The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Independent Spirit

Laura Beck — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:00:09 -0700

When I was in high school I learned about zines from Sassy magazine. My besties and I were so inspired that we decided to make our own, a fan zine dedicated to our friend’s exploits, as she drank and sexed her way through life. It was pretty awesome and also an indication of how fucking crazy people are in high school. What do you get when you combine total boredom with raging hormones and a dash of sociopath? Our zine.

The years passed and my relationship with zines faded as my relationship with a far more addictive medium surfaced, the Internet. Man, oh man, I love the Internet. It’s brought me couches, bed bugs from said couches, one-night stands, syphilis from said one-night stands, more Lindsay Lohan than most people can handle (not me!), and finally, a relationship with a real human dude. A human dude who happens to be very into zines. And we come full circle, folks.

My boyfriend, Jonas Madden-Connor, is one of the organizers of the San Francisco Zine Fest and a creator of many (award-winning, he’s very fancy!) comics, which leads me to my one problem with him: He’s too good at everything. I am not content to be the wind beneath another person’s wings; I must be the gale force that knocks that person out of the air so that I may fly even higher. Knowing this about myself, I knew I too must create a zine, The Best Zine Ever, to sell at this year’s fest, or I’d die (or give up) trying.

So I’m going to make a zine, but what am I going to make it about? My two main passions are veganism and being fat. Whatever, don’t judge. I’m sure your list of interests isn’t strictly chemical advances in neuroscience and Danish philosophy (actually, I’m into this if we’re talking edible Danishes, screw Kierkegaard). Since I write on the regular about being vegan, I thought I might tackle a zine about what it’s like to be fat.

I settle on Fat Zine for my title (creative, huh?) and decide to include drawings, essays, and comics about what it’s like to be chunky in America. I choose to accept submissions and advertise this fact through Craigslist. I also put up a few posters at local comic shops, like Isotope and Mission: Comics and Art, and spread the word to my friends. If you get deep enough into the self-publishing world, you might be able to ask for submission from peers on Dirty Drawers, the Bay Area comics Yahoo group. It’s invite only, kinda like the indie pubs equivalent of the Skull and Bones. Until I get tapped, Craigslist and word of mouth will have to do.

Within a few days, I have some local notables on board, including artist Jen Oaks, who contributes a drawing of a foxy chubby lady, and blogger and comics maker, Susie Cagle, who submits a fat centerfold. Hot! Other than that and a few submitted essays and comics from friends, I create most of the content myself, as many of my Craigslist submissions didn’t involve fat people, just pictures of penises. They weren’t even fat penises! I spent a few afternoons sketching cartoons about adorable chubby dogs, and penning essays about ice cream sundaes.

Now that I have my content, I need some supplies. I am so used to producing everything on my computer that I honestly don’t know where to buy paper and pens. Scary. I do a little questioning of comic artists around town and get a list of their favorite places. Although I could cheap it out and create my zine on copy paper from Office Max, I really want to go the whole nine yards with this baby. I settle on Flax Art on Market because it’s got high-quality products and more importantly, it’s next to Martuni's and I love a good martini piano bar.

At Flax, I am greeted with a wonderland of art supplies. It’s room upon room of paper, pens, stencils, stickers, and my personal favorite: glitter. An entire wall dedicated to glitter? Girrrrl.

I take my time perusing the wares and settle on a heavy stock (industry lingo!) paper, some smooth as silk Sarasa Gel Retractable Roller Ball Pens, every color of Sharpie, a few glue sticks, some tape, and a shit ton of glitter. Shit is about to get really sparkly over at Fat Zine, Inc. But first, some drinks at Martuni's.

After several martinis and a rousing piano rendition of Nelly’s “Hot in Here” at Martuni's, I head across town to Paper Source on Fillmore to check out its selection of colorful paper. Flax has a good selection, but I hear the folks at Paper Source will blow my mind. And they do. So much paper! So many colors! My zine is going to be in black and white but the cover will add a delightful splash of color to class up the joint. Should the cover of Fat Zine be in a welcoming light pink, or in-your-face chartreuse? Decisions, decisions! After an hour of drunken browsing (and more glitter buying!), I settle on magenta. The color is powerful, but still feminine. Just like a fat woman.

With supplies in hand and vision in mind, I return home to get down to business. Cutting and stapling, pasting and coloring, I do it all. Especially glittering. I ingest so much of the sparkly stuff that every time I visit the bathroom, it looks like I crap out Tinker Bell. Collecting pages from other artists and essays from people I respect, it’s exciting to see my creation spring to life. From a mountain of paper and a mess of stickers comes a monolith so epic it can only be called Fat Zine.

I hold Issue 1 in my hand. It’s an impressive specimen that looks like three mental patients escaped, broke into a kindergarten classroom, and then had their way with the crafts supply closet. I am a proud mama. The only issue with my issue? Uh, I only have one. Crap, I can’t sell just one zine, I need copies. Crap.

Lots of independent publishers hit up printing houses like Speedway Digital Printing to get the job done. I’ve made many trips to Speedway with Jonas to check out proofs for his comics and found everyone very helpful, especially manager, May Tang. She does a wonderful job printing more complicated orders and never makes you feel like a total dork when she explains how to look at a proof. The only thing is, going to Speedway is lot more expensive than DIY-ing it. If you’re printing something intricate, substantial, or just have scrilla to burn, definitely head to Speedway for your zine printing needs. Since I’m a serious newbie, I decide to take this shit to the streets. And by streets, I mean FedEx Office.

FedEx Office (you’ll always be Kinko’s to me!) is the home to many independent publishers. A word to the wise: Your neighborhood copy shop might provide higher quality service for less money but with 20 locations in San Francisco, a vote for FedEx is a vote for convenience and laziness. Also, it has rulers, tape, glue sticks, and Wite-Out on hand, and large work areas for your use, which is really great for putting together something like a zine. The week before the SF Zine Fest, you’ll find the FedEx Office stores citywide are brimming with artists printing up last-minute editions of their work.

I set up shop at one of the large color printers and get down to business. I print color covers on magenta paper and the rest in black and white. Except, of course, for the centerfold. That bitch is printed off in the most vibrant, sexy color. Two hours and a trail of glitter later, I hold 25 copies of Fat Zine, Issue 1 in hand. The only step left is the loving application of glitter to each issue. While my one zine doesn’t begin to compete with any of Jonas’ work (OK, fine, I lose!), I couldn’t have been prouder to be holding something in my hands that I made with my hands. It’s a helluva rush.

The last order of business is securing a table at the SF Zine Fest. I’m able to do this because I have connections (holla!) but anyone can easily sign up online. The booths are cheap, but quite a few indie artists and publishers set up shop in front of the event and sell right there.

As I prep for the big day, Jonas gives me a few insider tips for newbies like me:

- Don’t be afraid to make eye contact and self-promote. Be ready to talk to anyone and everyone who passes your booth; nobody wants to buy from someone who is all scowly. But don’t act too weird; just be friendly without being overbearing!

- Freebies can lure over potential zine buyers (one year I ate a cupcake fest at someone’s booth). Stickers, buttons, and candies are cheap but cool swag. I’m thinking of getting some candy necklaces for my table.

- Zine Fest is all about expressing creativity, so take time to make your table look nice; this isn’t East Germany before the wall fell, after all!

- Prepare a sign-up sheet. I see this being helpful for Fat Zine, Inc., for two reasons: first, to collect names for future Fat Zine collaborators and also, eating buddies! Hello!

So it looks like I’m all set. Fat Zine, Inc., is coming to a zine fest near you. See you there?

Make a zine, you little Picasso! It’s easy, fun, and a great outlet for the pent-up creativity of the digital age. Fat Zine cost me about $150, start to finish. The majority of that went to the paper and the printing, but you can cheap it out even more by using stuff you have around the house and scavenging from friends and at places like SCRAP, where you can find all sorts of creative reuse for dirt cheap.

Once your zine is complete, shop your creation around to places like Goteblüd Zine Gallery, Mission: Comics and Art, Needles and Pens, and Isotope, which all feature sections with local zines. Pretty rad.

Sell your stuff at the annual SF Zine Fest by securing a table on its website. Booths will set you back $90 for a full table or $45 for a half table.

Or you can attend the fest. This year it takes place on September 4-5 at the County Fair Building in Golden Gate Park. Admission is free, so come support the little guy and find the newest, coolest shit before anyone else. You know you want to, that's why you live in San Francisco!

Night at the Museum

Ethan Kanat — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 00:00:08 -0700

I am proud to call myself an art lover. I studied art history in college and I’ve been to countless gallery openings. My own home is decorated with drawings, photos, and sculptures that I bought to help support my artist friends. And yet, I am not a big fan of museums. Call me crazy, but something about lofty ticket prices, huge crowds, and what I perceive to be an overly pretentious attempt to “appreciate” art just rubs me the wrong way.

I’m not alone in this thinking, and in recent years museums across the city have tried to lure people like me through their doors by broadening their approach. Exhibits have become less stuffy and the museums themselves have been given cutting-edge makeovers. Curators have embraced pop culture and technology, turning a visit to the museum into a field trip for the senses.

I appreciate this effort, but what really caught my attention is the nighttime action. The de Young, the Exploratorium, and the California Academy of Sciences have all added after-hours events to their respective calendars, complete with live music, thematically arranged presentations and, most importantly, alcohol. I decided to check them all out and see what goes on during the night at the museum.

Every Friday night, the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park features free Friday Night Soireés. The soireés are loosely organized around themes like French culture and San Francisco street art, but the real draw is the opportunity to see the museum and its collection after hours.

Which brings me to my first caveat. While the soireés are described as a nighttime event, they are really more of an after-work event. As in, immediately after work, and only then if you’re able to slip out a little early. The spiraling tower – the de Young’s most striking feature – closes at 4:30 p.m. and the feature exhibit closes at 7 p.m. In other words, show up early for the late event at the de Young.

I got there at 6:30 p.m. Even though the line had closed for the Birth of Impressionism exhibit and I couldn’t check out the view from the tower, I still think it was one of my better museum visits. The crowd was decidedly smaller than it would’ve been during the day and most of the people were downstairs drinking white wine. I wandered through the painting galleries more or less by myself, which seemed to amplify the majesty of the space and the art within.

In one room I saw nothing but oil paintings of food. In another I sat alone before giant landscapes feeling like a character out of a Wes Anderson film. Even the guards had checked out at that point and I got close enough to touch a lot of things I probably shouldn’t have touched. I usually burn out on museum visits after half an hour, but I got lost in this experience. I wouldn’t have even known the party was over if it weren’t for the fat lady singing (as part of the performance downstairs).

I came back to the park the following week for NightLife at the California Academy of Sciences. Having waltzed straight into the de Young for a solitary stroll through its galleries, I assumed that all nighttime museum events were mellow. So was shocked to find a line of people winding past the ticket counter and all the way around the building. In fact, no sooner had I taken up position at the back of the line than an announcement came over the PA saying that the event had reached capacity. Everyone who showed up after me got turned away. (Note to self: next time buy tickets in advance online.)

