Nicole Grant's Backstories - The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Face Value

Nicole Grant — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 00:00:14 -0800

Hugh Leeman's apartment at 6th and Market is across from "Fear Head," a mural with three faces in different stages of fright. It's a fitting image for an intersection where it's almost impossible to tell the good guys from the bad guys. San Francisco's characters – most of them looking off-kilter, homeless, or down on their luck – drift by as I wait impatiently for Hugh to answer the door.

He buzzes me into the building. We enter the elevator and clank, clank, clank up to his floor. His tiny studio is a mess of paints, a collection of floor-to-ceiling portraits, and a charcoal-covered MacBook. With no kitchen or bed in sight, I get the sense he's focused solely on his mission: photographing, painting, and wheat-pasting the faces of the Tenderloin up around the city. They've become his friends, his subjects, and his business partners.

Hugh is quite a character himself. At 18, he grabbed his backpack and traveled the world, hopping trains to see as much as he could. Three years later, he was in the Tenderloin for a six-month stopover. He's not quite sure why he never left. Inspired by the work that Shepard Fairey and others were doing at the time with wallpaper glue from the hardware store, a world of possibilities exploded in his mind. This self-taught artist had found his medium.

Over the course of an afternoon, Hugh filled me in on the lives of the people in his portraits. Here are their stories.

Hugh often gives out cigarettes, just to get a conversation started with people in the neighborhood. Benz was the first person to ever turn him down for a smoke. He was interested in Hugh's project, though, and let him take his picture. Suddenly, his portrait, now recognized by most, was up all over the Tenderloin.

Benz passed away from cancer soon after, and his portrait pasted up on Polk Street became a memorial. People from the neighborhood gathered there and wrote their thoughts about him on the wall. It became the wake and the funeral that he would have never had otherwise. Hugh was touched when he heard that his art piece allowed Benz’s friends to pay tribute to him. "Everyone wants to be remembered," he says.

Bernard is famous for his coonskin cap, and is one of the most industrious people Hugh has ever met. He swears there are MBAs who don't have Bernard’s business acumen. This guy is savvy when it comes to making his change – he washes windows, collects bins, and hoses down cars out in front of a pawnshop, though he still sleeps on the street.

More recently though, Bernard has been making money selling T-shirts. Hugh screen-prints his inner city friends’ portraits on T-shirts and lets them sell them on the streets, with his buddies keeping 100 percent of the profits. The shirts have proven to be quite popular (I snagged one for myself).

Indian Joe was homeless for 35 years. He recently moved into an SRO (Single Residence Occupancy hotel) for the first time. He is constantly reaching into his pants pocket to make sure his keys are still there – afraid he'll lose them. He still can't quite believe he has a home.

Joe was adopted by a stranger when he was a toddler, and separated from his sister. They've never been reunited. He started train hopping at a young age and has memories that are fascinating but too disturbing for the general public to understand. Hugh helps Joe tell his stories by painting them as dreamscapes onto canvas.

Kenny is "crazy intelligent" says Hugh. He's famous around the 'hood, and has many street names, from "Crook" to "Papa." He's always surprising Hugh with his smarts. During a discussion about how people in San Francisco perceive him, Kenny said, "That's just the aperture of the shutter that they're projecting onto me." Hugh had to laugh – because it was true.

Blue's spot is at the cable car turnaround at Powell and Market. Hailing from New Orleans, he's a professional panhandler, and can be found singing and playing the harmonica. Though people may not guess it, he’s financially able to feed himself and pay the rent. That's about all he can afford, though.

Hugh sees himself in a lot of the people he paints, but Blue in particular. The man is talented, and he has given up everything for his art, from relationships to a "normal" life. He does the same thing that Hugh aspires to do, and that is to tell a story through his art. Despite adversity, he soldiers on.

There are many other folks Hugh has met along the way. When he first moved to the city, Hugh bartended regularly. He would walk back home down Jones Street every night and see the same guy dealing OCs (OxyContin). One evening, he introduced himself and asked if he could take the man's photograph for a painting.

They got to talking, and it turns out the guy had kids and was living in an SRO. He was clean himself but selling pills to put food on the table. "He wasn't at all who I thought he was," said Hugh. It shattered his notion of who people are in the Tenderloin.

And that is what Hugh is trying to do with his art. If he makes you stop, question for a moment who the person is up on the wall, and maybe even think about the beauty and frailty of the human condition, then he's done his job. I’m happy I took the time to slow down and look at his work. I hope you will too.

It's not hard to experience Hugh Leeman's work in person – the Tenderloin is his art gallery, and his portraits are hard to miss. You can also keep an eye on the White Walls gallery website for the occasional show. To help the people in his portraits, you can fund his "Voice to Voiceless" T-shirt project by scanning the QR code that appears at the end of our video. In case you don't bump into a T-shirt seller on the street, you can purchase one on Hugh’s website, where you can also buy and download free prints of his work.

