This was a frequent haunt of mine in the early
seventies; I liked the mystery of the place.
But I stopped going after this one occasion where I was the instigator
behind a dinner for a large group of Crown Zellerbach computer people. Not that I was treating, most people kicked
in their fair share. But in the end, I
was drunk, had a woman with me, and kept as much cash as I could. I charged the meal to my American Express
card. As our party of 14 departed in a
haze of taxi-cab exhaust, the headwaiter, came outside to the taxi stand at
2:20 a.m. to ask me, "Has everything been all right, Sir." In an embarrassed and subdued tone, I had to
answer, "The service has been excellent, but I will have to catch you a
later time." I never did.
Alexis had a little brass sign out in front, at the
street level, which simply said "Alexis." You had to know what it meant, and where it
led. Entering led you down a short
flight of steps into, "The Casbah," a bar area where one could have a
drink and decide on dinner. In the late
seventies, this became the entrée to disco dancing in the restaurant area
below. But in the era which I remember, a
host led one down another flight of
steps to the dining room. In all
honesty, I can't rave about the food, but I ordered the wrong things. During the early seventies, my parents and I
were all sharing one of those gigantic Stanford Court apartments just on the
other side of the Mark Hopkins. My
parents and I entered the hallowed ground of Alexis one night for an
exceedingly early dinner, as soon as they opened, which was my father's
penchant, about 5:30 p.m.
There was a black woman in the cocktail lounge while
we were waiting for seating and then the hostess seated us for dinner, the only
other person in the place at 5:40 was this black woman, sitting alone.
My father could not resist communicating, it was his
nature as a salesman to cultivate and befriend all around him. "Why are you here so early?" he
asked.
"I have a speech to make tonight," she said.
"Are you a business woman?" my father asked.
"No. I am
a poet," she said.
My father taunted her with various commentaries. "What do you think of Billy
Holiday?"
"She's got a good voice." "But I've got to work on my
speech."
"What are you speaking about?" my father
asked.
"About my book," she responded, "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings."
My mother said she'd heard about that. My father said, "We'll let you get back
to work then."
Alfred's, 886 Broadway, SUtter 1-7058
What a lucky person I was to have my first in-depth
exposure to San Francisco be from the vantage point of North Beach. Over the years, I lived in the Marina, on
Russian Hill, in the Mission, and in Bernal Heights. But it was the inner heart of the City that
formed my first impressions of San Francisco.
There were many places to impress a date. Alfred's was one of those; almost over the
top, but not quite. Their preparation of
Abalone was without equal, but if I was hungry, Fettuccini Alfredo was my favorite. An event one-night cast in stone my loyalty
to the place when I came to the end of a lovely meal and, reaching for my
wallet, realized that I had truly left it at home. It was about a fifty-dollar tab and the young
lady I was with had no money. The waiter
asked me if I had a business card. I did
and I gave one to him. He then asked me
to drop in the next night and pay the tab, which I did and with a very generous
tip.
The Blue Fox, 659 Merchant Street, DOuglas 2-9316
I remember taking dates here in the late fifties and
early sixties. I usually talked my date
into sharing a rack of lamb. I would be
embarrassed these days to know what sort of wines I ordered then. I think I usually left it up to the
waiter. I was a cocktail drinker. The only wine I knew about was Chianti at
Italian restaurants. In retrospect,
places like the Blue Fox and Amelio's were too reserved for me. I like to be loud when I eat and drink. Also one lesson my father taught me was that
one is happiest at a restaurant where you can freely order anything on the menu
without consideration of the cost.
Blum’s
The memories go back a lot further than twenty years. My Blum’s is at the top of Nob Hill in the
Fairmont. I lived across the street for
a year: and as is the habit of SF city people, I bought the Chronicle between
11 and midnight; had a coffee at Blum’s and read about “my people” until I
retired to the Stanford Court. I ran
into many people, after midnight, at the Fairmont bar, including my father one
night. Of course I remember the Blum’s
along Market Street as well.