As it turns out, the line outside was a harbinger of the massive crowds inside. Apparently, the California Academy of Sciences is the premier destination for young, attractive singles on a Thursday night. A dozen bars were scattered throughout the atrium and under the rain forest, and every single one was buffered by a line of people 15 deep. The girls were all wearing heels and plenty of makeup. The guys all had on their tightest shirts. Jittery techno music pulsed over the house system. As I walked down to the underground aquarium I heard somebody yell out, “Omigod! Look at that big-ass fish!”

This was my first trip to the newly renovated Academy. I was taken by the giant, spherical rain forest and the glowing underwater tunnel. However, it quickly became apparent that I would not be getting any alone time in the hidden corners of this museum. A group of drunken girls pushed past me to see the snakes. All around me people posed for cell phone photos and exchanged numbers. I went upstairs to see the Extreme Mammals exhibit and was told to take a number and come back in an hour.

My inner crotchety old man was getting ready to lodge a formal protest, so I made a beeline for the nearest bar. The liquor did what it’s supposed to do, and as I relaxed I took in my surroundings. I started to realize the whole thing was pretty cool. Here I was drinking a cocktail underneath an artificial tidal pool, surrounded by sharks, alligators, and hot girls. I had just felt up a starfish and I would soon be learning about the intense mating habits of tree dwelling mammals.

One of the best things about the NightLife series is how well the Academy staff handles themselves and the hundreds of drunken guests. The biologists at the “petting tanks” work the crowd like bar mitzvah MCs, posing for photos and encouraging the squeamish among us to stroke the sea cucumbers. In fact, as long as you don’t mind paying $12 to get in and can find a cab to bring you home, I would say the California Academy of Sciences is definitely the place to be on a Thursday night in San Francisco.

My final stop on the after-hours museum circuit came a few weeks later at the monthly After Dark event at the Exploratorium. Immediately upon purchasing my $15 ticket, I could tell that this was going to be the event that most thoroughly embodies the San Francisco ethos. The theme for this month’s After Dark event was “Nomadic Communities.” Food was supplied by a flock of upscale food trucks – Kung Fu Tacos, The Crème Brûlée Cart and, as a nod to the Burning Man contingent, Dust City Diner. I opted for a couple of steamed buns from Chairman Bao.

A quick survey of the crowd revealed a much different group than my other evening museum visits. Whereas the de Young attracted an older, upper-middle class crowd and the California Academy of Sciences catered to the young singles scene, the Exploratorium seemed to be picking up everybody in the middle. I would put the average age at 35, and although everyone there probably works in the tech or design industry, they all looked like they’ve made more than a few trips to Burning Man.

In fact, I know this to be true because as part of the evening’s theme, Burning Man cofounder Harley K. Dubois was giving a talk on aspects of planning the temporary city’s annual event. As a self-professed urban planning nerd, I was eager to hear her speak. After a visit to the bun truck, I quickly devoured my pork buns and went inside to get one of the last remaining seats for the presentation.

The talk was even more interesting than I would have thought. I had no idea about the intricacy of negotiations between Burning Man and BLM, nor did I know what went into the planning and surveying of the event. While I’ve always been turned off by a certain stereotypical element of the Burning Man contingent, I found myself drawn into the logistics of how the annual desert celebration actually happens.

I ducked out and wandered the vast expanse of the Exploratorium, playing science games and listening to “explainers” describe the basic physics behind things like smoke rings and optical illusions. I watched a semi-convincing transvestite describe a solar eclipse. I noticed that all around me people were actively engaged in the exhibits. There was a lot less drinking than I had expected, and what appeared to be much more actual learning.

I sat down next to a man in a lab coat dissecting a cow eyeball and thought about all three of my after-hours museum experiences. I realized that in each case, the personality of the event seemed to match the personality of the venue. The de Young’s Friday Night Soireé was sophisticated and refined. NightLife at the California Academy of Sciences was youthful, loud, and full of energy. And the Exploratorium was funky and laid back with a punkish DIY feel that you could only find in a cavernous San Francisco warehouse. All at once I began to look at museums in a new light - a light I was only able to see when I went looking after dark.

Friday Nights at the de Young start early and end early, so be sure to get there on time to maximize your experience. The event is free, but parking in the underground garage is expensive – it ran me $11 – although it will save you a lot of time.

NightLife at the California Academy of Sciences is the most popular of the three evening events. Get there early if you want to see the rain forest or planetarium, and buy your tickets in advance if you don’t want to wait in line outside in the fog.

After Dark at the Exploratorium varies the most in terms of theme and content, so be sure to check online for details about food, presentations, and special exhibits. The Exploratorium also offers the most opportunities for hands-on learning, so be sure to bring your thinking cap in addition to your beer money.

A Shot of Love

Isaac Fitzgerald — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 00:00:09 -0700

I love nothing more than drinking in the morning’s clean light. Thus, my only complaint – and that of many others – about Bender's is that it doesn’t open early enough. The bar and grill, located at 19th and South Van Ness, unlocks its gate at 2 p.m. on the weekends and an oh-so-late 4 p.m. on weekdays. The best you can hope for is some early afternoon drinking.

I walk in at 2:15 p.m. on a Saturday and more than a few regulars are already bellied up to the bar. The inside of Bender's feels like the hideout you never had when you were a delinquent teenager. Punk rock and heavy metal posters are pressed against black-painted walls. The tabletops are lacquered, displaying a museum-like collection of fake IDs. There are two pool tables, a jukebox, a pinball machine, and a photo booth.

Bottles of liquor cover the wall behind the bar, an alcoholic rainbow of browns and golds along with exotic splashes of greens and blues. Plastered in between the bottles and glasses are numerous pictures of workers and regulars, like so many dysfunctional family photos – the makings of a hungover, shirtless, bar-dancing, shot-taking family tree.

I order. The bartender, Stephanie Crebo, flashes me a welcoming smile and then continues her conversation with a couple at the end of the bar. She pours my shot and pulls my beer without looking. She drops another shot for herself, turns to me, and we put ’em down.

To my left is Anna Schoenberger, a beautiful woman holding a can of PBR and a white-liner (small shot) of Jäger. Her arms are covered in tattoos: a sushi roll with a heart at the center, a dinosaur, and a video game inspired sleeve – all Pac-Man characters, Atari joysticks, and Tetris.

I turn to her and introduce myself, asking what brings her to Bender's dark interior on such a sunny day.

“I’ve been at Bender's more days than not since moving here from LA over a year and a half ago. I love it. I’ve met most of my friends here. You can park your bike inside,” she says, gesturing to the bike rack at the center of the room. “The mac and cheese with tots on top are incredible, and the staff are nice . This place is my second home. Another way to put it would be: Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t?” Anna smiles and sips her shot. “Of course, I know when to leave.” And with that she does. I do my best to convince myself that it wasn’t me, and order another beer.

Bender's is the brainchild of three men. Two of the three founding owners are Johnny Davis and Liam Martin, who had put in their time at a slew of watering holes throughout the city. Like so many who call San Francisco home, Johnny and Liam aren’t originally from SF. Johnny, a rocker with long hair and tattoos, was born in Texas but raised in the Northwest. Liam, a giant tree-trunk of a man, is from Australia.

When Johnny walks into his bar I ask him if he’d like to take a shot. A grin blasts across his face, “Am I breathing?”

I ask him why he opened Bender's and he says, “I figured I’m going to die behind a bar, it might as well be my own bar.”

The bar opened on September 12, 2003, the day Johnny Cash died, but it wasn’t an easy start. For two and a half years the bar struggled. Then, on June 14, 2006, things got worse: At around a quarter to five in the morning, Bender's burst into flames. Johnny got a phone call from one of his bartenders who told him her friend, who was leaving work late from The Homestead (a bar right down the street), had called to tell her that Bender's was on fire.

“I thought she was joking at first, until I realized that she was in tears, she was crying. So I flew down there. The place was surrounded by fire trucks and everything we owned was in a smoking pile in the middle of the street.”

Adam Cabot, better known as “AC,” walks in, orders a Budweiser, and asks Steph to put the Giants game on. AC is a San Francisco native, born and raised in the Mission, and he laughs when I turn from Johnny to ask him how often he comes in. “Five times a week. I’ve been coming here since they opened the first time.”

Adam’s step dad, Alejandro Zagal, used to be a regular when the bar at the corner of 19th and South Van Ness was a Latino bar called “Imperial.” “He used to be in here so much in the ’70s and ’80s that he had a cot in the back,” AC remembers. He also remembers the fire.

“I was here the morning it burned. Liam called me and said, ‘The fucking bar is burning.’ So I came down. Everyone was out in the street, people from the neighborhood, the bar owners, some staff…there were tears…it was ugly.”

I turn back to Johnny. “Were you positive right away that you were going to reopen?”

“No, absolutely not,” says Johnny. “I woke up the day after the fire and thought to myself ‘I’m fucking unemployed.’”

Despite the money lost in the fire and the damage done to the building, they rebuilt the bar. “It started coming together. Slowly. But friends and family, regulars, folks really pitched in. We swung the doors open, again, on November 14, 2007.”

Johnny takes off to get work done in the back. AC turns to watch the Giants. I order another drink and watch as a couple plays Trivial Pursuit followed by games of backgammon.

It’s later in the afternoon when a mess of metal, wheels, tattoos, and thirsty eyes ride right into the bar. The inside bike rack is instantly full and drinks are quickly ordered. Bike messengers are as much a part of Bender's as the photo booth.

“How do we like Bender's? This is our office man!” Josh Hunt and Chas Farnsworth started their own messenger company just under a year ago: TCB Courier (TCB standing for “taking care of business”), a local day and late-night delivery service based in the Mission. “We deliver everything,” Chas laughs. “One of our guys delivered porno mags to a customer last night.”

Josh, who was born and raised in Texas and moved to San Francisco from Pittsburgh, tells the story of starting TCB, “We decided to go into business for ourselves when the scene downtown started getting grim; we needed a new way to ride our bikes and make money. When we first started out we were just a phone, a bank account, and business cards; we didn’t have anywhere to base our operations. The folks here at Bender's were super cool about it, they let us hang out and be on standby even if we weren’t buying anything, and they still do.”

Chaz and Josh split, but ever the hustlers, they leave me with a handful of TCB business cards.

The man to my left takes a pull off his beer. Robert Solimo has a giant beard. His eyes seem interested in everything and nothing at the same time. His demeanor is relaxed while simultaneously seeming like a coil of metal ready to spring.

Rob moved to San Francisco in 1999 from New Jersey and became a bike messenger in 2001. “About 10 years ago I only had $400 to my name. I found a track bike and said ‘fuck, I’ll take that thing.’ It didn’t have brakes. I had a hell of a time stopping it. Cracked some teeth. Learned a couple life lessons.” He’s been working on two wheels ever since.