Go Underground

Nicole Grant — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 00:00:13 -0700

Most of these supper clubs are active on Twitter, Facebook, or through their web pages, so be sure to get in the loop so you can hear about their next epicurean adventure. In most cases, you'll just have to purchase a ticket to attend. The location of your dinner will not typically be revealed until the day of the dinner. Happy eating! This story appears in our just-launched quarterly print publication: Volume One: 25 Ways to Be a Local. You can buy the magazine directly from us for $3 plus shipping and handling or put in your order for a four-issue subscription for $12 plus shipping and handling.

A limited number of issues are being distributed for free at various locations around the city over the next few weeks. Follow us on Facebook or Twitter for updates on where they'll be!

Hello Nojo

Nicole Grant — Tue, 03 May 2011 00:00:16 -0700

Japan is known to have some of the strangest porn in the world. Browse the web and you’ll find all manner of fetishism: including businessmen wearing diapers and being tended to by their “mom”s, manga diehards blissfully making out with their anime blow-up dolls, and "furries" getting it on in unicorn costumes. Truth.

There is only one kind of Japanese porn for me: food porn. I love the ridiculously cute websites that worship bento boxes and fawn over wagashi sweets. Their fans have a non-sexual, yet truly obsessive relationship with food that I can relate to. Maybe that's why when nojo opens in my 'hood of Hayes Valley, I decide to grab my camera and join in on the fun.

Luckily, nojo's owner-chef (and former executive chef at ame) Greg Dunmore, is happy to have me come check out the joint. After three extended trips to Japan, he’s a man on a mission – to introduce yakitori and izakaya-style food to as many people as possible.

In case you need a primer (I did), izakayas are the watering holes in Japan where salaried folk go après-work to get saucy and satiate their growling stomachs. They have an eclectic menu of bar foods, but most people go for the yakitori – skewered meats eaten straight off the grill.

On a Thursday night at 8 p.m., nojo is packed, and even with the buzzing crowd I can feel its feng shui. There are no vintage artworks or hints of nostalgia here – just solid, modern Japanese design with warm, glowing lamps overhead. Behind the counter, Greg and his crew pass steaming pans back and forth in plain view. Did I mention I’m hungry? My boyfriend and I order way too much food, gulp down our sakes, and wait in anticipation.

The escarole, lemon-soy, and katsuobushi salad is the first dish to arrive. One forkful reveals it’s bright and delicious. Katsuobushi are shavings from dried and smoked skipjack tuna. They are known as "dancing fish flakes" in Japan because of the way they wriggle when they’re added to a hot dish. If beef jerky were made of fish and shaved into paper thin strips, it would taste like katsuobushi.

We make friendly with our server, who speaks easily to the menu. It turns out the servers are cooks and the cooks are servers at nojo. Everyone touches the food, and the tips are split equally. In fact, nojo practices kikubari, which literally means “to distribute one’s spirit.” Greg's employees are trained to be humble and anticipate the needs of others at all times.

I'm quickly distracted by the sautéed mochi with nori and shoyu butter sauce – savory and smooth, it melts on my tongue like butta. The prawn, Napa cabbage, and shungiku salad is served to us right afterward, and it’s a nice contrast to the texture of the mochi dish – the crustaceans are so fresh they almost pop in my mouth.

The greens are beautiful, and I remember Greg telling me everything on the menu is sourced from farms near San Francisco (nojo means farm in Japanese). Greg even hunted down a nearby Japanese-American-owned estate named Toyo to find rare vegetables that were only being sold in Japantown. The guy is serious.

Yakitori! It’s time for skewers. The chicken breast with umeboshi (pickled plums) and shiso (an herb) shows up, and the meat is tender – cooked just long enough to be considered legal. The red sauce on top throws me for a second – it’s sweet and salty all at the same time, with a hint of something exotic. I’m quickly learning these moments of revelation are what nojo is all about.

I take careful note of the tare – the sweetened, thickened soy sauce Greg uses for grilling. Each chef has their own unique recipe, and the couple who have semi-adopted Greg in Japan (Yoko and Tom, former restauratuers in the town of Kobe) cook with tare that is over 100 years old. Greg is catching up – his is only 1 year old.

Just as we’re starting to get full, the tsukune arrives. It’s a nice-sized hunk of chicken sausage served with a fresh egg yolk floating in its sauce. We stir the egg right in with a fork, and from there we dip, bite, and repeat. The sausage has a surprisingly bold flavor, and we learn almost an entire chicken is ground into it. Mental note for the future: tsukune plus a beer at happy hour = heaven.

The chicken skin and matcha sea salt skewer slides into view. With Meyer lemon squirted on top, it can only be described as finger lickin’ good. It’s pretty obviously the kissing cousin to the more nontraditional miso mustard glazed pork belly dish – the other greasiest (and therefore tastiest) item on the menu.

Though crab custard (chawanmushi, Dungeness crab, and green garlic) is not something I would normally order, it comes highly recommended by Greg so we give it a shot. The rich, savory texture of the chawanmushi (steamed egg custard) is a strange and wonderful contrast to the mouthwateringly fresh crab. It's perfect for this blustery, cold San Francisco evening.

The white miso glazed trout with komatsuna and yellow foot mushrooms appears next, and hands down, it’s my favorite dish of the night. I sprinkle a little lemon over the encrusted fish and my fork crunches down again and again, creating little totem poles of brothy mushrooms, greens, and hunks of fish.