The Cliff House, 1090 Point Lobos Avenue, SKyline 1-7220
Sunday brunch at the Cliff House is one of my personal
traditions in San Francisco. The view
wakes you up and makes you feel alive, or that’s the Ramos Fizz. The popovers are something I could eat all
day long.
Buena Vista, 2765 Hyde Street, GRaystone 4-5044
Sunday mornings at the BV. Irish coffee if on my own or with Bill. Breakfast in the back room if I’m entertaining
out-of-towners, friends or family. It’s
so conducive to walking around afterward.
David's Delicatessen, 460 Geary Street, ORdway 3-8820
I hung out there for a year while kids were doing acting lessons there
in the theater district. That’s where I
went to get Rita a treat of B&L in bed for a lie-in Sunday morning.
Des Alpes
A once a quarter must go to place up on Broadway and Stockton. Like standard servings at old tradition
Italian restaurants, the Basque restaurants like this one took away all that
angst-producing decision-making and just served you their food, family style: a
big tureen of soup, plenty of bread and wine, your choice, red or white. Then fish, salad, meat, and dessert. Enough for everyone to get something they
like. Unlimited servings, “You want
more? – you got it – but better eat it up or be scowled at by the waiter or
waitress.
The Domino Club, 25 Trinity Place, EXbrook 2-5579
This was one of several night clubs on "The Hors
D'oeuvres" circuit. My favorite was
Paoli's. The Domino Club, however, took
one back to the Barbary Coast days with its nude paintings behind the bars,
upstairs and down.
Enrico's, Broadway
My father and I often ate at Enrico's in the sixties
and seventies and we always had the same thing, a Salisbury Steak on sourdough,
and two tall gin and tonics, one before and one with the meal. I never liked gin, but this was the right
drink for the occasion. He didn't just
order gin, too plebian, "Tanqueray and tonic, please, … tall."
Enrico's was a favorite because
it was a sidewalk café and we watched the pretty girls walk by on Broadway and
Montgomery. Hookers and hippies in
outrageous clothing and I was in the middle of it with my involvement in Champagne
Taste on Upper Grant Avenue. My father
got vicarious pleasure out of the social side, Carol Doda walking by and
saying, "Hi, Peter." He was
based in what some considered a small town, San Jose, and I was here with the
movers and the shakers. I was working
for an investment company that was responsible on some days for a significant
percentage of the activity on the NYSE.
I was a consultant to the mutual fund manager, Bob Brown, in the trading
room. I would bring my dad tips and we
would talk about the stock market. The
market was like gambling for him. I
would relay advice from Bob Brown.
Ernie's, 847 Montgomery Street, EXbrook 2-9846
I took Walter Browne and his wife here for dinner once
as a bribe to attend Friday night speed chess tournaments. Red drapes, gushing
waiters
Fior D'Italia, 621 Union Street, YUkon 6-1886
Right there across the Washington Square park from the
big Saints Peter and Paul church. It was
a favorite of tourists and always booked. I skipped this one, handy as it was when I was
living in North Beach. Lots of Dirty
Harry movies filmed in this area with Clint Eastwood in the eventies.
Grison's Steak House, Van Ness at Pacific, ORdway
3-1888
My neighbor, Jules Bozzi, used to take me here, when
he brought me to football games. His
bookie was in the kitchen. He introduced
me to many people, whose names I don’t remember, except one. Leo Nomellini, who he brought around to his house, next door to
mine. I met him, remembered, and caught
a ball he threw. He was #1 pick for the
49-ers in 1950.
Gold Spike
North Beach old-fashioned standard fare dinner place. Red or White; Beef or Chicken; Sit down, shut
up or not and eat your food – always good.
Hamburger
Mary’s in the Mission downtown
I’d take the out-of-towners here (late 70’s) to give them the lesson that
gay waiters don’t give you AIDS unless you have sex with them. The food was excellent.
The Iron Horse, 19 Maiden Lane, DOuglas 2-1349
I ate lunch here three days a week for several years
while I was working for American President Lines (APL). This was long before their rebirth over in
Oakland and Minnesota. My years there
were 1971-73. This was also before their
demise, some of which I presided over.
