Onion Ring Bliss at The Napper Tandy

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Ring envy is not unknown here.

​The big guy with bulging eyes across the u-shaped bar has put on an album's worth of System of a Down songs. To the amusement of his female companion, he is bellowing along and banging his tattooed fists, rattling bottles of malt vinegar, ketchup, and mustard, shaking salt shakers, making the pepper canisters shimmy down the shiny wooden bar like awkward dancers.

"Bartender," he suddenly moans plaintively to the grim-looking Irish lady pulling taps. "I don't want to be a complainer, but I think my glass has a hole in it," he says. He gestures down to a mug lined only with traces of foam, smiling sheepishly, hands upturned, as if he were slightly proud. "That'll be another then," she sighs. He hoots, and swivels his head, catching our eye. We have been trying to watch the game, but he has me in a boozy, unblinking gaze. He glances at our plate, and points with one trembling finger. He's grinning. "Those look like good rings, dude."

In fact, they are.

We are at our local-est local, The Napper Tandy, enjoying a plate of onion rings, a burger, and a few pints of Smithwick's. The scene is typical for a Thursday night. The bartender is wearing a shirt emblazoned with a silk-screened peace sign. Nonetheless, she hates us, as she appears to hate everyone. We do not hold this against her though; she is swamped by a demanding post-work clientele, and every so often she mutters something funny enough to encourage our continued congeniality. A lanky, slightly gnarled Irish man in warm-up pants has his little dog perched on the bar. The dog is frantically drinking beer from his glass and his mates are laughing ― barking, really. To the left of the beer-crazed pup, our North of the Border burger ($7.95) sits. It is a pedestrian affair. However, our onion rings ($4.95) ― they are truly very, very good. When we worked at a fish restaurant in high school, the onion rings our wretched boss served were frozen, shriveled, chewy things of uniform size and shape. In contrast, these are massive, translucent halos of crunch and sweet, slithery onion. Grease oozes out with each snapping bite.

Onion rings ― especially such large, puffy ones ― shouldn't stay on a plate for more than a few minutes. They wilt, and the luscious currents of oil flowing in the crannies within soak into the crust, mushing up the delicate balance between batter and onion. That is why we are eating our heaped order so swiftly. That, and there's also a large drunk man staring at them with an uncomfortable longing from across the bar.

The Napper Tandy 3200 24th St. (at South Van Ness), 550-7510.