Finally, it’s time to try the much buzzed about nojo Sundae with Humphry Slocombe ice cream. The black sesame ice cream itself is delicious and needs no accompaniment, though the tartness of the kumquats (sautéed in simple syrup) and the crunch of peanut thunder crackers give it a smart, fun twist.

For good measure, we order the buckwheat crepes with ginger Muscavado syrup and white miso ice cream. The ice cream must have been made by some mad genius. I could swear Humphry Slocombe and nojo are making love in my mouth.

Bellies full, we can’t eat another bite. Luckily, my epic rendezvous with nojo doesn’t have to end here. I can devour these dishes again and again when I look at the photos. This is the glory of food porn. Perhaps I will bring my camera to dine with me a little more often.

Head over to nojo at 231 Franklin (near Fell) to try yakitori and izakaya-style food at the hands of a chef who knows his stuff. The restaurant only takes reservations for parties larger than six. nojo can be reached at 415-896-4587.

Going Stag

Nicole Grant — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 00:00:12 -0700

Finally, an email arrives. The directions are vague enough to scare off those with weaker dispositions, but the promise of six wine-paired courses from a chef who has worked in a Michelin-starred restaurant ensures I’ll be showing up. Plus, one of the dishes being served is bacon-wrapped pork shoulder. I have a weakness for anything of the porcine persuasion.

Soon it's 7 o'clock sharp and my boyfriend and I are standing in front of a red building with a black door that can't possibly host a dinner. It looks like a misplaced barn and there are no windows to be seen. And yet, there is a gorgeous scent wafting out from God knows where. The door opens and we're waved in.

We walk into some sort of warehouse and I see a crowd pulsating eagerly around a bar. The butterflies return when I think about dining with strangers over the next several hours. I pat my hair into place and notice how handsome my date looks in his gingham shirt – at least if we don’t make any new friends we’ll know we looked our best.

A bartender is ladling some miraculous tasting Pisco concoction out of a punch bowl, and we gratefully clutch our full glasses before guzzling them down and – hurrah! I see a familiar face, Jacob, whom I had met at a pirate Korean dinner. He introduces us to some new folks and my nerves are finally under control. Thank heavens for liquid courage.

We become acquainted with a smiling gentleman named Matthew Homyak – one of the Stags. I ask him about the name Stag Dining Group, and he explains that the animal stands for purity in the outdoors, which speaks to their commitment to use only the most pure ingredients for their dinners. And conveniently, the five men involved in the venture are also single.

Tonight is Stag Dining’s Early Spring Dinner, inspired by the “cyclical grace of nature.” Chefs Ted Fleury and Jordan Grosser are presumably in the back kitchen, readying the dishes to be imminently served. They used to be co-chefs at The Alembic (Ted is still there), and Jordan has been cooking for forageSF’s Wild Kitchen series of late. They have been friends with their Stag co-conspirators (Anil Margsahayam, Emory Al-Imam, and Matthew) for 15 years.

Matthew bounds off, and we decide to take a proper look around. Lights are strung from the tall ceiling beams and a rotating disco ball shines its sparkly lights down on the crowd. Colorful artworks by Kasia Severaid (some made specifically for tonight’s event, I learn later), line the walls. There’s an obscenely large shag-covered circular bed in the corner.

Just what sort of place is this? We ask around and learn that we're in Chicken John's lair. Who? That quirky Burning Man character-slash-genius mechanic who ran for mayor of San Francisco. Oh, right. Suddenly I feel like I’ve gone down the rabbit hole.

Matthew steps up onto a chair, and with fork to glass, asks us all to take our seats and ready ourselves for a feast. Slightly buzzed after indulging in the Pisco Punch, we make our way to a long banquet table laid out with creative flower arrangements and gleaming silverware.

With a gaggle of gals to our left, a couple sitting across from us, and a big group of couples to our right, I don’t expect our dinner conversation to be dull. We fawn collectively over the menu, waiting for the first course to show up.

The amuse-bouche arrives! It goes down like oysters often do – easily, with a touch of apple and fennel and a hint of spring. It’s the next course that wakes up my senses though. The spring onion vichyssoise (a cold soup) is topped with bites of cured Sakai salmon, rye croutons, dill, and the unmistakable brightness of Meyer lemon.

The menu shows the third course to be rabbit terrine, en escabeche, and I’m slightly doubting I’ll enjoy this one. A dish has to be damn fine in my book to justify the killing of a bunny. Once it’s set in front of me though, I forget about my hang-ups. It’s beautifully presented, and I enjoy destroying its artful construction with my fork.

The fourth course, morcilla-stuffed squid, also pushes my culinary boundaries. Stuffed with garlic, Romesco, and asparagus, it’s not the dish itself that has me running scared in my mind – it’s the pork blood the chef has so proudly touted as one of its main ingredients. Proving myself wrong once again, it sings with a flavor all of its own.

As I start to feel the effects of my third glass of wine (lovingly paired by Two Mile Wines, a Berkeley establishment), my dinner mates seem all the more friendly. There’s a notable absence of pretension in the room, and frankly, I’m surprised, having born witness to more than a few uptight foodies in my time.

