Postcards From San Francisco
Say what you will, it’s still an entertaining city
You know all those things people don’t do in San Francisco because they’re what the tourists all do, like go to Alcatraz or hang out at Fisherman’s Wharf? There’s a reason all the tourists do those things — they’re fun. Natives have either had a one-and-done experience or, as is common in San Francisco, turn up their noses because they opt for new and hip experiences or secret haunts in the city that tourists have never heard of. I’m not gonna lie to you, there’s a little bit of snobbery in the City by the Bay (although Eater recently relented and ran a piece on “17 Actually Worthwhile Tourist Traps in San Francisco.)
But, as I said, some of the tourist cliches are fun, and then some. For instance, on Sunday morning we rolled down the hill to the Buena Vista, the corner café that launched a million Irish coffees (30 million, to be exact). It was 9:30, the air was clear and brisk and we got a couple of seats at the bar after a 20-minute wait in line (a lot of tourists this holiday season!). Being responsible adults we opted for a single Irish coffee between us and then ordered up a monster breakfast — eggs two ways, tater tots, bacon and French toast. What it lacked in health benefits it made up for in gustatory pleasure. The waitress was sassy, the clientele was convivial (the Irish coffee helped a little in that regard) and the energy was high. The Buena Vista hasn’t changed much in the past 50 years. Some things just work.
We rolled a little further down the hill after that and picked up a cable car on the Hyde Street line. I used to ride them for a quarter in 1969; today it’ll set you back $8 for a one-way trip. I hadn’t been on a cable car since they cost a quarter, but, like the Buena Vista, they haven’t changed a bit. The wooden seats have decades of patina and if you get a spot right beside the grip you can watch the cable car operators in all their glory — pulling back the stick to grab the cable running under the street, clacking along 80-year old rails, the bell clanging with every approaching intersection. It’s about a 15-minute ride downtown, but there’s so much to see along the way, especially the rows of vintage apartment buildings along Hyde. The pace of the ride, the patina of the seats, the romance of old apartments like the “Washington Mews” all combine into a virtual time machine that slowly draws you back into the San Francisco of Charles McCabe and Herb Caen. Only in San Francisco.
Later in the day, we popped into the Kiton boutique downtown. It’s always fun to browse $6,000 sportcoats and $3,000 cashmere vests just for the hell of it. A few minutes after looking around, a sales guy approached me. He was my height, my age (approximately), gray hair, wearing blue jeans and a sharp blazer. There’s no hard sell at Kiton, so we just started talking. We had Southern California connections and ended up comparing surf spots like Black’s, Swami’s, Cardiff, Bird Rock and Pacific Beach. I told him I wanted to take the sport up again — big board, small waves — and he said he still had a collection of about eight boards, at which point he whipped out his phone and showed me a shot of his “Kiton” board, pictured above. He had given the board shaper Casey McCrystal a swatch of Kiton fabric in a red tartan design, which Casey integrated into the board, including a tartan motif on the fin. I don’t think there’s too many haute couture boards floating around this city. Only in San Francisco? I think so.
Last week, after getting back from a holiday party that had left me a little buzzed, I decided to take a fresh-air stroll before I turned in for the night. I walked down to the water in relatively warm and balmy air, without so much as a wisp of a breeze — a rare occurrence in San Francisco. Standing at the top of a flight of stairs, I watched a young man ride up in a bicycle with a little portable speaker playing a lovely solo improvisational piano piece. He parked his bike, took off his backpack and fished out a bong, which he loaded up and hit on, exhaling a big plume of smoke. I stood there listening to the music and then spontaneously shouted down to him, “Dude, that’s a beautiful tune, thanks!” He beckoned me down and so for a few minutes we talked about music and night rides, when he suddenly asked, “Have you ever done DMT?” No, I replied. He then went on to tell me in vivid detail about a DMT experience he had had, with “all that sacred geometry shit,” “pink tutu fractals,” and a mysterious woman in white with gold trim who convinced him that he had absolutely nothing at all to worry about, anywhere, at anytime. I was struck not so much with the content of his monologue, which was literally fantastic, but with its authenticity — the passion with which he told his story and all its hallucinogenic frills — and its utter strangeness. He went on for almost 10 minutes and when he stopped to take a breath, I thanked him and excused myself. Minutes later, as I was walking home through Ghirardelli Square, a well-groomed young man in his early 30s approached me and asked for the time. “11:08,” I replied, to which he exclaimed, “Oh, shit!”and ran off. Only in San Francisco? I think so.
It was a Saturday afternoon and we felt like a late lunch, so we rolled into John’s Grill about 3 p.m. John’s is a San Francisco mainstay. The tourists come because it’s a place that Dashiell Hammett included in a scene from “The Maltese Falcon” and the locals come because it’s good grub at a fair price with great ambience — dark wood, white tablecloths and a lively bar. We took a table by a window alcove, then ordered a Caesar and piece of petrale sole. Soon, wild squalls of laughter erupted at a table hidden from our view. The laughter came in waves and I couldn’t help myself — I walked over to see who was having so much fun. It was a table of about 15 very handsome Black women in their 40s and 50s. They were quiet when I approached. “What are y’all having, because we want some of that,” I said, which set off another round of wild laughter. As I turned away from the table and the laughter subsided, I realized who’d been seated in the middle of the table, the ringleader’s seat, so to speak — San Francisco Mayor London Breed. The table became more subdued after that, which I theorized was the mayor tamping things down a little so she wouldn’t become an item again on social media for partying too hard.
Just the day before that, I’d gone to Sam’s Grill (I guess I was on a grill crawl last week), which of course included a lunch of sole dore and a chilled martini. Seated at the corner table not far away was the once and perpetual mayor of San Francisco, Willie Brown, himself with a piece of fish, a martini and a couple of friends. I imagined them all doing a scorecard of London Breed’s mayoral performance. Two mayors in two days. Only in San Francisco? I think so.
Oh yeah, it was Santa Con this past weekend. Santa Con, if you don’t know, started in San Francisco in 1994 when a bunch of people decided to dress up as Santa Claus and go on a 12-hour pub crawl because, after all, who doesn’t like to dress up in a red, fur-trimmed onesie and get pie-eyed? Since then, it’s spread across the country (that’s the New York version this year, pictured above). Although the theme is Santa Claus, we did see one fellow who decided to buck the trend. He was standing outside of Sak’s Fifth Avenue right off Union Square wearing a Santa Hat, a pair of shoes, and a strategically placed gold fig leaf — and not a stitch else. Only in San Francisco? Definitely.
Thanks for reviving some special memories - Buena Vista is the best, especially at night when the singing spontaneously starts!
Russ - Brillant! Do you ever sleep?