On Sunday night, SK and I went to a black-walled wine bar to see one of her friends play some white-dude jazz. It was wholly non-offensive, as was the “blended wine” we nursed. I said we were yuppies, because I couldn’t think of anything more bourgie than wine and jazz. SK replied with something indistinguishable, because two sips of wine gets her toasted.
We were peckish after the show, so we did a Yelp search on nearby Vietnamese food (continuing our yuppie self-caricatures). Ooh, looks like we’re going to the Tenderloin! Such a strange part of town, the area abdicated to junkies, madmen and prostitutes. Sometimes you have to slam on your brakes when someone decides to lay down in the road or throw socks on your windshield.
After we picked up some cheap bahn mi (baguette sandwiches with radish, cucumber, carrots, cilantro and grilled pork) and pho (soup), I noticed a place called Susan’s Massage. Open until 2am, it was lit by a dim red light, with velvet curtains and a metal gate on the door. It blew my mind that there are such obvious places of ill-repute here, advertising out in the open. People talk about it on Yelp! In New York, our sin is more secret.
That night, I slept lightly and woke up at 5am, as happens semi-frequently here. I feel too alive with possibility to stay vertical for long. I popped up, ate some of SK’s legendary rhubarb pie, and did a bunch of magazine work until it was time to go to my job job. And somehow I ended up going out for fish breakfast at 11am, with Jen and Joe, who work in the basement. We went to an old-school San Francisco staple, where the waiters are bald and semi-threatening, the clientele is 300 years old, and the entrees cost at least $20.
Salmon and wasabi caviar with a Caesar salad (pictured right) and a side of fish chowder isn’t my go-to breakfast, but just like everything else here:
a) I’m adapting.
b) It is pretty friggin’ awesome.