Follow the Tourists to Sears Fine Food. San Francisco, called by the late columnist Herb Caen, the "cool gray city" lived up to its reputation as we bucked an August wind to Sutter and Powell and Sears Fine Foods. Sears is in the tour books as home of the “18 Swedish Pancakes,” syrupy sinfully buttery little discs served with bacon and lingonberries. I, as a local, rarely dined there, even though I once had an office in the neighborhood. Sears was a “LOL” kind of restaurant: not “Laugh Out Loud” but an establishment frequented by shivering Wisconsites in bermuda shorts and Cain’s round, blue-haired “Little Old Ladies.” Its waitresses wore white-trimmed black dresses and little hats and had names like “Flo.”

Sears was founded in 1938 by Ben Sears, a retired circus clown, whose wife Hilbur came up with the Swedish pancake recipe (My mom had one too and the pancakes made up for the overcooked potroast...the yin and yang of Swedish cooking). Sears shut its doors in 2003 only to be revived by a neighborhood restaurateur. The food now is better and I have begun to fancy the place, reintroduced by a farang, a friend from UK who insists on breakfasting there. If you get there after eleven you'll miss the line of tourists who by then have embarked on their mission to huff up Nob Hill like out-of-shape Sherpas.