service industry today because all I ever seem to read is about bitter waiters and bad experiences.

Have you unearthed any great waiters lately? If so, tell me who and where. I want details.

Getting Blood from an Orange

Are you as tired of 2008 as I am? The stock market is tanking as miserably as the housing market, winter storms have left us without power for days (and, in one case I know, without a roof), and I just might scream if I listen to any more caucus coverage. The general mood is anything but sanguine. Is there any good news?

Well, yes. California's citrus crops have been doing rather nicely, especially when compared to last year's disastrous freeze. I realize this isn't the most exciting news in the world, but I feel the need keep my joys simple this year, and what could be simpler than a small, roundish piece of fruit?

Of all the known oranges in the universe, my favorite is the Citrus sinensis, or blood orange. There are three common varieties of which I am aware: the Sicilian Tarocco, the Spanish Sanguinello, and the Moro, which is grown right here. Not exactly "right here", but rather in San Diego. And Texas and Florida, but those are two states I generally try not to think about.

Blood oranges aren't exactly a revelation to most foodies today. In fact, some may think them overplayed and mildly pretentious (before you say anything, remember: glass houses). But, if you can reach back into your past, when you weren't so jaded about food a moment...

The first time I encountered a blood orange, I was fascinated. Don't tell me you weren't. The stupid thought of, "It's an orange, but it's red!" popped out of my mouth. Thank God I was among friends. I think I also used the word "neat". The flavor was, of course, citrusy, but tinged with berries. The acid wasn't overpowering and there was a hint of bitterness behind the sweet of it. It was a fruit I could wholly identify with. I bought up several and ate them out-of-hand, I put them into salads, I squeezed them for juice, which I still do. Apparently, so should you. Read on:

Anthocyanin, the pigment, which gives the orange its distinctive interior color (and possibly gives the fruit its subtle berry-flavored notes), is a powerful antioxidant that neutralizes the effects of free-radical chemicals within our bodies. Free radicals, if you haven't heard, are in part responsible for cancer and, even more horrifying to some people, aging. Anthocyanins also help prevent ulcers and improve one's vision, so drink and eat up.

Blood Orange Salad



I want to thank Erik Cosselmon of Kokkari for this one. There are innumerable ways to slip blood oranges into salads, but this is my favorite method, by far. It's great to eat as either a salad course or as dessert.

Ingredients:

3 blood oranges (Moro are used here, but use whichever you want or can find)
2 to 3 dates (I used Medjools), pit removed and cut into slivers
1/4 cup walnuts, either toasted and salted or candied. I vote candied.
Olive oil for drizzling, the best you've got.
Rose water for more drizzling.

Preparation:

1. With a very sharp knife, cut skin from the oranges. Slice the flesh into 1/2-inch pieces, across the grain, so that they look rather like bleeding morning glories. Arrange on your serving dish of choice.

2. Sprinkle slivered dates and walnuts over and around the orange slices.

3. Drizzle with olive oil.

4. Drizzle with rose water (orange blossom water works very well, too, if rosewater reminds you too much of your grandmother). Be very sparing with the rose water, otherwise your salad will smell rather whorish, in my opinion.

5. Serve and eat. Exhausting recipe, I know. I'll do my best to present you with something easier next time.

Big Night Out: The Melting Pot

Last week, my friend Lyle invited me down to the Peninsula to have a big fondue dinner with him and our friend Jack at The Melting Pot. Why? What else can one do when one's girlfriend is out of town except eat an enormous meal of melted cheese, bread, and hot oil-cooked meat? I took the Caltrain down to San Mateo, empty stomached and ready to be amused. The Melting Pot sounded quaint to me, like some homey, Americanized little Alpine restaurant. I had absolutely no idea it was a 33 year-old national franchise born in Maitland, Florida (just outside of Orlando, not surprisingly) with 130 restaurants in its partnership. Of course, I have absolutely no idea about a lot of things.

As we approached the restaurant, I worried about its size-- a two-story fondue restaurant with outdoor seating? On a cold winter night, I wasn't surprised to see no one dining al fresco. Then I wondered, who eats fondue outside? Give me an old pine table by a roaring fire, not an aluminum one under a portable heat lamp. I knew my hope for quaintness was about to be dashed to pieces upon the hardwood-veneered walls and Corian tabletops inside, so I checked that hope at the door with my coat.



When we entered, the first thing I noticed was The Melting Pot logo etched onto glass, sheeted with a constant stream of water immediately behind the host stand. I shuddered a little. I hoped that, should a grease fire occur at my table, no one would come to douse it with a cooling waterfall. The host standing in front of the image was very friendly and passed us to a server who gave us a table upstairs.



The decor upstairs was evocative of a suburban steak house-- leather banquets, pendant lamps that hang too close to the eyes- forcing one to look down at the table and not at one's dining comanions without sunglasses, and odd bits of painting hanging on the wall. My favorite is shown above. I suppose an endless glass of red wine and a woman who can bend herself any which way is a great night out for some.