But when I first went to work there, several of my peer group of middle
managers would meet with the V.P. of Data Processing for a luncheon update
meeting. He had a gorgeous eighth floor,
all glass windowed corner office over-looking the Bay. He loved to hear himself talk and as he
progressed through his usual four bloody Mary’s, he became even more
talkative. We had our meetings over
lunch so he could write off the meals on his expense account. It also gave him an excuse to drink. It is no wonder that APL floundered during
this period.
Of course I got to know all the waitresses, who wore
skimpy outfits and who allowed old men like my boss to flirt and tease them,
all for a big tip. I learned to hate the
place, but I did go in after work once a year with my friends and we got a red-carpet
treatment.
Jack's, 615 Sacramento Street, GArfield 1-9854
My father loved this place. I think it reminded him of Ohio or
Michigan. I thought it was an old
gentleman's club that was pretentious and stodgy. – you had to have a coat and
tie on to eat there – a dying tradition in California. We only ate there a few times because I
didn't like the food.
Julius' Castle, 302 Greenwich Street, DOuglas 2-3042
My favorite date restaurant in the sixties and
seventies, especially when I just lived on the other side of the hill, one year
on Telegraph Place and another on Montgomery. Views of the boats in the harbor.
La Bourgogne, 330 Mason
My sister recently reminded me of her 40th birthday dinner
which I treated her to in San Francisco in 1981. Her reminiscence was of those great
sixties/seventies times when SF was exciting and alive.
I had forgotten, where Billy
Campbell and I knew the head waiter, little Jacques. It was our favorite little-known place:
expensive but perfect in every way.
"Oh",
she might say, "I couldn't eat another bite.!"
"But
Madam", he would say, "the Chef has made this extra little item to
taste especially for you."
"No
desserts," she might have said.
"Please
madam", little Jacques would say, "each of these two desserts
complement the meal in their own unique way" "It would be a shame not to experience
the Chef's total concept for your meal."
Little Sweden, 572 O'Farrell Street, GRaystone 4-9767
A great family place that we went to once a month when
I was married to Rita and we were raising three hungry teen-agers. It was an all you can eat Smorgasbord that
had such a variety of things that even the finicky teenagers could find things
they liked.
New Pisa
I was a regular here at two different points of my life: I took a side
job in SF in ~1966 for a paint company working on an application being
developed on paper tape. Gisela was in
Germany so I was kid less, wifeless, and discovering SF life. (2) When I moved up to North Beach, two years
later, I met Henrik at Scandinavian Designs, and we ate regularly at the New
Pisa for months. I took people in there
for many years as the quintessential North Beach Italian family meal.
Pam Pam’s
Used to go there after bar-closing time for early (late)
breakfast. My moment of shame came in
the late sixties when Robert Culp (I Spy),
with his bevy of hangers-on sat across from me with my own bevy. It was 4:00 am when I went over to his table
and called him an asshole for monopolizing the beauties of S.F., “Go Back to
L.A.”, I cursed at him. His TV crew had
rented a comparable luxury apartment, but not mine.
Senior Pico at Ghirardelli Square
Rita and I ate here often. This
was where I convinced John to join the Navy after his problems with
dyslexia. Also made several deals here
with the “boys” about throwing parties for their rock bands.
Speckmann’s on Church
Street
Authentic German food. Many
delicacies not found anywhere else: cheeses, sausage. I liked taking Gisela here, and after having
been in Germany for a few years, I liked the food myself.
San Remo’s
Most of my places will be North Beach places. This place was Rita’s
favorite for breakfast, if she was paying: often it was her, Carol Doda, and
me.
Paoli's, 347 Montgomery Street, SUtter 1-7115
Hors d’ouerves and mixed drinks after work. You could make a meal out of their bar food. It also made a great date place – cheap
dinner.