On Bender's, Rob doesn’t hold back. “I stop by every night. This is one of the top three bars in the world in my opinion. You know why? Because the folks who run this place treat you the way you should be treated when you go to a bar. It’s that simple.”

“You ever worry about the bar getting too popular?” I ask.

“Never. First, this place is the Statue of Liberty of bars. They welcome everyone. From blue-collar workers to the rock-and-roll scene. But there’s always a balance. If you keep it dirty you keep it clean, you know? You keep it weird. And the owners know that. It’s a balance. It’s like Darwinism. It’s ‘Barwinism.’”

Johnny and I are back at the bar. I’ve now been drinking for five hours.

“You know what we almost called this place?” Johnny asks, not waiting for an answer. “The Wraparound Lounge. We were going to open at 8 a.m. You would’ve loved it.”

The room is now crowded and I remember Anna’s advice about knowing when to leave. I stumble out into the evening light.

Up for some daytime drinking at the best bar in San Francisco? Swing by Bender's on Saturdays around 2 p.m. and settle in for a boozy afternoon (the kitchen opens around 4:30 and Mr. Pickles is right down the street). Daytime drinking not your thing? Stop in after work for Whiskey Wednesdays and enjoy the mayhem. Don’t forget to check out the calendar for great events and shows. Be friendly and TIP YOUR BARTENDERS!

The Spice Must Flow

Dennis Yang — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 00:00:08 -0700

I was first introduced to Japanese curry by Dan, my loud Jewish friend from Ohio. Years ago, while in Japan as a foreign exchange student, he developed a taste for Japanese curry – specifically, katsu curry, which is served up with a panko-crusted fried cutlet, traditionally pork. Dan lived here in the early 2000s, and every week he and his entourage would descend upon Hotei in the Inner Sunset, the only San Francisco establishment whose offerings lived up to his childhood memories of his favorite dish.

There were a few very simple rules to Dan’s katsu curry dinner night:

Dan has since moved back to Ohio, but those of us who remain in San Francisco still carry on the katsu curry dinner tradition. I can proudly say that we pretty much adhere to the rules. Rarely have we deviated in our ordering, and the few women who have graced us with their presence are now my friends’ wives.

I wanted to learn the secret behind Hotei’s curry, so it was with the contained exuberance of a teenage fan seeing his favorite rock band that I meet with Eric Fujii, one of the proprietors of Hotei. Eric’s father, Steve, opened Ebisu (Hotei’s sister restaurant across the street) decades ago when he was only 18. In 2000, they opened Hotei, specializing in ramen and curry.

Hotei’s curry is an age-old family recipe created by Eric’s grandmother, Eric tells me as he tosses curry spices to a base of onions, beef, water, and stock. Then he adds a few special ingredients: coffee and apples. The bitterness of the coffee balances with the sweetness of the apples, which enhances the overall flavor. “The more layers of flavor,” he explains, “the better.” The whole mixture is then cooked for hours in a huge vat big enough to feed a small army, which seems fitting since this is a dish traditionally served in the Japanese military.

“Japanese curry is comfort food,” Eric says. I agree.

Eric has to head back to work, so I sit down at a table and order a plate of pork katsu curry. As I check into Hotei on Foursquare, I’m informed that I’ve just been crowned “mayor” of Hotei. Dan would be proud.

A few minutes later, my dinner arrives. The pork cutlet lies in slices atop a bed of white rice next to a healthy pile of red pickles called fukujinzuke . Chunks of beef, potatoes, and carrots swim in rich, brown gravy. As I shovel perfect scoops of rice, katsu curry, and pickles into my mouth, I can taste the many delicious layers of flavor that Eric had described.

I now wonder if I could make Japanese curry at home. I mean, it didn’t seem that hard. Admittedly, I’m not much of a cook. My New Year’s resolution was to make a meal for myself once a week. I lasted only a month, and that was using a very loose definition of “cooking” that many would call “heating in a microwave.”

Since I’m not intrepid enough to figure out curry making on my own, I contact Tomo Saito, known for throwing “kick-ass Japanese curry” parties” at Gravel & Gold, the eclectic Mission boutique where I purchased my beloved porcelain neti pot. At his last gathering, Tomo served over 150 bowls of his signature dish.

There wasn’t an event scheduled in the near future, but Tomo was kind enough to throw me a curry party at his lovely loft in the Outer Mission.

To start, Tomo makes the curry base by chopping up two large white onions and some ginger, which are then sautéed in a pan with olive oil until the onions are translucent. To that, we add 28 sprigs of rosemary, eight cloves of minced garlic, and more olive oil, and then let the fragrant mixture simmer on the stove.

Over two large bottles of Sapporo, we chat about Japan and peruse the numerous paintings that adorn his apartment – art accumulated throughout his years as a CCA student. Growing up in Tokyo, Tomo learned his curry recipe from his mother who made it once every two weeks when he was a kid. He explains that this is “house style” curry, and every time he makes it, it’s a little bit different, but that’s part of the appeal.

The base continues to simmer, so we start on the stock, which, Tomo explains, usually involves ground beef and a bottle of the infamous Two-Buck Chuck. But today we’re making chicken curry, so into a pressure cooker of boiling water goes a large chicken, a bunch of carrots, and a bushel of kale. With a twist of his wrist, Tomo clicks the pressure cooker shut, and the device emits an angry roar as it the liquid starts boiling up to temperature.

After about 20 minutes, Tomo opens the pot revealing a delicious chicken soup. To this he adds the simmering onion-ginger-rosemary-garlic mixture and then finally, two boxes of S&B Golden Curry, an instant roux that transforms the dish into a bubbling vat of homemade Japanese curry.

As if on cue, Tomo’s party guests – three fashionably dressed Japanese girls and Tomo’s coworker from his day job at a design firm – arrive right as the curry is finished. We ladle generous portions onto beds of rice and begin to happily consume the meal.

The homemade curry tastes quite different from Hotei’s, but has the same stick-to-your-ribs comfort factor that I was looking for. Hearty, tasty, and we made it ourselves.

Though I’m now armed with the knowledge of how to prepare Japanese curry, my quest to fully understand the dish wouldn’t be complete without a visit Muracci's Japanese Curry & Grill, whose curry has adorned many a best-of list in San Francisco.

Muracci's co-owner, Tamiko Murata, shows me how the curry is made. At face value, her process is remarkably similar to the Fujii’s: The broth is mixed with curry spices and vegetables and then cooked for a really long time. That said, the exact types and proportions of broth, spices, and vegetables are a closely guarded secret. All Tamiko shares is that it’s a mixture of onions, garlic, apples, tomatoes, and “other stuff.” Fair enough.

Hailing from Kobe, Japan, Tamiko opened her restaurant in the spring of 2008, naming it after her son. She designed the curry specifically for the hardworking San Franciscans in the Financial District. “There are a lot of vegetables in the sauce to make it healthy,” she proudly proclaims.

After spending time in Muracci's kitchen, I’m ready to try the curry so I wander back at lunchtime and find an incredible number of hungry patrons crammed into the tiny Kearny Street space. The ambiance is best described as “Tokyo Subway Car at Rush Hour.” After waiting patiently in line, I finally get to the front and place an order for vegetable curry. I figure, as long as I’m cheating on Dan, I might as well go whole hog and deviate from the traditions altogether. I’m told that the wait will be 20 minutes; my stomach grumbles in protest. I slink away dejectedly after the girl behind me bouncily picks up the order she had smartly phoned in earlier. Mental note taken.

I seize this opportunity to run across the street to Ebisu’s newly opened FiDi location and grab a bowl of vegetable curry for an impromptu showdown. I then skip back into Muracci's and pick up my order, furtively hiding the competitor’s product.

Since Muracci's has only a handful of seats, most of the khaki crowd steals back to their corporate lunch dens. I hop on my bike and head over to Levi’s Plaza; it’s a gorgeous day for a curry picnic.

Muracci's lunch comes in two parts: The curry is in a plastic tub and the rice and pickles are in a square box. Ebisu’s comes preassembled in a sealed round container, the same as those used by Mehfil, my favorite Indian curry place. That said, both approaches result in pretty much the same thing: a portion of piping hot Japanese curry over rice.

The curries look different. Ebisu’s is thick and chocolate-brown, whereas Muracci's is reddish and thinner in consistency. As for taste, it’s hard to say which one is better because they’re remarkably different. Ebisu’s is hearty, whereas Muracci's is a tad more delicate and spicy. It’s a cop-out to say this, but I’m not a food critic, so you should just go try them both and decide for yourself which is best.

Now that I know how to make it, I’m moving katsu curry dinner night to my house. Come on over. Just don’t tell Dan.

Try Japanese curry at Hotei in the Inner Sunset, or at Ebisu or Muracci's in the Financial District. If you’re smart, phone your order in to Muracci's ahead of time. I recommend pork katsu curry, with extra pickles. Keep an eye out on Gravel & Gold’s blog for Tomo’s next party. Or, pick up a box of S&B Golden Curry at your favorite Asian grocer and whip up some kick-ass Japanese curry of your own.

Walk the Plank

LJ Moore — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 00:00:08 -0700

It was through this thirst for eccentric history that I first stumbled upon the buried ships map amongst the records of SFgenealogy. Along with old surveys of Yerba Buena and lists of bodies found floating in the cove in 1867, I came upon an unassuming document put together by Ron Filion, SFgenealogy's cofounder and a fellow keeper of all that is gothy. The map details the current whereabouts of the remains of nearly 600 barks, brigs, and whalers whose last voyage was to sail up the San Francisco wharves in 1849 and dislodge their gold-crazy passengers.

Abandoned for visions of gold nuggets the size of fists, these ships became a floating graveyard nicknamed “rotten row” until enterprising San Franciscans turned them into store ships, saloons, hotels, bordellos, and shanghai dens. People filled in the bay around these ships until they were landlocked, or hired “hulk undertakers” to purposefully sink them in order to lay claim to real estate still underwater.

I was floored. I’ve lived in San Francisco since 1994 and had never heard of these buried vessels.

After months of bugging friends and strangers to look at the map, an idea seized me – I’d investigate the bars now sitting on top of these ships. I wanted to see if the owners knew about the legends beneath their businesses, and if they’d find this underground history of our city as magical as I do.

Bill Duffy, owner of the Old Ship Saloon at the corner of Battery and Pacific, is a tough man to track down. After a long game of phone tag, I finally just walk my carcass down to the bar, take a seat, and start peppering bartender Paulie with questions.

Three guys playing dice eavesdrop while Paulie points out historic photos of the building being rebuilt after the 1906 earthquake. He assures me that Bill works the bar on Mondays. I’m halfway out the door when one of the dice players shouts, “Hey Paulie, aren’t you going to give her a tour of your old shipwreck in the basement!?” It takes me a couple of beats to get the joke. Paulie holds up his arms in a what-can-I-do-with-these-guys gesture as I make my escape.