I notice Matthew is pulling people in one by one to check out the kitchen, and soon it’s my turn. I step into the real underground of the underground dinner. The servers seem to be having a grand time, some holding cans of PBR and others just shooting the breeze. Jordan, one of the chefs, is at the helm like the captain of a party boat, giddy as he works the kitchen.

Suddenly, the atmosphere becomes tense, and all hands are on deck. Servers pour in from the main room and everyone falls into an assembly line to get the main entree onto 60 plates. They work quickly and confidently, adding elaborate touches to each dish, which will soon be carried to the main room for devouring.

I return to my seat just in time for the bacon-wrapped pork shoulder to arrive. One juicy bite reveals divine inspiration, and its tenderness imparts that it’s been brining for quite some time. It’s a pretty dish as well, dressed with crushed peas, hedgehog mushrooms, and green pea tendrils.

It’s the cheese course, though, that steals the show: a simple, perfect cow’s milk from Nicasio Valley Cheese Company that becomes tangy when paired with the blackberry notes of the Blacksmith Cellars Late Harvest Syrah. It almost makes the olive oil cake with poached strawberries, tarragon ice cream, and pistachio pale in comparison. Almost.

As the evening winds down and our dinner mates say their good-byes before drifting into the chilly night, we realize we’re too tipsy and full and tired to stay much longer. We make our way towards the door and I remember something Matthew had said to me earlier. When we go to an underground dinner, we take a risk. We become stags, walking out into the woods, not sure what to expect. Had someone told me I could enjoy myself in a Burner's den partaking of pork's blood I never would have believed it. But it's a night I'll never forget. It's a good reminder that some risks are worth taking. Especially when they involve going Stag.

Want to experience the Stag's Clandestine Dining Series yourself? These epicurean events occur monthly, and the next one is a Brewmaster’s Dinner on April 9 and 10. Tickets are $80 a person, and it will explore Progressive American Fare and microbrews paired by Dave McLean of Magnolia Pub & Brewing. You can keep up with all of Stag's upcoming events on Facebook or @stagdining.

The Chosen Few

Nicole Grant — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 22:31:01 -0800

When the holiday season hit this year, I found myself not thinking about how to be a good Christian, but how to be a good Jew. You see, every December I end up at this decadent Hanukkah party, and this year I want to pass for the real thing. I'm tired of being the outsider while the chosen few schmooze over latkes.

It’s not hard to be an Honorary Jew by pop culture standards: you just need five Jewish friends, and you're in. With over 80,000 Jews in San Francisco (almost 10% of the city’s population), it goes without saying that I meet the prerequisite.

Besides, I've been training for this for ages. I’ve circle danced at Jewish weddings, eaten the matzah at countless Passover seders, partied at the Jew Mu with a He'Brew Beer (or two) and probably even hugged your Jewish grandmother at some point or another.

After kvetching over nuances and so on with some of the most discerning Jews in the city, I found the keys to the kingdom to be surprisingly, disappointingly and conclusively, elusive. Here’s my story.

When I arrive at Absinthe five minutes late, Michael Moskowitz is already on his second dry martini. He describes himself as a "Torah Jew, but failing on a daily basis." He doesn’t belong to a synagogue, but he does have a Master’s degree in Middle East Studies from the London School of Economics.

He's far from encouraging when I tell him about my mission. "Nicole, the closest you can get to being an Honorary Jew is being a shabbas goy" – someone who helps Jews by performing duties that are forbidden to them on Shabbat, such as switching on a light. He's joking, I think.

"Seriously, there's a simple, standing rule: if your mother's Jewish, you're Jewish. If she's not, you're not. That's it. It doesn't matter how Jewish or Jew-ish you may look, act, or feel – or how polished and lyrical your sense of irony may be. The notion of an honorary Jew is a fallacy." Apparently, San Francisco is full of people who think they're Jews. Michael reminds me that Judaism was first a peoplehood, not a religion. Bloodline is the only real determinant, unless you choose to convert.

And Jews in San Francisco aren't really all that Jew-y. "African Americans in New York are more Jewish than Jews in San Francisco." Guffaw. Seriously? "Trust me," Michael says. "Lenny Bruce was spot on. The gentile living across from Crowne Heights can tell you more about Yom Kippur than the average yid can in Pac Heights."

Maybe the numbers explain it. San Francisco just can't compare to a city like New York, the world's second largest Jewish city after Tel Aviv. When you don't have as many Jews, you don't have as many temples; when you don't have as many temples, you don't have as many kosher food stores; and when you don't have as many kosher food stores, you just don't have as many practicing Jews.

So who are these San Francisco Jews, anyway? I know just who can tell me.

Peter and Denise Goldstein are two of the most connected Jews in the city, so I drop by to help them make latkes for their upcoming Hanukkah party and get the skinny on the SF Jew scene. They call themselves “east coast reform” to set themselves apart from the more liberal west coast version of Judaism, which is more relaxed.

