San Francisco, where's your disco?
Why's the Golden Gate city lacking? My answer sat inside a cocktail bar.
We loitered outside. Like predictable alcoholics.
Waiting for the bar door to swing open at 4 o’clock. Like cowboys outside a western saloon, except in our holsters were weathered Chase Sapphire cards.
A more eager couple, eyeing us wearily, had arrived even before our roving brunch ensemble, relieving the embarrassment only slightly. Who were these detestable fuckers?
But, to the point, how was it so difficult to locate an operating cocktail bar in the Castro district of San Francisco in the mid afternoon of a Saturday? Not a gay bar with a repellent playlist detonating at an obnoxious volume, twinks flitting abound. Not an Irish pub with middle-aged men in Carhartt utility vests seated on stools in silence, staring at their Guinness’.
A cocktail bar, with a printed menu, a mahogany wood-paneled finish and an aesthetically pleasing arrangement of liquor bottles on a glass wall to gaze at.
Sophistication. Respectability.
Negroni. Martini. Boulevardier. Olé.
For this, you must wait until the hour strikes four.
When the time finally arrived, the pitiful couple before us darted inside the darkened but open-air room … to commandeer the corner pool table. Of all things!
Our group of five effortlessly annexed the center of the bar for ourselves, spreading out comfortably and shimmying the premises to life with our triumphalism. I, perhaps subconsciously, though possibly intuitively, struck up conversation with a city resident of who I was unfamiliar with outside of the preceding brunch.
Allison, a friend of my friend, a D.C. adjacent native (Silver Spring, eh), carried the eyes of a cheshire cat and the subtle disposition of authority. Someone who knew. And someone not to fuck with. How exciting!
The question I posed to her was innocent enough and anodyne: How was San Francisco living?
And with this gentle prompt, she began unfurling one of the most cogent, comprehensive and convincing take-down cases I’ve heard anyone relay about their city.
San Francisco was lacking, Allison asserted.
And she beared a list of exactly why, without taking the easy route by blaming the homeless.
San Francisco is a No-Cal City, Allison declared, which means the goal is maintaining a calorie deficit. This makes it hard to easily find the indulgent and yes, unhealthy food options humans universally crave in order to reward ourselves for a hellish week or a brutalist boss or the “clean eating” discipline we’ve begrudgingly adhered to all. Week. Long.
SF is is widely regarded as one of the country’s most vegan friendly cities. And to its credit, you can see this on the streets. Very few are overweight. But the struggle to keep thin while indulging in late night french fries is emblematic of why life shouldn’t be easy.
It’s An Early-to-Rise, Early-to-Bed City. Some of this, Allison explained, is due to jobs that run on East Coast time. But much of it is rooted in preference and attitude. And that has dastardly downstream consequences for the culture.
No Bar Culture After 9:30. Allison, who is thin herself thank you very much, likes to drink. Beer is her preference. But she divulged that it’s tough to find drinking buddies well after the sun goes down. (As a related note, I observed that several restaurants lacked liquor licenses and only served wine and beer — a truly irritating trait for a cocktail connoisseur.) People do happy hours but retire soon after, in order to chase that next sunrise up the hilltop, which leads us to Allison’s most hilarious condemnation of the Bay area.
Hiking Is A Personality. Part of the reason folks are striving to take advantage of the early rays is because they’re gravitationally pulled towards the trails. Geared up with their North Face beanie, REI boots and Columbia water bottle, they’re born to climb through the fog. Allison grumbled that it’s all some people talk about. Hiking and biking. Which explains why those bars are so sleepy in the evening.
The Weather. Admittedly, I nudged Allison toward this one. But seriously, San Francisco weather is overrated. I wanted to say “sucks,” but reminded myself of the beautiful Thursday morning walk I partook in, in which a cloudless sun bathed me in resplendent luminance, producing sweat streaks down my back. But as a whole mid 60s weather is still MID. 62 degrees every goddamn day sounds great, but living it is an entire test in versatility and preparedness. 62 can be warm with unobstructed sunlight, but the clouds or fog (what’s the difference?) inevitably roll in every afternoon or evening mandating you carry a sweater or jacket. And that is no way to live summer months anywhere on planet Earth. “It’s just never gets really cold,” is how Allison explained the faux hype around San Francisco weather. So mediocrity reigns. 62 and sunny, fooled you once.
I don’t hate San Francisco.
San Francisco has truly breathtaking topography (I mean this literally, climbing some of the hills? Insane), it provides easy access to the best vineyards in the world and it’s obviously developing some of the most important technology in our lives.
Plus, I enjoy anywhere my people are. Those you love and are with elevate any location — and that’s the true point of travel, outside the Instagrammable recap.
I’d be happy to go back and grab a drink with Allison at an edgy hour when the sky is jet black and the next decision is left to risk and some chance there will be no hike the next day.
Someone has to do it.