Sam's Grill, 374 Bush Street, GArfield 1-0594
A favorite of my fathers. We met here for lunch several times a year
during the seventies. He liked Sam's,
famous for fish and for curtains across the private booths. We ate at the bar, competitively crowded, and
had our usual tall gin & tonics.
Sitting at the bar, you could flirt with someone while waiting.
I took the whole PEMEX team from Mexico there one time
for a celebration and they loved it.
It’s the only time I used a curtained booth.
Schroeder's, 240 Front Street, SUtter 1-9818
They catered to the hearty-eating financial district
workingman’s taste. I often went there
for a good, substantial meal with another guy or two. No drinking or one beer at the most.
The Shadows, 1349 Montgomery Street, EXbrook 2-9823
Another of those exotic places up on
Telegraph hill, overlooking the bay.
Hidden away, so the only way I ever got there was in a cab. An elegant entrance, that always impressed a
date. Good German food.
The Spaghetti Factory, Green Street
The idea was so simple that I was amazed that no one
else had capitalized on it yet. The
concept was a simple spaghetti dinner.
Variations were in the sauce, meat or pesto, vegetarian or crab. The spaghetti was excellent, but you can’t
expect less when that is your featured item.
Besides the fine meal, on a low budget, the attendees got this show and
it was a show. Some said it was known
more for its eclectic decor, bohemian clientele, and Anchor Steam Beer than its spaghetti.
The fun place to be was the communal table, seating
about twelve. On busy nights the staff
would try and keep this table full, sort of a variation on counter
seating. The perfect date was to stop in
at The Spaghetti Factory before or after seeing a show at one of the
improvisation clubs. Improv was the
in-thing in the seventies, following in the tradition set by people like Lenny
Bruce. People from the Midwest were
visiting the West Coast to see what was happening. My cousin Christina came with a girlfriend
and stayed a week. We did all these
things and more. She lapped it up,
bought light show lamps, tried grass, and had sex. Another visitor was Zita, who came out for an
East-West Shriners game, mid-January.
She was the head cheer leader for the University of Arizona marching
band. The band was performing at The
Shriners half-time festivities. There
was a constant stream of visitors staying at my place, and there wasn't much
room, even for me. Pat's husband at the
time, Nard, came to visit for a week to see what the hippie/beatnik thing was
all about. He found out from Gerry
Castano, my neighbor across the street, but that put some pressure on his
marriage.
Hoagie, Janet Hogerson, was a regular hanger-on down
at Champagne taste. She was one of a
group of San Jose State girls who came up to North Beach for merry making on
the weekends. Remember this was the
sixties, free sex, drugs and rock and roll.
San Francisco was where it was happening. After I knew them for a month of two, Hoagie
asked me if she could stay at my apartment for a while because she wanted to
take a stab at becoming a dancer up in North Beach. She had met a man … … who wanted to try her
out for one of his movies. Rita and I
warned her that this was a porno flick and that he would want to have sex with
her to "try her out."
So that didn't work out, but she did get a job at one
of the North Beach clubs being a "Go-Go" dancers up in a cage,
twenty-five feet above the street level.
She loved it. I had been letting
her use my bedroom upstairs, there was never anything between us. But she would bring guys over and have them
stay the night. She was a screamer. You must have experienced that to know what I
mean. So, once she started to make
money, I booted her out.
A few years later, she went down to Hollywood to take
her chance at stardom. She did get into
the traveling Disney Ice Capades show.
I was always meeting new girlfriends at the dress
shop, Champagne Taste. The Spaghetti
Factory was just a few blocks away on Green Street. This was the perfect place for entertaining
fun and a cheap date. They were one of
the few places that served Anchor Steam beer on tap. After a few years it changed hands and the
new owners tried entertainment (flamenco dancers I recall) to perk up the take,
but that started the slippery slope downhill and the place was out of business
in just a few more years. Such
businesses earn their profit on turnover.
Simple menu, three choices and beer or red wine, on tap. I've always wanted to try a business like
this. The simplicity means you don't
need sophisticated staff, neither in the kitchen nor on the floor. You could give the food away, it's so cheap,
and still make money off the alcohol.