"We've got a great name for Jews in San Francisco, actually – Buddhists." Peter's joking, but I'm reminded of a flyer I recently came across for weekly Makor Or meditation classes at the Jewish Community Center of San Francisco. The new age hippie dippie types and mystic Kabbalah practitioners tend to stay in Berkeley, leaving whole lotta High Holiday Jews here in the city – mostly going to temple for Hanukkah, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah.

And keeping kosher? Fuggetaboutit. "The closest we get to dietary rules is Chinese food on Christmas," Peter jokes, and Denise's childhood rabbi didn't keep kosher at all. Those who are determined to keep kosher have to look high and low for the basics – it took Denise months to find her kosher salami at Mollie Stone's.

I’m a little surprised by how lackadaisical it all sounds, because the Jews I know are family people, community people, intellectual people, discerning people – the kind of folks who keep and value traditions, even more than your average philosoph. We conclude that, at least in San Francisco, the spiritual has taken over the traditional. Maybe that’s okay?

As we're talking, the potatoes have been peeled, worked over into pancakes and then browned to a crispy golden perfection on the stove top. Here's Denise's recipe:

Prep: Peel and grate 6 medium potatoes into a colander. Chop up a 1 onion and add it to the potatoes. Wring out the grated potatoes and chopped onion in a kitchen towel and then transfer them to a bowl. Add 2 beaten eggs , ½ cup of flour and a 1 teaspoon of salt.

Cook: Heat ¼ cup of olive oil over medium heat (until hot but not smoking). Spoon 2 TB of latke mixture into the skillet at a time, smashing down into 3 inch rounds. Cook until brown (about 5 minutes on each side). Transfer to paper towels to drain and season with salt to taste.

Serve: Slather with applesauce and sour cream. Serve: Slather with applesauce and sour cream. Serve: Slather with applesauce and sour cream.

Mmm, delish. I can now make a drool-worthy latke and tell you a little something about San Francisco Jews. But am I any closer to the path of righteousness? I decide to ask a Rabbi.

I catch Rabbi Julie Saxe-Taller of Congregation Sherith Israel between Hanukkah festivities, and she sounds tired on the phone, making me wonder how many Honorary Jew requests she gets around this time of year. Serith Israel is a reform congregation, and she has practiced there for 6 years.

She’s quick to tell me that Honorary Jew is not a phrase she uses, and in fact, is inclined to think that one who does use it may be taking a whole culture lightly unless they are participating in Jewish life actively. That said, there is a Hebrew term for people like me, who hang out with the Jews – “ger toshav” (the resident sojourner) – and we've had a respected place in the Jewish community through the ages.

The only way to become a true Jew is to convert, and it turns out it's quite a process. First, you take your intro to Judaism class. Fine. Second, you study with a rabbi or mentor to learn Jewish practice, Hebrew, philosophy and history. No biggie. Finally, you’re ready for the mikveh bath – your ritual immersion and conversion.

No sweat, right? Umm… the whole process takes between one and seven years. Years! I thank the Rabbi for her time.

Sad and defeated, I decide to kick things up a notch. Surely there’s a way to live vicariously through my Jew friends now that my Honorary Jewishness dream has poofed?

A gorge fest at Miller's East Coast Deli on Polk Street is in order. Robby Morganstein opened the deli in 2001, and it's quickly become a San Francisco institution. Our server, Adrienne, has lots of suggestions when we tell her what we're looking for – straight up, old school, traditional Jewish deli food.

We start out with the cheese blintzes. They are oh-my-god heavenly pockets of creamy goodness, especially when dipped in their house-made apple sauce, spiced with cinnamon. The matzah ball soup is a wonder in itself, with tender fluffed dough immersed in a simmering chicken broth. We order the pastrami sandwich "clean" – no Russian dressing and no swiss cheese, just sauerkraut and mustard – but it still manages to sends me into another orbit.

Between bites, Denise gives the dirt on what the Jews are up to these days: hanging out at The Hub at the Jewish Community Center for literary events, checking out parties at the Jew Mu (Contemporary Jewish Museum) and even attending a certain late shabbat service at Temple Emanu-El. On any given second Friday of the month, you'll find almost a thousand young professionals listening to an inspired rabbi and craning their necks to check out the set of legs down the aisle.

She’s a little less sure about sending me to JDate – the online dating site where she met her husband and both of her siblings met their fiancés. There are some Jewish women who consider it to be “sacred ground,” for Jews only. If you're considering crashing the party, you may want to put "jewlovin'gentile" as your screen name.

In the end, Denise believes that there's something about the Jewish faith that draws certain people in, and that these are the chosen few. She tells me I’m her Honorary Jew – that I’ve got the soul for it. Problem being, I don't believe her. I know too much. I sigh inwardly and take heart in the fact that I can go back to putting ketchup on my latkes.

Images:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/liz/4354998/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dragunsk/2445981396/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/garysoup/3790575269/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/marissamullen/3105747448/

Design: Kari Stevens

Everything's Jake in Chinatown

Nicole Grant — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:59:23 -0800

Upon visiting San Francisco for the first time in 1882, Oscar Wilde described it as “utterly, inexpressively hideous,” but Chinatown seduced him. After wandering through its shrines, shops and opium dens, he concluded the “strange, melancholy Orientals have determined they will have nothing about them that is not beautiful.”