I am back like a toothache on Monday afternoon armed with as much knowledge as I could scuttle up. The Old Ship Saloon was indeed the final resting spot for the Arkansas, which wrecked on Alcatraz, was bought for a song, and got towed to what would later become the corner of Battery and Pacific Streets. As the story goes, an Englishman named Joe Anthony cut a hole in her side, threw a plank down to the wharf, and hung a sign outside which read “Gud, Bad and Indif’rent Spirits sold here! At 25 cents each.” The Old Ship Ale House, as it was then called, did a brisk business, evolving through incarnations as a sailor’s boarding house and a bordello, but always as a saloon (minus the unlucky 13 years of Prohibition).

Bill, the bar’s owner since 1992, had been tipped off about me. When I pull up a bar stool, he seems to already know who I am, or maybe I gave myself away by ordering a…well, a Diet Coke. (It is 3 p.m. on a Monday.) Bill says he knew nothing about the saloon’s nautical history during the years he worked at the bar before he bought it. “Then a friend of mine found one of those old five cent tokens at an auction that had the name of the Old Ship Saloon on it, and traced it back to here,” Bill explains. “That’s when I started researching the history and decided to get its old name back.”

I ask Bill if the rumors about the place are true: that it was a brothel and an infamous shanghai den where sailors were “coaxed” into manning ships via a mickey in the form of a bottle to the skull. Bill smiles, breaking off to make his afternoon patrons a couple of Black and Tans and an Arnold Palmer.

“From what I’ve read, most of this place’s history is on the up-and-up,” he says, “but the shanghai stuff – that really happened.”

I’m early for pub quiz night at Elephant & Castle, so I pace the edge of the General Harrison deck, picturing the 1851 fire that burned it to ground level. A thick outline of the vessel is inlaid in the sidewalk from Battery Street west along Clay to about halfway down the block, where it suddenly angles underneath the building. It’s a tracing of the ship’s hull that was once echoed by an outline on the carpet in the Elephant & Castle’s basement.

I learn this background info from Tara, my sprightly, pink-haired barkeep who sportingly agrees to be the only other member of my pub quiz team. I show her the map of buried ships and she studies it between tapping Sierras and Guinnesses. Manager Sean Doherty, recognizing fellow nerdiness when he sees it, adds that when the building’s foundation was dug in 2001 and the wreck was uncovered, cases of intact, 150-year-old Madeira, Chardonnay, and Scotch Ale were discovered.

“Did anyone drink it?” I ask.

“I hope not, for their sakes,” Sean says.

Even with Tara supplying most of the answers, our pub quiz team, “The Shipwrecks,” comes in last. I wander off into the fog, singing sea shanties.

I walk into the Royal Exchange bar at Sacramento and Front with a big secret. By now, my buried ships map is covered with notes, scrawls, check marks, and circles. It’s been folded and unfolded so many times it looks like a long-cherished love letter, which in a way, it is. I’m about to pass this mash note on to a total stranger.

I belly up to the bar and ask a bartender with sandy-reddish hair and freckles if I can speak with the manager. “That’s me,” he says, “I’m Dane.”

“I have a story for you,” I say, and pull out the map. “Are you aware that your bar is sitting on the remains of a gold rush ship?”

Dane looks at me. “What do you mean...ship?” he asks.

“I mean a full-sized, three-masted, flea-infested sailing ship: the Thomas Bennett sailed here in 1850 from Charleston, around Cape Horn.”

I leave Dane with a sheaf of papers, promising to return when he’s had a chance to read them.

A week later I’m back at the Royal Exchange, but Dane isn’t around. When I introduce myself to Brian, the manager on duty, his face lights up. “No way!” he says. “I saw those papers you brought in! You have no idea how fired up I am about this!”

“I have this whole idea,” Brian tells me, “let me lay it on you.” His plan is to replace some of the generic decor with the history of the Thomas Bennett . “I was thinking we could hang up pictures of the ship, maybe of the captain, what’s his name...Halverston, Halberston, Haversham...whatever.”

I tell him I haven’t come across any pictures of the captain so far, but Brian has a far-off glint in his eye.

“Even better,” he grins. “I was thinking I could commission an artist to paint a portrait of me as the captain. I’ll wear a cap and a fisherman’s sweater and have a pipe in my mouth!” We both crack up. As we’re talking, Dane arrives.

I tell Dane I don’t want to be a pest, but that I’ve found some more history on the Thomas Bennett . “Are you kidding?” he says. “We can’t stop talking about the ship underneath the building.”

“Yeah,” Brian chimes in, “and do you know anybody who wants to paint a portrait of a sea captain?”

Leaving the Royal Exchange, I stare down Clay Street, imagining the portrait of Brian as Captain Halverston hanging on the wall of the bar 50 years from now, and all the stories that painting could inspire. Meanwhile, the bones of the Thomas Bennett , the General Harrison , and the Arkansas remain sleeping in the mud, where 100 years from now, when these buildings come down and new ones go up, someone might stumble into the stories of these buried treasures once again.

Walk the map, painstakingly assembled from old-timer accounts by Ron Filion of SFgenealogy, and check out the organization's page on Buried Ships . Ask for Bill Duffy at the Old Ship Saloon, check out artifacts downstairs at the Elephant & Castle, and stop for a beer and a chat with Brian or Dane at The Royal Exchange. Also look for the Spring 2011 launch of The Armada of Golden Dreams , a surreal audio tour of San Francisco’s buried ships from Invisible City Audio Tours, with stories by Bay Area writers curated by yours truly.

Barbary Coaster

Mariah Gardner — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 00:00:09 -0700

“Oh, King Alcohol!” cried Happy Jack. “Great is thy sway! Thou makest meaner creatures, kings, and the unfortunate fellow of the gutter forget his miseries for a while!”

– Herbert Asbury, “The Barbary Coast,” 1933

Upon first entrance, the Comstock Saloon is breathtaking in its loveliness, at least to someone who’s been looking for just such a place; and Lord knows I’ve been on the hunt. As one who daydreams of knocking them back at Barbary Coast haunts like the Bella Union (with its sailors and pretty waiter girls), the Cobweb Palace, or the Fierce Grizzly, it’s a rare thing to find a gem such as this – one that allows you to feel so completely immersed in a different time without the shattering distraction of a flat-screen TV or a cheapening sense that it’s all been Disneyland-ed from floor to ceiling. Tiny café tables with wooden chairs sit in corner nooks, high-backed wooden booths abound, and there’s even a small sitting room tucked off to the side, complete with velvety settees and a little wood-burning stove. The tinkling of an upright piano wafts down from a balconied nook high above the bar room floor. Fine, I’m gushing. But sleuthing out the perfect bar for every mood can be a full-time occupation, and as I cozy up to the huge mahogany bar I know I can knock at least one off my list: historical preservation. Besides, let’s remember who we’re talking about. As a lady who surrounds herself with old wooden ships and the men who love them, I’d say I’m a bit of a preservation piece myself. A smile creeps in as I adjust my hat in the handsome beveled mirror and an equally handsome bartender smiles back. It’s like a nice clean slice of rough-and-tumble heaven.

A great deal, if not all of this sensation, is owed to the respect with which saloon keepers Jonny Raglin and Jeff Hollinger have treated their endeavor. Rather than setting out from Absinthe with the idea of creating another hip throwback establishment, it was the building itself that called out what it wanted to be. In fact, before finding the space at 155 Columbus, it was assumed they’d be opening a much more modern showcase for their classic cocktails.

I get the story from Jonny, who tells me that while digging through records of the former home of the San Francisco Brewing Company – where Comstock now resides – they found that the building has stood there since 1907 (the first incarnation having been wiped out by the earthquake and fire) and was always in service as an operating bar. What this means is that, while The Saloon, a few blocks away at 1232 Grant Street, might hold court as the city’s oldest bar (established in 1861 and not quelled by flames), the Comstock’s building could well be the last standing bar of the Barbary Coast.

Thus, it became their mission to restore it to its former glory while adding their own historical touches. Look above the bar and you’ll find a statue and inscription commemorating Emperor Norton (though nothing for poor Oofty Goofty). The bar is named after Henry Comstock and his famous Comstock Lode, one of the first mining discoveries that brought money to San Francisco. As if that’s not enough, there’s not a bad-looking bartender to be seen – especially if your fancy runs toward bow ties and suspenders. Shaking hands with the mustachioed Jonny is like coming face-to-face with one of the original San Francisco Seals.

When questioned about the “local” cocktails on the menu, Jonny is quick to point out the reigning king – Pisco Punch. Created in the mid-to-late 1800s by Duncan Nicol, proprietor of the Bank Exchange Bar on Montgomery Street, Pisco Punch was by far the most popular drink in San Francisco during its heyday. While Nicol was reputed to have taken the secret of his concoction with him when he moved six feet under, he must have leaked it to someone, as the Comstock serves up a mix that I can only assume is pretty damn close to the original: Pisco (a Peruvian brandy), pineapple gum (a mix of the fruit’s juice, simple syrup, and gum arabic) and lime.

While all these ingredients would have been prevalent among the shiploads coming into port from South America in the late 1800s, it’s easy to see how the advent of Prohibition, followed by the drying up of that style of shipping trade put Pisco Punch out of vogue for many a year. Thanks in part to the folks at the Comstock (and, one should think, the venerable order of E Clampus Vitus, whose plaque immortalizes it inside the Transamerica Pyramid), Pisco Punch is back in all its understated glory.

Served up in an elegant stemmed punch glass, it’s reminiscent of a spiked lemonade, with that same slightly weightier viscosity due to the gum arabic. It’s cool and delicious and I could drink it all day long (and knowing me, probably will at some point). Jonny then offers up a small glass of the Pisco by itself. While the punch didn’t appear particularly dangerous, a sip of its main ingredient gives one pause. As far as I’m concerned, Thomas W. Knox summed it up in 1872, and I’d be a fool to try and do better: “It is perfectly colourless, quite fragrant, very seductive, terribly strong, and has a flavour somewhat resembling that of scotch whiskey, but much more delicate, with a marked fruity taste. The first glass satisfied me that San Francisco was, and is, a nice place to visit. The second glass was sufficient, and I felt that I could face small pox, all the fevers known to the faculty, and the Asiatic cholera combined, if need be.” Yessir, I’ll most definitely have another.

