Iceman's going for the hard-deck. Let's nail him, Goose! Attention: Everyone should turn, burn and check out Maverick, the little restaurant near the corner of 17th and Mission. Sure, it seems like it might be below your personal hard-deck; it looks a little too Blondie's, maybe a little too Limon. But believe me, any place that serves fresh peppers with a garnish of ancho chiles is a danger zone well worth taking a highway to, even if that highway isn't really a highway. Seriously: Call the ball. Order the steak. And the ribs. The stone fruit salad will be a bogey on your tail for days afterward. Where's MiG one? He's at Maverick. Affirmative, Ghost Rider, the pattern is full. Because the pattern just ate at Maverick.
Categories
One reply on “Maverick”
Would Maverick by any other name taste as sweet? Probably. It might even taste better. I resisted Maverick for a long time, put off by the name and the fact that it opened around the same time as Range, making it seem as if an Old West theme was sweeping the Mission restaurant scene. Except neither restaurant has much to do with the Old West; they're both solidly New California. The name is just about the only note Maverick hits wrong. Words like bacon vinaigrette and home-baked cookies (allow 10 minutes) ring so true they make up for the dissonance of the name.