These days, it’s hard not to think of Chinatown as a larger version of the 30 Stockton, crowded with old, cackling women hoarding doorways and throwing elbows over greens. Still, I’m convinced the real Chinatown must still exist in the back alleys we pass by, somewhere in between Wilde’s romanticism and our cynicism. I follow the pink shopping bags to find it.

Location, Location, Location.

Sensory overload sets in the moment I step off of MUNI. Roasted ducks drip fat in the windows as they do in the mainland, laundry hangs on clotheslines up above like so many flags, cigarette smoke pours from the bars and dried, stinky herbs sit in bins on the sidewalk.

I’m hungry, and a shopkeeper points me to New Woey Loy Goey. Nine steps lead me down underground and I enter a brightly lit room with critter tanks of scuttling crabs. A group of men with crow’s feet crowd around a lazy Susan. Some read the paper, and some chatter over steaming cups of tea. As dishes start to pour forth from the kitchen, I decide to order “what they’re having.” First, the soup. So simple and straightforward – pork broth with vegetables and the unmistakable kick of ginger. It clears my palate and my sinuses. The seafood plate arrives, and I can make out scallops, squid and the entangled limbs of unidentifiable sea creatures, before they disappear into my gullet. It’s the eggplant though that fulfills my every MSG fantasy. Tender and sensual, it’s indescribably lovely.

I Walk the Line

Belly full, I walk into Red's Place – a dive. Behind the counter is a beautiful woman. She looks like a time-worn version of a pin-up girl that you might find on a pack of vintage playing cards. Her lips are as full as her dress is tight, and both are red. She’s eating a white peach slowly and drinking tea. Every so often she looks up and smiles, showing her teeth.

The bar is full of men. Who they are, I don’t know, though they are Cantonese, they carry gold emblazoned cigarette boxes, they drink American beers and they all seem to all have the same buzz haircut. The bartendress cracks Budweisers open as fast as the men can drink them, and I feel a little embarrassed to have ordered a Tsing Tao. Johnny Cash sings a slow melody in the background.

A tattoo-chested and high cheek-boned man walks in, and a game of Liar’s Dice ensues. I grab my own sturdy leather cup of dice and play along, gleaning the following rules from sideways glances down the bar: 1. Shake your cups of dice and slam them down. 2. Peek at your dice to see what you’ve rolled. 3. Suggest how many dice you think were rolled, including your opponent’s. For example, "three 2s.” 4. Take turns making guesses, upping the ante each time. 5. If you think someone is bluffing, declare them a “liar.” 4. Reveal your die. 5. The person was bluffing, hopefully, and you reign victorious. The game isn’t as entertaining as it is addicting, and I realize it’s just a way to pass the time. I finish my beer and end up back on the sidewalk, a little buzzed in the sunlight.

Footloosed

Stockton Street is choked and dirty, and hordes of women wade past broken cardboard boxes and rotting bok choy to chat and pick over produce. I need an escape route. Massage signs seem to jump out from every window, and I stop at a place called Ching's. Taking a deep breath, I climb the narrow stairway, half hoping to peek into a brothel. A tiny college-aged girl in a purple jump suit greets me in broken English and offers me a massage, acupuncture or reflexology. I decide on the latter, and she leads me to a clean, bright room, where I fall into an oversized leather chair. A big warm towel is placed on top of me and my feet are lowered into a steaming bucket of brown herbs. Minutes later my masseuse arrives. She’s intimidatingly large for a Chinese woman, both in girth and height, and her hands are meaty and strong. As she goes to work on my feet, I realize I’ve signed up with a sadist. This is the deepest deep massage of my life, and I suck air in through my teeth sharply from the pain, and exhale with waves of pleasure. The toes and heel of my right foot go numb, succumbing to the unyielding, kneading pressure. The arch of my right foot is starting to swell, and while my masseuse barely speaks English, she points to her stomach and groans to explain how my foot is telling her that my stomach is “no good.” I’m aghast, but as I stand up, I realize my feet have never felt better.

Table Stakes

Hungry again, I decide to feast wherever I see neighborhood folk clamoring and follow the crowd into New Golden Daisy, where vats of coagulating noodles are emanating heat. I order half a pound of the fried chicken drumettes and half a pound of the glistening wings. The men working don’t speak English, but somehow I manage to get what I want. My total is $3. I take my little picnic to Portsmouth Square, a sunny spot near the triangular shadow of the Transamerica building. It’s surprisingly mellow, at least compared to Stockton Street, and I can hear a reed flute in the background. Old men bolted to their benches puff on cigarettes and glance over in envy while I devour my chicken. A circle of women practices the slow movements of Tai Chi.

It only takes a few minutes to realize the park is essentially a gambling house. A woman shuffles playing cards deftly with the confidence of a Vegas dealer. Others throw their cards down excitedly, waving $1 bills in the air. One group of men is particularly engaged. Their circle is very tight, and it takes some willpower to cut in and discover it’s a high stakes game of Chinese checkers. As I get back onto the 30 Stockton, I feel relaxed, even with all of the jostling. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped to find the opium dens, shrines and brothels that Oscar Wilde found on his visit so long ago, but still, what I’d discovered was invigorating. Chinatown held all of the intrigue of years past, and maybe even the charm. You just had to brave the backstreets to find it.