Our server was the same woman who showed us to our booth. Over the course of the meal, I would come to decide that she was possibly the best server I'd had in quite some time (much better than the server we had the last time the three of us got together for dinner)-- funny, warm, always showing up when we might need something, and very knowledgeable about the menu. When I asked for the silliest cocktail available, she suggested the Tipsy Turtle, a beverage of various rums and juices. Knowing full well that this was not to be a traditional fondue experience, I accepted, it was refreshing, though I was too stubborn to remove the half of a pineapple wedged into the glass, so it kept hitting me in the nose and I dribbled a little.

Opening the menu, I was immediately depressed by the pull-out image of Marlo Thomas with two cute, smiling yet mortally ill children. I won't argue that St. Jude's Children's Hospital is a worthy charity, I just don't like being accosted for change as I'm settling into dinner, whether it be some man rapping on a window asking me for beer money in the Haight or That Girl. Perhaps most disturbing was the amount of airbrushing done to the photo. I flipped the advertisement over so I no longer had to look at it. That accomplished, I read the large, laminated menu.



Filled with photos, the menu told me what I could expect from The Melting Pot and "How [my] Melting Pot Experience Works". I was relieved to know, with the guidance of image number two shown above, that I was to simply select my salad and presumably eat it without dipping it in anything hotter than ranch dressing.

A four course dinner at the Melting Pot is called a Big Night Out. Mediterranean Cheese Fondue, a choice of salad, a choice of "featured entrée selections", and then a choice of chocolate fondue for dessert.



The Mediterranean Cheese Fondue was a concoction of Swiss Gruyère, a touch of shallot, garlic, white truffle oil, and-- perhaps for Mediterranean-ness-- chopped dates. To my knowledge, the peoples of the Mediterranean have no deep history of fondue. But, I thought, this is the Melting Pot. Cultures will mingle, blend smoothly, just like in this big, big country of ours, God Bless it. I gave it a go. It wasn't bad. I rather liked the dates. What I liked even more was the fact that our server mixed up the whole mess tableside. For one brief moment, it was Benihana with cheese.



The main course selection was rather disappointing. We selected the Fondue Feast platter at $84 per couple, because none of us could see the logic of ordering the Lobster Indulgence at $95 per couple. Who wants lobster fondue? Oh. You do. I'm sorry. I was rather put off by the fact that the price of the platters was listed by the "couple". I might have chosen to write "for two" rather than point a sharp stick in the eye of couple-less souls like myself. Besides, there were three of us. I might have been more impressed had the menu given a break to "throuples".



The platter was a collision of items: filet mignon medallions, citrus pork tenderloin, White Shrimp (?), garlic and herb chicken, vegetables, and balsamic-marinated sirloin which, as a result of sitting in so much blackish vinegar, looked more like liver than sirloin. Also on the platter was pasta. To fry? Jack experimented with one of the black and yellow striped ravioli, lost it in the hot canola oil and asked Lyle and me to help him "find Nemo" because he thought they looked like little clown fish. None of us saw any benefit to frying ravioli, but we ate compulsively.



After we had finished our main course, a gentleman came over to the table to remove the boiling oil from our sight with a fascinating little contraption, the name of which escaped me after a cocktail and a few glasses of wine. I thought back to the Canadian PSA that Mrs. Lucianovic had reported on a few weeks back. A very, very good idea.



Dessert was, to my mind, a bit much, but not out of place, considering where we were. I decided to just embrace this too-muchness and dive in. I selected the Flaming Turtle Fondue-- milk chocolate, caramel, and chopped pecans, flambéed tableside with Amaretto-- as a sort of gilded, lead-filled bookend to my Tipsy Turtle at the beginning of the meal.



A platter of brownies, strawberries, banana, cheesecake, pound cake and various marshmallows sat on our table.



For all my big city, I'm-a-bloody-food-snob posturing, I ate everything. Okay, the Oreo cookie crumb-dusted marshmallows were not palatable, but you can pretty much dip anything in chocolate.

It's little wonder Americans are so fat. A Big Night Out? Well, I felt so much bigger as the result of our dinner. When I returned to Lyle's house, I got on the scale and nearly cried as only a gay man or teen-aged girl can in such situations. I looked at my Melting Pot-belly and thought ahead to my New Year's resolutions.

I think the next time I opt for fondue, I shall do it at home. And simply. Cheese, wine, bread, apples. The warmth of a fire and a friend or two. Perhaps in my own couple. Of course, the only heat source in my apartment is the tiny radiator in my living room, so I may need to rethink the romance of it all. If you've got a fireplace, give me a call.

To visit a Melting Pot near you, visit their (rather bizarre) website. Take special note of the front page and click on a fondue pot or two. Please let me know if you decide to join their Club Fondue.

The Melting Pot in San Mateo is located at:
2 North B Street
San Mateo, CA 94401
(650) 342-6368

For directions, click here.

Hours of Operation:

Monday- Wednesday 5 p.m. to 10 p.m.
Thursday and Friday 4:30 p.m. to 11 p.m..
Saturday 3 p.m. to 11 p.m.
Sunday 3 p.m. to 10 p.m.