San Francisco

While tropical mansions can conjure up wondrous visions (trays of food and drink brought by dutiful servants as you sprawl luxuriantly in a shaded wicker chair, fresh linens), in reality they're filled with unpleasantries (deadly mosquitoes, Dr Moreau). Get just the good part, at Miss Pearl's.

The 2nd gastro-incarnation of (probably fictional) Miss Pearl, MP's a palm-lined Jack London Sq estate serving up Southern, Caribbean, and Central/South American fare in a whimsical, multi-roomed complex done up in Atlantis-chic with herringbone floors, pearl-encrusted shell chairs, LED-backlit abalone shells, and an aquatic resin bar harboring shells, trinkets, and other sunken booty. The menu starts with a raw bar and small plates (hot mango mustard conch, Jamaican-spiced/guava-glazed spareribs, etc), before blowing up with mains ranging from tamarind-glazed duck confit, to chipotle-buttered Ribeye w/ corn succotash & goat cheese gratin, to jerk chicken/snapper/pork characterized as "intensely hot" (they totally stole your Facebook description). To put out the fire, there's a bountiful list of demera, agricole, and Jamaican/Navy "Sippin' Rums" (e.g., Cadenhead's Green Label, '82 St James Vieux, 23yr Ron Zacapa), plus regional fruit-tales like the mint/bitters/falernum Old Cuban, updated classics like the creme de cacao/coconut Rum Runner, and a flavored-daily cruzan/St Croix JELLO shot, taking you from Martinique to Cancun at speeds no rum runner's ever accomplished.

MP's also pouring sangrias, 26 int'l beers (Chimay Red, New Orleans' Voodoo, Frambois Alembic...), ports, madeiras, sherrys, and dessert wines like an EOS 07 "Tears of Dew" -- an appropriate ending, since it's always sad to leave the tropics, especially when you'll have to explain why a fat man has turned you into a cat.

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