For round two (or is that three?), I’m introduced to the Martinez, another local favorite that made its entrance around the same time. While legends abound (it originated in the town of Martinez, was named after someone of that name, is grandfather to the Martini, and so on), the story I get from Jonny is that it was mixed up by one of the waterfront bartenders (possibly again at the Bank Exchange) for a customer in need of a libation to carry him on his journey across the Bay to Martinez. A nice, stiff drink was poured (remember this trek would have been a just a hair more complicated sans bridges) consisting of Old Tom gin, sweet vermouth, maraschino liqueur, and bitters, complemented by a bit of lemon for garnish. Comstock uses these same ingredients, put down in writing by “Professor” Jerry Thomas in his 1887 Bar-Tender’s Guide and, yes, that is not a cocktail to be taken lightly. It’s very strong, quite sweet, and nothing like your run-of-the-mill Martini. Which begs the question of whether they’re even related.

While it’s possible that playing with the two main ingredients (gin and vermouth) did in fact create the latter over time, Jonny finds it much more likely that the Martini was a fabricated product of vermouth company Martini and Rossi, with a nod to the older recipe for inspiration But as the two are so completely different in taste it’s pretty much a moot point. The attraction of the Martinez, and many of the old-time cocktails offered by Comstock, is sweetness. The argument has been made many a time that back in the day, sweet ingredients were used to cover the taste of awful (and awfully strong) alcohol. Jonny’s in disagreement with this assessment, in part because pre-Prohibition alcohols wouldn’t have been made in any less traditional a manner than good spirits are today. More importantly to him, though, is the idea that the sweetness was a virtue, a deliberate desire for something like dessert; an adult treat, if you will. And who doesn’t like to give themselves a little treat?

Another classically San Franciscan libation Jonny's quick to note is the Irish Coffee. While formally branded by the Buena Vista and commonly neglected by those actually residing in the city, Jonny quite eloquently points out that there’s probably not a bartender worldwide who wouldn’t know how to make it, and few who wouldn’t agree about its origination, or at least the legend at large. As the story goes, one Stanton Delaplane (a travel writer for the SF Chronicle, no less) happened to sip the frothy wonder at Ireland’s Shannon Airport sometime in the early 1950s. After returning to our fair city, he raved about it to Jack Koeppler, owner of the Buena Vista and the two set out to re-create the effect sans recipe. Many an unsatisfactory replica went down the hatches before the assistance of San Francisco’s own mayor – who just happened to own a dairy farm – produced the desired effect, and 1952 became a good year for anyone who likes a lot of cream with their whiskey.

As coffee’s seldom my bag, and definitely a no-no after dark, I continue my tippling with a Hop Toad – a combination of Jamaican rum, apricot brandy, lime, and bitters. Though Jonny’s mentioned that it’s another San Francisco contribution, he defers to Jeff for the backstory. Jeff’s not entirely certain of its origins without digging into the archives. The mystery remains, and it’s fine by me. If our city can lay claim to that heady concoction, all the better for us, otherwise bless the man who did create it – she’s a doozy. I polish off the last of that glorious elixir, wolf my way through a plateful of pickled eggs on rye toast, and set off wobbling into the night, hoping I don’t get shanghaied on the way home.

If it’s the history of these great old cocktails that tickles your fancy, pick up a copy of Cocktail Boothby’s American Bartender (written in 1903 by the well-known head barman at the Palace Hotel) newly reprinted and available at the California Historical Society. While you’re there, see if there’s a copy of Herbert Asbury’s The Barbary Coast: An Informal History of the San Francisco Underworld – part truth, part legend, and a wonderful inspiration. Reading material or no, make your way to the Comstock, as nothing beats a trip to the saloon itself to savor that ambiance and good cheer, not to mention the handsome and knowledgeable barkeeps serving up those glorious concoctions.

Head Case

Josh Rotter — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 00:00:10 -0700

Over time, I found myself fixating on the Purple One’s artful accessory. It was more memorable to me than the song’s opening scene – when the sexy star emerges from a steamy bathtub – or the subsequent kaleidoscopic effects during the final dance sequence.

Add to this Prince obsession a second fascination with stylish headwear. I see chapeaus as sculptures, worn as a finishing touch on a fashion-forward look. Hats frame the face and turn any outfit into an occasion. Call me mad, but I believe no outfit is complete without one. Having a “Doves Cry” hat of my own would make my millennium.

The creation I had in mind couldn’t be found at the runway shows, though, or on shelves at local shops like Goorin Bros., Mrs. Dewson's, or Alternative Design Studio. I would need it custom-made. So I decided to put my design skills to the test and make my headwear – with some help from local milliner Tricia Roush of House of Nines Designs, whose design aesthetic has a definite sense of history.

Tricia pulls influence from eighteenth-century tricorns (three-cornered hats) and bicorns (two-cornered ones), nineteenth-century boaters, and the small, perchy hats of the 1930s and ’40s. She has designed hats for burlesque icon Dita Von Teese and supermodel Karen Elson, and her work will be featured as part of a DIY wedding craft book published by Chronicle Books this fall. With such notable experience to her name, I was thrilled when Tricia agreed to work with me on my Prince project.

For our first meeting, Tricia and I headed downtown to Britex Fabrics to purchase supplies. She showed up looking very ’50s, with her short, jet-black Audrey Hepburn haircut and vintage sweater and skirt set. She’s a regular at this overwhelming, four-floor fabric store, and knows it like the inside of her thimble.

Starting on the third floor, we searched for black sheer lace with a thick border. To save money, we settled on a narrow lace trim and then grabbed a yard of black tulle from the fourth floor. We also found a yard of pink silk for the scarf around the brim and matching pink poly thread. The hat itself would be molded from a rabbit-fur felt form that we’d order online.

Tricia told me she doesn’t spend a lot of time on sketches. Instead she plays with the materials to see how they perform, and designs around that. So fabric in hand, we headed over to her House of Nines studio in the Mission.

Tricia’s place was filled with her distinctive handmade creations and plenty of decorative extras. I noticed lots of antique ribbons, exotic peacock feathers, and antique veiling. Her collection of equipment included an extensive assortment of racked blocks, an ironing board, an industrial steamer, and an electronic sewing machine. For an expert, these are all tools of the trade, but for a novice like me, Tricia owned an imposing array of unfamiliar instruments. It felt like someone had dumped a bunch of puzzle pieces around the room, and I couldn’t foresee putting them all together. I hardly knew where to begin.

We sat around Tricia’s aluminum table – covered in plastic with number marks for cutting – and she measured my head for size. When I drew the fedora that I had in mind, the designer’s smile, outlined in bright-red lipstick, grew wider as she contemplated my proposed accessory. It turned out Tricia is a big Prince fan too.

I’ve never sewn before, but Tricia made it seem easy. She taught me a simple running stitch that I used for the lace trim. She also explained that sewing is all about controlling the material with your fingers as you dive in and out with a needle in a wave pattern. As I nervously followed her suggestions, Tricia seemed totally calm. Her music selection – a CD by local singer-songwriter Jill Tracy – further enhanced the sense of work-space serenity.

A week later, my special-order hat form arrived. Tricia and I donned aprons and worked on softening the stiff felt by spraying it with water and then steaming it. Next we blocked the hat from every angle, shaping the fabric over two pieces of wood on a lazy Susan. When we were done, I brushed the felt’s nap counterclockwise to transform it from fuzzy to silky smooth, and I left it to dry overnight.

As I made my way home that evening, I felt the excitement of Dr. Frankenstein after he built his monster. I was restless with the anticipation of bringing my beautiful creature to life.

When I returned to Tricia’s studio for the second time, I had the hardest time following her lead, despite the demo she gave me. Luckily she was a patient teacher.

Every time I felt frustrated, I simply reflected on Tricia’s words – that sewing is all about fabric control – and this would boost my sense of empowerment. It was a healthy reminder that I could dominate this hat if I just concentrated on it.

I’m generally a results-oriented person, conditioned to rush through the creative process for the sake of expediency. But when you hurry things, especially in fashion design, the product suffers. I had to force myself to remain in the moment. Tricia helped me focus by selecting Prince for our soundtrack this time.

I affixed a labeled band to the hat and smoothed the crown into a dimple. By the end of the afternoon, the felt was finally taking a hat shape. This project was coming along. I only had to pace myself through one more work day.

A few days later, I returned to Tricia’s studio for the final touches, which meant accessorizing the fedora. This might sound fun – like decorating a birthday cake – but let me tell you: It was a precise and detailed process. When you’re a sewing novice like me, it’s also extremely time-consuming.

Tricia knew that the work was wearing me out, so she suggested that we put on the “When Doves Cry” video for continued motivation. Watching the clip reminded me why I started this project in the first place. Prince looked so glorious in his hat. I wanted to feel equally regal. I was suddenly energized through the final stages of hat making.

As we sewed the pink silk scarf around the crown, Tricia confessed that this Prince project had actually inspired her too. She said she was going to create some new hat samples for an upcoming trip to Los Angeles boutiques. It was a little ironic – while I was feeling overwhelmed at the amount of work that goes into making a single hat, Tricia was motivated to get going on new design concepts.

Once we finished the final stitches, putting the scarf’s back bow in place, my gorgeous fedora finally materialized. As I carefully picked it up, I couldn’t help but regard it as a hat fit for a prince – or, for that matter, Prince.

This was more than a hat. It was a bit of wearable art that I'd helped created, which made it all the more precious. Unlike an off-the-rack find, I knew all the details of craftsmanship behind this purple creation. I wanted to bronze it and place it on a mantle, or hang it up like an objet d’art. Or better yet, I thought I’d pay it a truer honor and wear it home.

Placing the fedora on my head and letting down the veil, I became Prince in his landmark video. I felt arty, sexy, and cool. Cue the doves. It was time to cry.

Make an appointment to meet with Tricia Roush for your very own House of Nines original ($175–$450 per hat).

If you would rather create your own hat, classes are available at The Sewing Workshop ($50–$90), Apparel Arts ($198–$395), or from private instructors Wayne Wichern ($40–$475) and DeAnna Gibbons ($150–$375).

Once you get the hang of things, you can purchase equipment at Apparel City Sewing Machine Co. and materials at Britex Fabrics.

When you're ready for some princely portraits get in touch with Phillip Maisel.

On the Mend

Jackson West — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 00:00:09 -0700

For the past five years, I've been struggling to pursue a freelance writing career. It’s been a constant ordeal, destroying my solvency and sanity, and I’ve barely made enough to pay my rent every month. Among the challenges of buying groceries (I qualified for food assistance) and medical coverage (thanks Healthy San Francisco) was the reality that this admitted clotheshorse had few excuses to dress up on such a tight budget.

But suddenly, after years of slogging away at the blog mines, a real job appeared. A job that paid well and came with benefits, a bonus, equity, and an office address downtown – where I could show off both my marketable skills and my ability to mix patterns and match colors! It also came with new fashion standards. Standards I wasn’t living up to, as over the years, the wrinkles, stains, tears, and broken buttons on my workingman’s attire had gone unattended.

A desk on the 20th floor overlooking California Street comes with certain codes of deportment and attire, expectations that are difficult to meet when you've been out in the weeds as long as I have. It was time to repair to the phone booth for a quick change. Or, in my habit, gussy up thrift store finds and make them work.