Tog to the Bricks

Nicole Grant — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 09:01:21 -0800

My quest: to become a 1939 bon vivant. You see, I'm hosting this party, and I want to be the one. The one Herb Caen would have written about in his column, society snobs would have gossiped about behind gloved hands and men would have ogled shamelessly. Striking like Jean Harlow. Exotic like Marlene Deitrich. Statuesque like Greta Garbo.

What's the occasion? A celebration of the opening of the World's Fair on Treasure Island, with all of its oddities: Willie Vocalite the robot, who talks, smokes cigarettes, winks and waves, Chinese puzzles that confuse even the most tenacious, a peek though the largest telescope in the world and an actual demonstration of that twisted novelty called Television.

The evening's sure to be downright decadent as ladies and gents raucously drown out any memory of the depression with gin fizzes and bootlegged absinthe, the piano keys are tickled mercilessly and opulent fashion is paraded about Le Club. And with the Golden Gate bridge having just been flung across the Bay, there's the feeling that anything is possible.

I'm going to tog to the bricks, dahlings, and I know just the person to help me.

Cicely is a woman who transcends. Have you ever met such a person? Who seems to be from every era and yet none at all? When I arrive at Decades of Fashion, her shop in the upper Haight, she's so girlish and earnest and spirited I can't begin to guess her age. Her green eyes sparkle under her cowgirl hat, and she talks with the authority and charm of a hostess.

I ask to see some cocktail gowns from the late 1930's and we wade through the Halloween crowd to the appropriate rack, hung with silky purple rouging, red Spanish ruffles and metallic georgette chiffon. After a moment of shuffling through the dresses, she lowers her voice to a husky whisper. "Would you like to see the back room?" The back room? Why, of course.

Brushing aside a velvet rope, we enter her cabinet of curiosities. My eyes adjust to the light and then widen to see a room so full of wonderment it could have only been created by the obsessive hands of a collector: a wall of hats adorned with strange fronds and flowers, enough costume jewelry to make a drag queen cry and a startling array of clothing, dripping feathers and knotted beads and taffeta ribbons.

We go straight to the evening gowns. Though they're packed together tightly, Cicely pulls out each piece with reverence, explaining the different occasions they'd be worn for. The dresses are floor length slinky numbers, cinched to emphasize tiny waists and tailored to cling to each curve. The backs of the dresses plunge low, and the draping mimics the geometrics of art deco.

Aha! I find "the dress." I can't rest though until I have a fur, and her selection is pure decadence. My hands reach out to touch floor-length fox coats, mink stoles, ermine jackets and feather numbers – looking like retired royalty ready to return to their thrones. I spot the soft hide of baby seal adorning a tiny clutch purse. Apparently no animal was safe in 1939.

I’m excited about my party outfit, but Cicely is somewhat of a purist. Unless I wear a rhinestone necklace, long evening gloves, a perky hat, some Mary Jane t-strap heels and a matching handbag to boot, I'm not going to cut it.

I forgo the intimidating accessories (for now) in favor of lingerie.

Peeking into Dollhouse Bettie is like looking into the combined boudoirs of every lady sex symbol of the 20th Century. Michelle, the owner, is pulling gorgeous little things out of hat boxes when I arrive, and I realize she's brought in her private collection. A theatre performer in years past, her obsession with all things vintage has led her to worship the unmentionables of the ages.

The first thing she reveals is a French chantilly lace black bra. Now, every woman (and man, for that matter) knows the allure of the black lace bra, but this is perhaps the sexiest, skimpiest version ever made, with sheer lace delicately hand crafted to cup curvy bosoms. Apparently the derriere was superior to breasts in the 30's, so often the ladies wore "not much at all" under their clothing up top, which explains the existence of this barely-there bra.

Not to get too carried away with all things lace and French, Michelle reminds me that the real essential for every woman of the time was the satin stretch girdle, to emphasize her hourglass figure. Stockings were another must-have item – fishnets were popular, nylons had just been invented and pronounced seams up the back of the leg were the standard.

With my underthings taken care of, I look in the mirror and realize my hair is a travesty. I decide make like a typical '39er and go straight to the beauty parlor.

When I walk into Honeycomb Salon, Gillian is sitting waiting for me, and looking at a photo of Greta Garbo. As she studies it in the light of the computer screen, I'm struck by her classic face and wavy red hair. The irony of booking a two hour appointment just to look like my hairdresser when she wakes up in the morning dawns on me.

Moments later though, I'm in her salon chair and we're staring at my long tresses, trying to figure out how to mimic a 1939 hairstyle. Whereas the flapper girls of the 20's wore their hair in short, molded finger waves, by the late 30's women were starting to grow their hair out, with feminine curls that framed the face.

To give my impossibly straight hair the illusion of body, she decides to do a soft finger wave over my bangs and the crown of my head. Here's how to do it yourself:

1. Part your hair on one side.

2. Grab a section of hair, and turn your curling iron upside down to clamp the hair closest to the scalp so that your hair forms a U, with a crimp on both ends.