They only sold the business because the owners doubled the rent on them.
I knew that if I wasn’t already with a friend for the
evening, this was the place to find someone.
I would order a beer at the bar, saying that I was waiting for
someone. I would watch the people
arriving and wait for two starry-eyed women to enter and sit at the communal
table. That was my cue to follow and
join them. Invariably they were from out
of town, Cleveland, Fresno, or Fort Worth.
My patter about life in San Francisco would impress them and off we
would go after dinner to the hungry i or the Purple Onion.
Tadich Grill, 545 Clay Street, SUtter 1-9754
Tadich's was the number two place for my father and I
to have lunch. Dickie always had Sand
Dabs there. I always had the Dover Sole,
one of his favorites, but not at this restaurant. Here I drank a glass of white wine. It's funny how you pick up traits from your
parents. I follow in my father's
footsteps. I still always order the same
thing at a restaurant; chicken livers at The Village Inn, Salmon at River's
End. Usually we would take a table; if
we were feeling frisky, we would sit at the bar where one of the two of us
would be successful in striking up a conversation with a babe, leading to
nothing.
The Little Old Ladies Tea Shoppe, Maiden Lane
This was one of my favorite secret places. The circuit around Union Square is a perfect
short tour of SF: the St Francis hotel, big department stores, street-corner
flower vendors, window decorations at Christmas time, cable cars – all within a
block or two.
But if your party consists of slightly older people,
or just the sensory-overload of the whirl-wind walk for 2-miles, just around a
one-block park, I would take my guests half-a-block off the traffic-din, down
Maiden Lane, into an unlabeled doorway, and press the elevator button. The small car carries you up one flight, into
a large dining room, where you gasp, taking in a scene from my grand-parent’s
generation; a movie-set, cast with dozens of LOLs, sipping tea, at proper wood
tables with white cotton-lace table-clothes, the Maiden Lane windows in
Battenberg lace. The room was always humid,
and smelled musty, powdery – pleasantly sweet.
Only the rare male, of any age.
It was always quiet – no liquor.
I always had iced tea and either a sandwich or plate
of casserole. It was a place to calm down and rejuvenate. My mother hated it – she was no LOL
Tommy's Joint, Van Ness Street
Living in San Francisco meant for me, entertaining a
lot of people coming from outside of California. Part of my tour guide routine was to take
people to Tommy’s Joint. It was cheap,
quick, and had hearty meals – great for kids with a lot of memorabilia around
the place, and the opportunity to try buffalo stew.
Vanessi's, 498 Broadway, GArfield 1-0890
I was only able to drag my father a few times to
Vanessi's on Broadway. It never came off
as well for lunches as it did at dinner time.
I became a regular of the place when I returned to San Francisco after
graduate school. I had an apartment up
the hill on Montgomery Street. I would
stop in on my way home from the Financial District. Facing yet another 300-foot climb, I would
decide to defer this until after a nice meal and a glass of wine. I always sat at the counter where you could
watch the Genoese sauté chefs putting on a display of knife and pan tossing at
the live gas flame grills. There was
always a special and I took it. I always
added a Zabaglione for a dessert. This
has disappeared off the menu of every American restaurant. These days it is available only as an ice
cream treat that is awful. A web search
finds it only at one restaurant, and that in New Zealand.
The chef would start with a
copper half globe bowl that he could hold over an open flame. In would go the whites of several eggs, some
white wine, and some sugar. The Chef
tossed in all the ingredients randomly.
That was it, simple. He wire-whisked
it over a flame until the egg white began to froth up. They served it hot from the pan into a sundae
dish; the extra coming after you had spooned in the first few mouthfuls. It's a wonderful dessert but requires
preparation when you are ready to eat it and that doesn't fit with today's
restaurants.
Trader Vic's, 20 Cosmo Place, PRospect 6-2232
I didn’t much like this place but many women ooh-ed
and aah-ed about it, so I’d take them there.
It was too gimmicky for me – you were paying for atmosphere, not food or
drink. Reminiscent of the Tonga Room at the Fairmont hotel across the street
from the Mark Hopkins.