Even from my garret in the Mission, I'd snarked along with Manolo for the Men, dreamed of cruising down Market dressed like a Milanese gentleman from the pages of The Sartorialist, and fantasized about grabbing a suit from Wilkes Bashford or Barneys and saying, "I'll take it!"

But my version of looking FiDi on a mid-Market budget means taking my clothing hunt to the thrift stores: Salvation Army, Goodwill, Thrift Town, Community Thrift, and Out of the Closet. Sure, they have plenty of stock that starts cheap and stays cheap, but the good stuff does filter through.

Familiar with what constitutes quality fabric and passable construction, I check the measure of the pants for ballpark numbers on height and weight distribution. Then, if the previous inhabitant had a similar fit, I try on the jacket. This is the moment of truth – if the shoulders are too tight or too loose, or if the cuffs barely clear the elbows of outstretched arms, then it's back on the rack. But even if it's a little generous in the arms or waist, if I like the feel of the fabric and can tell that it wasn't glued together, it's off to the dressing room to see if the hems reach my shoes.

Just as you wouldn't buy a Brioni off the rack without getting it nipped and tucked, I don’t think of a bargain bin find as the end product. In the store, I'm thinking of this little extra fabric as raw material if the suit is a good one. I check the seam allowance in the seat, turn up the hems to see if there's enough for cuffs, and of course check the label to see if it cries for help. Once the specimens meet my satisfaction, it's off to get them the care they need.

My first stop is New King's Laundry, on 17th between Mission and South Van Ness, to drop off some older shirts so I'll be fresh-pressed at the new gig. New King's is a full service laundry that offers on-site dry cleaning and wash and fold. But the best feature is that it's only $1.60 to get your shirt pressed and boxed – boxed shirts are perfect for traveling and for keeping in a drawer at the office in case you didn't get a chance to change the night before, a la Don Draper in the first season of Mad Men.

New King's did so well with the shirts, turning them around in one day upon my request and for no extra charge, that I also dropped off my staple sport coats: a tan camel-hair jacket that had some ash-colored stains along the arms from my bike tires, and a gray herringbone that had been in my smoking room for who knows how many years. For only $9, New King's resuscitated both.

My next stop is Seymour's Fashions on Sutter. Run by George and his son Ravi, Seymour’s offers full custom work as well as alterations. A gray worsted and a Prince of Wales check suit needed a lot of attention. George recommended taking in the waist of the coats, while Ravi said he could fix the too-short trousers for the check, but sadly, there wasn't enough seam allowance for cuffs. Still, better than the hinky mismatched hems I had been trying to live with.

A complete overhaul of the two suits cost only $134 – more than I paid for both, but better than anything I could get for $300 at the Men's Wearhouse. George attempted to entice me with a new purchase – a "starter" bespoke suit for $1,195. That one will have to wait until I've cleared some debt and been vested, at the very least.

In the meantime, I do have a Barneys tux I bought for a costume party one Halloween that's at least a size too big for me. George promised he could fix it, down to the jacket's overly large shoulders. That kind of alteration will cost more – the listed price for altering yokes is $65, and the outfit needed other work as well – but I will be getting a couple of paychecks between now and the company holiday party.

I want to try a couple of options in the neighborhood around my new office, so I drop by Escobar Brothers at the Embarcadero Center. I’m armed with two sport coat finds – a slate-gray felt and a green corduroy – as well as a pair of trousers from a blue pinstripe suit that split during the course of a fancy birthday party on Nob Hill, all of which need mending. I was curious about Escobar because the Yelp reviews told a story of a once-great shop that had stopped doing good work, but then rebounded after Marissa took over the operation a little over three years ago.

When I come to pick up my items during my lunch break, a week after dropping them off, they aren't ready. However, Marissa had everything in perfect shape just a couple of hours later: torn pocket corners restored, a ragged lining patched, buttons sewn back on, and the pants back in one piece with a little extra room around the hips for dancing, all for $60.

I then drop by Jack's Shoe Service on Sutter to upgrade a couple pairs of shoes. Unfortunately, it turned out that my favorite crepe-sole Clarks would cost more to fix than they did to purchase. However, my black dress boots with relatively cheap rubber soles were given new leather soles and rubber heels, new laces, and a nice buff for about $76 – far less than I originally paid for them. Better yet, after returning to the office and trying them on, one of my new colleagues complimented me almost immediately.

While all this tailoring and cleaning may sound relatively expensive – $339 total to clean, repair, and alter two suits, four sport coats, and a pair of shoes – remember that the longer you wear your clothes, the cheaper they end up being in the long run. You could certainly spend as much on the disposable fashion at H&M, American Apparel, or the Gap in a day and have to replace those items in a year.

The confidence that comes with being flattered by the cut of your coat and the hang of your slacks? That's priceless. The psychological boost that a kind and attentive seamstress, cobbler, tailor, or launderer can provide may well be cheaper than therapy or medication. Trust me, I've been taking advantage of both, and even Ativan doesn't quiet anxiety like a fresh, clean shirt and the crisp lines of a proper suit.

Looking for a good tailor? Check the Yelp reviews first to figure out the merchant’s specialties. One might be great for a cheap, quick hem, for example, while others are better if you want something reconstructed or custom made. Seymour's Fashions will fix your finds or help you turn your favorite fabrics into something entirely original. Marissa at Escobar Brothers would probably fix a hem on a lunch break if you ask nicely, and Jack's Shoe Service will get your hard bottoms in shape for when the secret Kanye concert comes to town.

While you want your shirts and slacks pressed regularly (without starch, which will age the shirt faster than normal) at a laundry like New King's Laundry, you should bring your suits, sport coats, and blazers in only once or twice a year at most. Again, cleaning can wear on the fabric. Better just to keep them properly hung and give them a good brush down every so often. If they have a few wrinkles, just hang the items in the bathroom while you take a shower and let the steam do the work.

After all, a used suit is getting a second chance at life to shine. Treat it kindly.

Re-Make/Re-Model

N.W. Smith — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 00:00:10 -0700

I grew up in a rural, small town on the central coast of California, far from big city trends, and long before the Internet made even the most obscure subculture fashion instantly and globally accessible. In high school I experimented with fashion pieces compiled from thrift store items and my father’s discarded garments of yesteryear; this was my half-baked conception of punk. My look included boots, ill-fitting blazers, cardigans, buttoned-up shirts, and ties.

In my early 20s in Santa Cruz, came my anti-fashion phase. I bought five identical outfits: white wifebeater, white T-shirt, khaki pants, and the ugliest Kmart Velcro shoes I could find. I looked the same every day, like a cartoon character. I was delighted – women were not. Like ZZ Top says, “Every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.”

Within the last few years, I’ve reevaluated my situation and decided to add some pizzazz back to my look. Even so, my friends here in fashion-conscious San Francisco describe my style as “creepy Mr. Rogers” or “if Cliff Huxtable were a bro.” Apparently, my look is an acquired taste. While I’m totally comfortable and happy with my look, I thought it would be fun to walk in another dude’s shoes. I decided to let three local clothing shops outfit me in their visions of San Francisco style.

Cable Car Clothiers is a San Francisco institution. An American interpretation of an old-world clothier and haberdashery, Cable Car has been keeping the well heeled of the Financial District in English wool and Italian silk since 1939. A portrait of Queen Elizabeth II hangs under crossed British and American flags, and the interior is all dark wood and cornices . A glass case by the door is filled with male grooming accouterments, sheep’s fat soap, and aftershave lotions so elegant they make Acqua Di Gio smell like Axe Body Spray

Entering the showroom, I am greeted by store manager James Crittenden-Cavendish. Actually, his title is much longer than his name – it wouldn't fit on the student ID he shows me from his prestigious British university – and mentioning it here would be, as he puts it, “indiscreet.” Let’s just say his family tree probably includes people whose faces have been on currency. James speaks in paragraphs – the kinds that have semicolons and footnotes. Over the next half hour, James lays out his treatise on men’s fashion, which touches on the influence of formalist philosophy, among other concepts I half remember reading about between bong rips in college.

A self-described “young fogy,” James laments that his look is a little less unique these days as more young people are dressing in the styles of their forefathers. He sees it as a movement to reclaim a cultural history. James says that Americans lack an ethos and their need to find a common story shines through in various forms, including fashion. On sagging, for instance, he remarks, “I’ve heard the trend found its inception within the American penal system.” My inner Butt-head thinks, “Uh huh huh huh. He said, ‘penal’.” All this smart-people talk is making my brain hurt. I decide it’s time to get suited up.

James outfits me in a navy Southwick three-piece suit. The Egyptian cotton shirt he hands me feels like the gossamer wings of a butterfly, and the Spanish gold crocodile cuff links make me feel like a gentleman hunter just back from safari. It is definitely the most money I’ve ever had on my body. If it gives you any idea of where I’m coming from, the last time I bought a suit was eight years ago for my cousin’s wedding from the Men’s Wearhouse. A suit I later returned.

James hands me a pink bow tie with little blue swordfish on it. “Nautical. Very San Francisco,” he assures me. “I don’t mean to be insulting, but do you know how to tie a bow tie?” he asks, wincing. I glance at the nearby how-to diagrams for tying bow ties and ascots. “Uh, I forgot,” I mumble. James dutifully assists me. “We encourage the wearing of bow ties here,” he informs.

No look is complete without accessories, so I scan the store for items to complete my look. I try on a couple of hats and pick up a smart wooden-handled umbrella, but I eventually set my sights on the pièce de résistance – a sterling silver cane. “Is there a sword in it?” I ask excitedly. “I’m afraid not,” James frowns.

As fun as it is to dress up a three-piece suit and twirl a cane, I was a bit out of my league. I thank Mr. Crittenden-Cavendish and head for my next fashion destination.

I journey from the heart of the button-down Financial District to hipster haven Valencia Street. I've been shot down by girls at enough bars in the Mission to realize that maybe it was time I upped my “cool kid” fashion game. Afterlife looked like just the place to do it.

At Afterlife I meet Danielle, who co-owns the store with her brother, Luke. She is smartly dressed, soft-spoken, and shares some strawberries with me. The shop is modern and stylishly decorated, with an old jukebox and pinball machine added as retro flourishes. Unlike the haphazard bins and racks I'm used to searching through to find my vintage treasures, the layout is clean and well organized.

Danielle tells me that Afterlife is about mixing old and new. In addition to hand-selected secondhand items, it has a wide selection of new Cheap Monday jeans and accessories, including reconstructed vintage and sterling silver jewelry that Danielle designs. Above the racks of clothing, several T-shirts hang on the wall, almost as decoration. Danielle tells me her brother had been collecting rock concert memorabilia tees over the years. They’re for sale, but are really rare and expensive, and usually only get sold to die-hard collectors.

