Overhead, two floating pink elephants soar through the celestial skies with their long, fleshy trunks extended toward one another in passion. To my left, Samurais swiftly unsheathe gleaming, hand-crafted katanas as dusk dims the light enveloping their masterful dance of death. To my right, Kobe Bryant imperiously approaches the free throw line clutching an orange leather ball between his hands that controls an entire nation’s fate. In front of me, tofu lettuce wraps fervently stare me down, their green onions, water chestnuts, mushrooms and garlic spiraling into an amalgamation of culinary bliss. Meanwhile, speakers fill the room with the sound of Mick Jagger’s insatiable dissatisfaction. Needless to say, OB Noodle House has ambience.
“My approach to designing this restaurant was really just based around a single question: ‘what would I want from a restaurant if I were the customer?’” OB Noodle House owner Steve Yeng said.
Like a young Californian Confucius of restaurant management, Yeng gives me his philosophy of running the popular Ocean Beach restaurant.
“You just need to know where to put the money that you’ll inevitably have to use. The money that most companies spend on their advertising is money that could be given right back to the customer, which is really what should come first,” Yeng said.
If the food and atmosphere are enjoyable, it seems, then the clientele will promote the busines. (That, of course, and fledgling writers looking for a free meal.)
Despite an early departure from his college education, Yeng nonetheless went on to use the combination of his real estate prowess and street smarts to purchase the empty building that, within just a few years, evolved into one of Ocean Beach’s most successful restaurants. Every night, OB Noodle House hosts a gregarious crowd with its casual, yet avant-garde theme situated somewhere between the East and the West, between pho and beer, between kung fu movies and classic rock and between Voltaire Street and Muir Street.
Through the wonderful perks of reviewing restaurants, Yeng hands me a blank check and I immediately set out to work. A few Beatles songs and sake shots later, entrées find their way to my table, consisting of a bowl of pho, a plate of assorted veggie stir-fried egg noodles and those tofu lettuce wraps I hyperbolized earlier. Salivating with excitement, I take a savory lettuce wrap with my eager hands and prepare my food-hole for entry. Upon contact of the oriental medley with my wild, writhing tongue, time suddenly comes to a standstill and the stars align. With a fiery passion, my taste buds erupt like solar flares arching off the surface of the sun. My pupils dilate with such intensity that my eyes transfigure into two lunar eclipses of dietary passion. My mind overflows with such incredible bliss that, for just a moment, I lose all regrets, all worries, all pain. It tastes good. Really good.
I wash down the bite with a shot of melon sake. The drink cascades down my esophagus, filling my stomach with warm pleasure and my liver with the fear of more abuse from its master. Using the venerable “pasta-fork-roll” technique we have all come to know and love, I take some of the veggie noodle stir-fry and introduce it to my teeth. My palette gives its approval once again, so I proceed to finish it off with a gulp of some fresh hot pho, bringing me back to that tasty, familiar comfort that a bowl of pho should. Countless sake shots and solar flares later, I realize that I’m not Adam Richman from Man v. Food and decide to hold onto my life for another day. I ask the waiter for a “to go” bucket for the pho or for, as he later corrects me, a “phucket.”
Looking back on the memory, I’m quite glad that the rice liquor didn’t erase it. The food was flat out delicious—it alone would keep me coming back even if the restaurant was just one of those hole-in-the-wall takeout joints. By the way, there is also an ample selection on the menu for all of you carnivores. I apologize that I don’t exactly have the ideal diet for a writer in this profession—hiring a vegetarian food critic is like bringing a one-armed drummer into your band. But hey, if Def Leppard can do it, so can I.
The drink selection was also impressive; the restaurant had everything on tap from Belgian Delirium Tremens ale to locally brewed Stone IPAs, along with a wide variety of high-end but reasonably priced liquors.
But the real thing that set OB Noodle House apart from other eateries was its atmosphere. The informal and outgoing approach of the staff mixed with the boisterousness of the customers made for an enjoyable night. Ocean Beach has always been a town that defies convention, and Yeng has effectively applied the town’s unreserved style to the restaurant experience.
As if OB Noodle House’s daily $1 beer happy hour wasn’t already too good to be true, this holiday season the owner has scheduled some liver-festering festivities for the restaurant’s customers.
“This Christmas, we’ll be doing a big thank you to all of our customers and be throwing a 25 cent beer day,” Yeng said. “We regularly play a good amount of Bob Dylan, Credence Clearwater Revival, Van Morrison, The Doors and all that. So to complement the music, we’ll be bringing the beer price down to what it cost back in the ‘60s. We’ll also be throwing the first annual Ocean Beach snowball fight!”
Having dodged a severely gluttonous check, I get up, throw on my jacket and express gratitude to Yeng on behalf of my swollen stomach and sake-inundated conscious. As I’m about to make my way for the door, I pause to take in my surroundings once more through a newly satisfied mindset. The Samurais in the film to my left now lay dead in an empty field, their swords stained with the blood of their rivals. To my right, Kobe Bryant pouts alongside millions of middle-aged American men as the Lakers lose to the Spurs, 84-82. The tofu lettuce wraps on my plate have been completely decimated; their lingering fragrance on my mustache is all that remains. Even The Rolling Stones have long been surpassed on the playlist, replaced by the supersonic electric guitar orgasms of Jimi Hendrix.
Looking up, however, my glazed eyes widen to find the ceiling mural of floating pink elephants exactly how I had left it. With trunks outstretched toward one another in acceptance, their angelic pinkness has remained suspended in those heavenly clouds all this time, never to falter, never to fall. Without judgment or fear, I realize the extent to which their warm elephant love knows no bounds.