The Palace Hotel Barber Shop, New Montgomery and
Market Streets
Now I never, in the 70’s could afford to eat in the
Palace Garden Room. The privilege went
to my daughter Patricia and sister Patty, who organized my 60th
birthday party there in 1998. This
re-united me with Donna Roberts, who sold me my Monte Rio house in Sonoma County.
Rita sent me there once and I will never be able to
thank her enough for making the experience part of my personal history. I passed on this experience right at the end
of such possibilities, to my friend Bill Campbell. Rita had worked several years there as a
manicurist. Rita was always aggressively
looking for wealthy men. Then again,
Rita had an artistic flair to her. Her
Jewish Communist family raised her in the NY Garment District and she always
wound up picking strange, but interesting men.
Her first husband was Blair Stapp, a producer at KQED, long before
anyone made much money in Television, much less public television. In the interim, after our marriage, but
before our divorce, while the three kids used to spend summers with me in
Arizona, Rita had a two-year affair with Jack LaLane; yes, the old guy who can
still do a hundred pushups, after Bay swimming to Alcatraz.
So, Rita wanted to make me over in our early
days. She had done the clothes and I was
wearing nice suits, good shoes, cashmere overcoat, and pork-pie hat. She insisted that the only place for a man to
get a haircut was the Palace Hotel Barber Shop, where I could also obtain a
manicure and a shave. Now all of this
was a part of my normal life, both before and after Rita, except the
shave. I'd never had a hot towel,
straight razor shave before and I only had another one several years later with
Bill.
That first time, though, in 1968, I walked into the
Palace Barber Shop and saw 16 chairs, about half busy. There were several manicurists and two
shoe-shine boys, who were really men.
It's like going into "Oil Changers" these days and asking for
the works. You feel like
King-Of-The-Hill; money is no object. I
swung into a chair and told the barber, a gray-haired, but fit and confident
man, "I want the works! Hair, shoeshine,
manicure, and a shave. He started with
the shave. He prepped the towels while
we talked men talk, about baseball. 1968
was one of those years when I was attending a lot of games and of course
everyone remembers all those players: Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Jimmy
Davenport, Hal Lanier, Jesus Alou, and Bobby Bonds. And the pitchers: Mike McCormick, Ray
Sadecki, Gaylord Perry, and of course, Juan Marechal. So there was much to keep us busy.
The towels seemed like they would burn my face. They were too hot for the guy to hold. He put on two: one over my chin, up to my
ears, and another over the first, but covering my nose. I couldn't talk, but after a few seconds I was
okay with the heat and it felt good, like a mud bath at Calistoga. The shave itself was like a man stroking a
finger across a baby's back, so soft you could hardly feel it. I was impressed. I was now so relaxed that the haircut and
manicure just flowed by like a slow-moving river. The manicurist talked to me, I guess, but I
just grunted in ecstasy. After the
manicurist left, and while the barber was finishing up the finer points of the haircut,
the boot-black came by to polish my English Church's all leather shoes to a
high almost patent-leather sheen. I
walked out of that place ten feet tall.
I doubt, unfortunately, that Bill Campbell would relate some of the
same details, although I dragged him in their several years later, just before
the Palace closed the Barber Shop. There
were only four chairs left then, most of them converted to meeting rooms. He experienced the shave and just like me, he
converted to a straight razor for several years afterward, seeking that close,
comfortable shave. He didn't have the
background that I had, though, in hot-towel shaves. I had been watching hot-towel shaves for over
twenty years in the silver screen movies of the thirties, forties, and fifties,
like Will Kane (Gary Cooper) in High Noon (1952) waiting for the Miller boys to
hit town.
For the next two decades, and especially after I’d discovered and
invested in Church’s shoes, I stopped at the corner show-shine stand at Bush
and Market, when ever I was in town.
Rita wanted me to have a slight paunch, a successful look, and polished
shoes. Busy as she was running a
business, she would shine them herself, if I didn’t take care of it.
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