3. As the curling iron sets the wave, use the long end of a rattail comb to hold the hair down and away from the iron, creating a crimp.

4. Repeat further down the section of hair.

5. Do as many sections of hair as necessary to create the look of a perm.

Luckily, Gillian has no perm plan for my locks, and reassures me that some ladies opted out of them altogether in favor of pinning their hair up overnight and then taking it down in the morning for a full, soft head of curls. She skips the overnight step, instead curling my hair with an iron and pinning the coils of hair securely in the direction in which it's ultimately to be combed.

As my curls set, Gillian gives me some make-up advice. First, the brows have to go. "Wait, what?" Apparently the ladies of the 30's would tweeze their brows off entirely with the intention of painting on a very fine arc to give a permanent look of surprise. Some even went so far as to tweeze their hairlines for that perfect framing effect. I decide to pass.

Fake lashes are a must though, pronounced with the measured stroke of a liquid liner on the top lid. The eye should be somewhat smoky, but not too smoky, and the lips must be penciled into a heart shape. A short manicure completes the look, in the color of 1939 – jungle red. Rawr.

When I leave the salon, my locks have been shaken down and combed out, my bangs are in full finger wave mode and no one knows there's a ponytail of hair tucked underneath at the nape of my neck.

Somewhat intimidated by the thought of needing to recreate this heavenly halo of hair for the party, I decide to look into hats.

Goorin Brothers has been making hats since 1895, so I figure they'll be able to steer me in the direction of something authentically, fabulously 1939. Walking into their tiny outpost on Geary Street feels more like walking into a hat-fetishist's walk-in closet than a milliner's outpost, with each piece elegantly on display for worship.

Rose is the hat-master, and to my surprise, she pulls out the feathers. I hadn't realized the feathered headbands I'd seen on so many hipsters around town were inspired by 1930's cocktail wear. I make a mental note to add some big flowing ribbons and netting to the mix for a surrealist head piece that would make even the most over-the-top Parisian jealous.

Later that evening back at my studio, I slide into my party dress and stand in front of the mirror. I might not have that classic silver screen look, and I may not even end up in the gossip columns, but when I walk into Le Club on November 18th, I want the 1939 version of Rachel Zoe to say, "I die. She is killing it."

Getting Hung at Hang

Nicole Grant — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:25:21 -0700

DJ Harmon flits about the gallery. Her eyes dance when I mention the name of one of her artists, and she starts plucking canvases out from their hiding places, spreading them across the room. I look at a Jessica Martin piece a little closer, picturing it hanging above my bed in my new studio.

“Just how hard is it to get into Hang anyway?” I ask. She shrugs. “I've been told I'm really strict,” she says, and laughs. Only 5% of the people who submit their portfolios to Hang actually end up with work on the walls.

And getting hung is even harder in the downturn. “The art that's happening right now is outrageously good,” she tells me excitedly. “This is when the raw happens. This is when the weak get weeded out.”Hang Art remains the holy grail for artists on the local scene who want to get one step closer to making a living off of their work, and DJ is the gatekeeper. She keeps the art affordable and her cohorts happy by renting out their pieces and curating public events with VIN12 and Artpoint.

So just how does one go about getting hung on some of the most coveted walls 'round town? Sipping her tea slowly, DJ tells me her secrets.

DJ guards her space with a 95% rejection rating.

Mind the Blog

DJ scans photos from local art openings on Artbusiness.com and other blogs to see who's showing on the walls in places like Adobe Books or the back room of BellJar. “It's a small blog, but it's made an impact, because people will send me images from it and say, ‘hey, I saw this artist.’” If something strikes her fancy? She’ll hunt the artist down.

SF by NY

If you think it’s ironic that you’d need to show in New York to get hung in San Francisco, you’d be right. Still, DJ swears she’s discovered some of her most talented people at the Affordable Art Fair. Plus, there’s the added benefit of getting schmoozy with gallery owners over cocktails at the after parties.

Do Good Works

Donating one of your very best pieces to Intersection for the Arts or Art Span will pay off, big time. “I look at auctions constantly for the next big thing,” says DJ. Still, she sees a lot of artists make the mistake of donating less-than-stellar work. “It’s got to be tight and well thought out and the framing better be good,” otherwise it’ll get looked over by the pros.

Please Read Manual Before Using

The majority of works at Hang come to them online, and the single most important thing an artist can do is follow the directions. “Exceptional work is exceptional work,” she says, but still – “a folded up piece of paper that's been ripped out of a spiral notebook with a couple of pictures on it” won’t cut it, no matter how good you are.

HELLO WALLS

Cafes and restaurants are always looking for art, and it was guest artist Jessica Niello’s very public mural in flour + water that got her noticed by Hang. Resident artist Philip Hua's stuff was also discovered by DJ hanging in the background of a party photo found online.

DJ’s made an obsessive habit of keeping in touch with Southern Exposure, 111 Minna and Open Studios to see who's on their walls. Buddy up with one of them and you may just end up in bed with Hang.