I quiz Danielle about men's fashion in San Francisco. She finds San Francisco style similar to that of her native Seattle, but very different from LA, where she does a lot of buying for the store. “What comes to my mind is sort of a more relaxed fit,” she tells me. “Not to say there isn’t a lot of effort ’cuz I think there is, but it’s more natural.” Being in the heart of trendy Valencia Street, I ask her what is hot at her shop right now. She points to an assortment of flamboyant Justin western boots, vintage flannel-lined L.L. Bean jackets, and small-squared plaid shirts, all of which are selling like hotcakes. I ask Danielle to pull together a couple of outfits that would help me fit in the unforgiving, hot-or-not Mission district.

Danielle dresses me up in a few outfits that make me feel right at home on Valencia Street. Looking in the mirror, I feel compelled to stop shaving, grab a sixer of Pabst, and head for Dolores Park. One weirdly patterned cardigan I try would be right at home in my closet among the collection of “strange uncle” outerwear I have acquired over my years of thrift-store shopping. She pulls down a vintage Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt off the wall that is perfectly worn to the point of softness and lightness that only years of washing and TLC can impart. I also try on a pretty rad leather jacket that would have gone home with me, if it weren’t a tad too small. And anyway, I can’t lift my arms to shell out 300 dollars for it. I take one last look at the weird cardigan and consider taking it with me, but I have to travel light to my final destination on my San Francisco style tour.

It’s a short jaunt from Valencia to Sanchez, but I enter into a completely different world of style when I reach Unionmade, a store that harkens back to a traditional American look. The embodiment of the reclamation of cultural history that James at Cable Car described, the store is a mixture of Americana and modern men’s fashion. A collage of bandannas, WWII navy photos, pictures of greyhounds, a cowboy-themed Levi's ad from the ’50s, Coca-Cola bottles, Buddy Lee dolls, and model ships pepper the clothing displays. A section devoted to men’s grooming features a book titled The Bearded Gentleman among the straight razors, shaving brushes, and lotions.

I meet the owner, Todd, just as he’s opening up shop. A former senior creative director of advertising for Old Navy, Todd opened Unionmade nine months ago and is pleased with how well business is doing. Being so close to the Castro, he thought his clientele would primarily be gay men, but the shop’s proximity to the Mission, as well as blog shout-outs, has brought in a surprisingly diverse cross-section of San Franciscans. His overall concept for the store is an “edited assortment of easy-to-wear, high-quality men’s clothing.” Todd envisions Unionmade as an alternative to the Euro-y fashion boutiques that dot the city. He focuses on American heritage and special lines.

When I ask him to describe San Francisco style, Todd makes the comparison to Brooklyn. “The aesthetics are similar to Williamsburg, but we’re a lot more crunchy, earthy here.” Todd says that the high cost of living prevents people from blowing too much on high fashion. People here are more understated, and although they pepper their wardrobe with thrift-store items, they still demand quality.

Todd puts me in a red varsity jacket made locally and exclusively for Unionmade by Golden Bear, a tie made from vintage Japanese silk by The Hill-side, and some 1944 Levi’s 501s. I feel comfortable and stylish, but still not quite in touch with James’ elusive “American ethos.” I try on some amazing Alden oxblood saddle shoes – definitely the nicest and most expensive things I’d ever had on my feet. Todd tapes the soles so that I can't scuff them up, but I still won’t go outside with them. Knowing me, I’d end up planting them right in the nearest pile of dog poo.

As Todd fusses over my outfit, I calmly take it all in. I am starting to get used to the whole dress-up thing. Buttoning up my jacket, he gives me a once-over. “You look good,” he says, satisfied with his handiwork. “I should have been a model,” I joke. “Yeah, we all should have,” he replies with a sarcastic smirk.

By the end of my fashion tour, I feel like I’ve been through one of those whirlwind dress-up montages in an ’80s movie, where they make over a nerd into a hip, trendy teen. It was fun to dress up in fancy suits, cool vintage duds, and artisan jeans, and I can see myself incorporating some of the ideas and details from all three of the stores into my own signature look. But sorry ladies, I won’t be throwing out my Cosby sweaters and patched-up slacks any time soon. At the end of the day, I gotta be me.

For the peak of Financial District elegance, head to Cable Car Clothiers. Class comes at a cost: A pair of socks can cost as much as $40 and a three-piece suit will throw you back about $1,500. For a more affordable, vintage look, head down to Afterlife in the Mission, where you can get outfitted in a mix of new and old duds. Many vintage items are in the $20–$30 range, but rare items like the Rocky Horror memorabilia tee are in the triple digits. Seek out some American heritage at Unionmade, including brands like Levis, Taylor Supply, and Mark McNairy. You can get outfitted, from head to toe, for anywhere from $600 to $2,000.

Off the Hook

Josh Izenberg — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 00:00:09 -0700

There are things down there that would blow your mind: fish with translucent heads whose eyeballs peer up through their skulls; hagfish that reduce gray whale carcasses to bone; 10-foot squid that attack divers; sharks that live for 100 years.

These are the mysteries that have drawn me to 300 Jefferson, Berth 3, on Fisherman’s Wharf, in the predawn darkness, home to Lovely Martha Sport Fishing. I drink my coffee and watch Captain Mike Rescino get his boat ready for the day’s fishing trip.

My goal is to catch the biggest, weirdest creature out there. Maybe a shark. Maybe a ray. Maybe something still unnamed by science – though technically, we’re fishing for striped bass and halibut. I’ve convinced my buddy Hank to come along.

“Hey Mike,” someone yells from the street, “I hope your dad’s running this thing today.” It’s a joke. Mike’s more or less taken over Lovely Martha from his dad, Frank. Built in 1959, his is one of the few boats left at the wharf actually made of wood. Like Mike, Frank inherited the boat from his father, Nick. Mike’s been working on Lovely Martha since he was three, if you keep your definition of working loose. He obtained his captain’s license the first moment he was legally able to do so, three years ago. Years of seawater, sun, and wind – aided by a bristly mustache – make Mike look a decade older than his 22 years.

Lovely Martha has picked up more than just barnacles in her long history. Somewhere along the line, she acquired a couple extra fishermen, too – the heckler, Kenny, and now Tony. Both men are friends of Frank’s and basic fixtures on the boat.

Pushing off the docks, a kid from Houston is already freezing his ass off. He’s used to fishing for tuna and snapper off the party barges in the Gulf of Mexico.

“We’d fit a hundred people on those barges” he explains. “Non-top drinking for 20 hours. Guys, girls, everything.” This is not going to be that kind of trip.

We pick up our live anchovies from the bait guys down the docks, and motor into the Bay.

Talking over the cabin’s speaker system, Mike gives us the location of the life vests and dinghy, and reminds us to wash our hands after handling lead sinkers. “The state of California makes me say this,” he adds. “They’d also like me to mention: Don’t stare into the sun and don’t touch any burning dogs.”

As we leave the harbor, Willy, Mike’s deckhand, walks us through the basics. You net an anchovy from the live tank, push the hook through its bottom lip and out its snout, avoiding its brain – you want the anchovy alive and wriggling on its end of the line – drop the line into the water and let it spool out until it hits bottom.

You use your thumb to manage the line. Take your thumb off too early and the reel goes into free spin, creating an unmanageable tangle of line that Willy will have to cut free with his knife, begrudgingly, though without complaint.

When you hook a fish you yell, “fish on!” Willy then arrives with the net and pulls it over the gunwales, hitting it repeatedly in the head with a small club if necessary. These are the basics of mooching – also known as drift fishing.

Mike turns off the motor just west of the Bay Bridge – old barges float nearby like rusty carcasses. “All right,” he says over the speaker. “Bait ’em up and drop ’em in.”

I drop my line and release the lever, letting the heft of the sinker take the bait to the bottom. I don’t apply enough pressure, though, and my reel is instantly transformed into a ball of knots.

It’s embarrassing. Luckily, Willy is able to pick through the line, pulling here, feeding there. He eventually gets everything back into place.

“You gotta treat the reel like a woman,” Willy explains. “Hold her carefully, but firmly.” Willy’s metaphor is also exemplary of the “men’s club” nature of our fishing trip. Of the 14 of us on board, there isn’t a woman to be seen.

I ask the Houston kid if the girls on his party-barge trips in the Gulf actually fish. “Only the real redneck ones do,” he says.

Kenny catches the first fish of the trip – a nice striped bass – up at the bow. We rush over to watch him reel it in.

Willy scoops the bass up in the net, throws it into a container below the anchovy tank, and we’re back at it, encouraged. Where there’s one, there are more.

An hour later, Kenny is slaying ’em. He’s already caught another striper and a shark – a two-foot smooth hound, which looks like a cross between a miniature Jaws and E.T.

As Mike grabs the shark by the tail and flings it back to the sea, he and Willy sing the opening line of “Love Rollercoaster” by the Ohio Players, their version of an old nautical tradition.

Our next spot is in 16 feet of water. You’d never know it without a depth finder, though. For all I can tell, there’s a mile of blackness under our hull. The waves are as opaque as chunks of obsidian.

I’m trying to manage both Hank’s rod and mine, since Hank is busy taking photos and drinking beer. I decide to have a beer too, though it’s still not 9 a.m. It seems right, out here on the cold ocean. And besides, I think Tony cracked his Natty Ice around 7 a.m. I’m a few hours behind on this party.

Later, I’m up at the cabin, talking to Mike, when the Houston kid yells, “fish on!” and then proceeds to call my name. I rush over, taking the rod from him.

Suddenly, everyone’s telling me what to do: “Keep reeling.” “Don’t reel.” “Raise your rod.” “No, wait, lower it.”

I discern that I’m meant to tug my rod upwards, then reel while lowering it down again, raising the fish to the surface in small increments, keeping enough slack to prevent it from breaking the line.

It’s a shark. I’ve caught a fucking shark. A smooth hound. Even though most fishermen hate sharks – at least the inedible kind – I’m psyched.

Willy helps me get the shark off the line. I hold it up for a few photos before flinging it back into the waves. Someone yells, “Roll-er coas-ter.”

The next spot brings a new crop of striper, as well as a bat ray and a spiny dogfish – a gray shark with skin like sandpaper and a big spike protruding from its rear dorsal.

“Watch out for those things.” Mike advises. “They hurt like hell.” He and Willy proceed to tell stories of various punctures from teeth and spines.

“Stepped on a rockfish once,” Mike says. “Spine went right through my boot.”

“Aren’t those things venomous?” I ask.

“No,” Mike answers. “Hurt like hell, though.”

“They might not be venomous,” says Willy, “but they sure are poisonous.”

I am contemplating this koan when my rod takes another hit. It’s a halibut, which I bring slowly and carefully to the surface. It’s about 10 pounds and almost the length of my arm.

Apparently my change in bait tactics is working. Instead of going for the biggest anchovies, I’ve been using the liveliest ones. Hank’s line, which I also baited, is taking hits too.

