Menus for a Future Generation

I spent $1.10 on two pork steam buns on Stockton Street for dinner. One dollar and ten cents. The street was packed and alive at 5pm and the shopkeepers shouted out their offerings as fish flopped, so fresh and shiny and -- damn, I need a kitchen. If I had a wok, I'd take that tilapia and fry it up with ginger, garlic, scallions. The shops are intimidating at this time of day with the urgent and certain familiarity of the crowd. When I approached the counter for my steam buns, a look of mild impatience crossed the seller's face and then, when my order was swift and sure, a more welcoming visage came out.
Eating in the city can either bleed money on a plate or shock with its unbelievable affordability. I ate at a spot called Home in the Castro a few months ago, had that ubiquitous post-9/11 Comfort Food -- meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans -- and set myself back almost $20. Why do we pay so much for cooking that Mom pulled together because we had not much money? The other side of that spectrum is El Trebol, an old favorite Nicaraguan spot near 24th and Mission Street. For less the $6 a man can get a grilled steak, rice, beans, salad, tortillas, pico de gallo, and for another $2, a beer.
Downstairs from my perch on Columbus Avenue, at The Rose Pistola, a meal is segregated into its parts and sold off in very expensive morsels -- $35 for the fish alone, another $8 for the starch, and throw on $6 for vegies. If you glance at the wine list you've lost a benjamin. What will the future generations think when they find our menus?