At dinner time yesterday, Carol and I were in San Francisco near Chinatown. We started looking for a restaurant. We did not go into the one that had the touts out on the street corner passing out coupons. We did not go into the expensive one on the main tourist street, the one filled with obvious tourists. We had to dodge out of the way as a block-long cavalcade of German tourists came down the sidewalk photographing everything in sight. We ducked down a side street. “Let’s go to that bakery place with a restaurant in the back,” I said. Carol was willing, and we circled around. The tables had formica tops. The prices were reasonable, and our waitress was pleasant. They had congee for me and pea sprouts for Carol. There was a dad with a toddler and a little girl dressed in pink, a man in a coat and tie sitting alone, a big table surrounded by people in their twenties, some other middle aged couples. It was pleasantly noisy from people talking, mostly not in English. It was not fancy food. What more could I want from a restaurant? .