I hate trying to write about a place I find so bad that I feel sorry for anyone and everyone connected with it, but that's my feeling about Rocco's Café. I've only tried breakfast here, and it's a little unfair to judge the place after only two visits for my morning meal, but I'm also just not 'into' the bondage of reportorial diligence I expect from other critics. Perhaps the closest I can come to something positive to say about Rocco's is that it's located in the SOMA area of not-yet passe 'coolness' and excitement, and that it tries earnestly to feel like so many other terminally 'chic' joints given to plastering their walls with memorabilia that only a flea market junkie can appreciate. The walls here are covered with immense amounts of stuff that most of us throw out when we realize that our genitalia are there for more than number "one" and "two."

On my first visit things started off with the confusion one feels when the staff outnumbers the guests and one still can't manage to get seated. Then after getting seated, there's a 'rap' argument over who is going to provide service to your table. That decision made, we found it almost impossible to get coffee or water, let alone order our food. Behind the exposed and dirty looking kitchen were three imposing figures stalking the range with all the menace of heavies in a De Niro 'B' gangster made for video movie, each playing the role of Chef.

We finally got out coffee and ordered what looked like the simplest things on the menu, and waited for almost a half hour for the worst pair of omelets ever produced from eggs to appear, dirty plates all at our still uncleaned table. Both omelets were of the 'rolled' variety. I ordered mine with cheese, bacon, mushrooms and avocado, my friends with ham, onion and cheese. Those responsible for putting Joan of Arc to her ultimate test would have been proud, these babies were charred beyond recognition, and had the added pleasure of being served cold and so out of proportion that the fillings were concentrated in either end of each one, the centers empty and flat. Occupying space on each of our plates alongside our 'take no prisoners' omelets were what were generously described on the menu as home fried potatoes. The smaller pieces of potato had become mush, the larger pieces were like halves of a soiled hardball. To this mixture of mush and firmness we found limp, greasy tops of green onions, also served at arctic temperatures. Both omelets were removed almost untouched by our surly waiter who never found the time to re-fill our coffees nor bring the water we had requested in the first place. The ratio of staff to patron never really changed, and the tempo was consistently insane but we finally paid and left vowing to return with witnesses to determine if perhaps we had been the victims of a 'blackout.'

But on our second visit, with two impartial and unwarned friends, we found that consistency might be the highlight of the joint. It was just as bad, no better or worse, and we tried different menu selections to appease our curiosity, and found that whatever is conceived in that dismal kitchen inhabited by what I've come to believe are escapees from the Planet of the Apes, food is sacrificial and meant to be incinerated. I hope someday to laugh with abandon at my experiences at Rocco's, but in the meantime, I warn you to stay away until the place is truly fireproof.

Stu Smith Comments & Suggestions to Stusmith97@aol.com

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