I ask Captain Mike about this approach. “You know what?” he says, “it’s mostly luck.”

That’s what I like about fishing. You throw the line into the black depths, and if you’re fortunate, you’re visited by alien creatures from another world – aliens that taste fantastic.

The price of a fishing trip with Mike Rescino is $100. If you land a couple halibut and a striper – a completely conceivable run of luck – you’re coming home with easily $50 to $150 worth of meat. Not that I’m making these calculations out there on the water. I’m just looking out at Alcatraz and the Marin Headlands and thinking it’s funny how a fishing trip like this, something tourists do all the time, continually escapes the agenda of locals.

We fish for another few hours and though I don’t catch anything else, I’m satisfied. I’ve got my halibut, and now I’m content to eat a man-which (a giant sandwich), crack another beer, and listen to Kenny, Tony, and the rest of them make it rain. Fish on.

Want to land a giant fish? Call Captain Mike of Lovely Martha Sport Fishing a week or so ahead of time, and tell him you want in. He’ll book you and yours on the next trip. Half days go from about 6 a.m. until 1 p.m., maybe a little longer if the fish are biting. Get down to Berth 3, at Fisherman’s Wharf, by 6 a.m. Dress warmly, bring a lot of coffee, a few beers, and a giant sandwich. Your $100 fee covers everything – fishing license, rod rental, the works – but unless you like to wrestle hooks out of the jaws of your own fish, remember to tip Willy.

Blood, Sweat & Beers

Garrett Kamps — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 00:00:09 -0700

Technically, Six Tits a Week had organized the event, but it was No Shit – not to be confused with Oh Shit –who'd put the course together, drawing colored chalk lines up and down the streets of Bernal Heights and the Mission, dropping handfuls of white flour here and there as trail markers so we'd know where we were going, which, in spite of No Shit's efforts and Six Tits' moral support, we rarely did, because we had been drinking. That is what you do as a member of the Hash House Harriers.

And so thank goodness Ras-pukin' was there to blaze a trail back to our starting point: Tongueless' hatchback, where the keg of Lagunitas was waiting. If not for Ras-pukin's focused efforts, your somewhat out-of-shape correspondent, "Just Garrett" (more on that in a second), might never have found his way back, might never have wolfed down Fritos and slurped a cider-colored, coconut-flavored, highly alcoholic concoction ladled from something affectionately called “The Sacred Bucket” while standing on a sidewalk across from Holly Park next to a Swedish man dressed in a flowing orange cape with a felt foot sewn onto it – who when he says the word "actually" sounds like he's saying "sexually," a joke that never gets old in a group whose members have names like Phone Sex, Red Hot Vagina, and Twinkle Dick.

Actually, wait a second. I suppose I should back up.

I have been making New Year's resolutions since New Year's, including: drink less, exercise more. Though seemingly complementary, they've proven to be at odds with one another. If I exercise, I feel the desire to reward myself with beer. If I drink beer, I feel the need to work it off with exercise. There's got to be a better way!

The Hash House Harriers provides one, and not just a way, but an international society, complete with chapters, T-shirts, code words, and even its own magazine. On Thursday our cohorts ranged in age from 20 to 60; some had driven their Mercedes to the run while others looked like they'd been wearing the same shirt for a week straight. Hashing itself is close to 100 years old, its origins dating back to 1938 in Kuala Lumpur, where a gaggle of British expats started a Monday running club as a way to burn off weekend hangovers. Today there are literally hundreds of H3 chapters all around the world, including two in San Francisco, one in the East Bay, and countless others throughout the greater Bay Area. SF's Gypsies run on Thursday evenings, whereas SFH3 gather on Mondays.

Newbies are welcome and encouraged to try hashing, so my girlfriend Danielle and I just showed up – there's no appointment necessary, no calling ahead. The runs are free of charge your first time, but since I'd run before I handed over six bucks to Tongueless' better half to help pay for the booze and snacks, which comprise the Viking feast that awaits you upon completion of the event. That is, assuming you complete the event.

And so Danielle and I arrive at the meet-up, Holly Park, promptly at 6:30 p.m. on a recent Thursday, where Six Tits a Week greets us merrily. Hash names are bestowed once a newbie has been established with the group, typically after 5–10 runs. Until then, you're known as "Just [Your Name]." Just Danielle and I introduce ourselves to Do Her Well, Tongueless, and others, and as the group prepares to run No Shit's course, Just Danielle, as its virgin runner, is given an important task: blessing our run with a reading from "the bible," – a frayed, yellowed, very pornographic Harlequin romance novel. He thrust his throbbing man-object into her quivering love-bush, etc. And we're off.

On the surface, hashing couldn't be simpler: For any given gathering, a predetermined "hare" devises a course. The starting point can be anywhere in San Francisco, which is one of the beauties of hashing. On foot and liquored up, you'll see and appreciate more of this town than you ever thought possible. As mentioned, today's hash is through Bernal, a neighborhood I'm plenty familiar with from trips to Emmy's Spaghetti Shack, El Rio, and Bernal Heights Park itself. But running through its labyrinthine streets is a whole other experience: gorgeously quaint cottages, each with their own unique cityscape view, and little hidden stairways connecting them all, and tiny pocket parks dotted here and there.

Per the rules of hashing, Just Danielle and I bumble our way along the evening's trail, which has been marked with chalk-drawn arrows laid down by No Shit, the hare. Along the way we encounter "checks," or forks in the road, where it is necessary to scout ahead in multiple directions in search of three consecutive plops of flour, which indicate the next leg of the trail. In keeping with tradition, No Shit has created a series of false trails and ridiculous detours that require team and detective work to decode. Once our group finds its way, we yell "On, on, on!" to indicate to our fellow runners to follow us (the phrase is something of a calling card). This might all be considerably more unnerving were we not put at ease by a few beers at the start, and encouraged by the promise of even more at the finish.

After trudging up and down the narrow lanes of Bernal, we're spit out at Precita Park, a stretch of green that rivals Duboce Park as a dog run and picnic spot. We then continue – "On, on, on!" – through the Mission, along 26th and 27th Streets, up through Noe Valley and along Church, and finally back to Holly Park, where we started. At this point the 20-person pack is pretty spread out, and that's something worth noting about hashing: It's far from competitive. You can run or walk, fast or slow. In fact, because the lead runners spend a lot of their time solving the puzzle of the course and communicating back down the procession – "On, on, on!" – the walkers are never too far behind. By the time we convene around the Fritos and Lagunitas, we are all fatigued according to our individual ability. It's very egalitarian that way.

Like any drinking club or sovereign nation, Hash House Harriers is a quilt woven from various ridiculous traditions. The Sacred Bucket filled with mysterious booze juice is one of them. Another is the Red Dress Run, a global tradition organized regionally wherein, for example, the greater Bay Area H3 chapters convene to perform one great big hash in Red Dresses. Further traditions include the On-On-On: the bar set upon by still-standing hashers once The Sacred Bucket has been dispensed with (in our case this was the Wild Side West, in Bernal), as well as something called Down Downs.

We are acquainted with Down Downs after many pulls from the Sacred Bucket: The night's hashers array themselves in a circle and begin singing a series of songs that conclude with the lyrics "Down, down, down, down," which are instructions to the object of the song to down one's drink. After a few veteran hashers receive their Down Downs for various accomplishments, Just Danielle gets one for being a hasher newbie and I receive one as well for not having run a hash in years. In a club like this, there ends up being a lot of reasons to have a drink.

The down-downs spelled the end of the night for us. We'd run approximately four miles up and down the hills of Bernal, had ingested no small amount of beer and booze, and had befriended a bathroom wall's worth of very nice people, which I'm pretty sure is the point of hashing at the end of the day: the celebration of essential human values like sex, alcoholism, and hard labor, all performed with a smile on your face and a killer view of the city you're running in. It's truly a one-of-a-kind experience. No shit.

Um, go run a freakin' hash. Visit the Hash House Harriers website (http://www.sfh3.com/) for everything you need to know about this, uh, sport, including when and where the next hash will be. Bring a few bucks and some warm clothes to change into after the run. Whatever you do, don't wear brand new shoes.

The Mark of a Great City

Marc Hawthorne — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 00:00:09 -0700

My all-time favorite songwriter is Mark Kozelek, the former leader of Red House Painters who now performs as Sun Kil Moon. I'm such a superfan I once traveled to the singer's birthplace of Massillon, Ohio (it was while I lived in Cleveland, if that makes it seem a little less creepy) and made a trip out to San Geronimo just so I could take a picture of a town sign that shares a name with one of his songs. These days it's much cheaper and easier for me to explore his song references about San Francisco, the city that Mark has called home for 22 years.

As a devoted pop-culture pilgrim who’s lived here for 12 of those years, I’ve visited many of Mark's spots, but I figure the release of Sun Kil Moon’s Admiral Fell Promises is an appropriate time to let his words guide me on a day trip through the city. So I hoof it to some of the notable spots that have shown up in Mark's lyrics, titles, and album sleeves and covers, with a soundtrack of his songs buzzing in my headphones.

My first destination is Ocean Beach. Mark’s enamored enough with the area that he’s named two albums after it: Red House Painters’ Ocean Beach and Sun Kil Moon’s Ghosts of the Great Highway .

I take the L to the end of the line, at Wawona and 46th, and walk over to the median at Sloat and 45th. Standing tall, proud, and googly-eyed just a stone’s throw from the zoo is one of the Bay Area’s most exotic animals: the oversized Doggie Diner head, as pictured on the inside sleeve of Ocean Beach .

The first time I encountered this friendly beast, he was located outside a restaurant called Carousel, which had taken over the last remaining Doggie Diner at 46th and Sloat. But after being damaged by wind several years ago, the head’s been restored and now welcomes visitors to Ocean Beach via a plaque that also states, “Long live the Doggie!” These days his shiny red face is looking a lot better than Carousel, which has been gutted, abandoned, and tagged.

I catch the 18 to the northern end of Ocean Beach and the northwest corner of Golden Gate Park, which brings me to the Dutch Windmill. Photographer Melodie McDaniel’s black and white image of the landmark graces the cover of Ocean Beach .

The windmill is as beautiful and grand as it looks in pictures. Clearly, Melodie was given access to the ledge halfway up the structure to capture the close-up shot, and I wonder if I can get up there somehow. A Dutch woman convinces me to poke my nose inside a hole in the big rusted door that leads to the staircase. “Smells like Holland,” she says. How’s that? I ask. “Smells old.”

I show her Ocean Beach and ask if she’s heard of Red House Painters, to which she replies, “Are they from Holland?” The Dutch treats keep coming as I notice on the ground a pixilated printout of a photo of the Netherlands soccer team with “Better luck in Brazil” scrawled at the bottom. But my luck runs out as I decipher a sign posted next to the stairs: “Please chain and lock yourselves in to avoid curious tourists from following you up.”

My next destination is Bob's Donut & Pastry Shop on Polk between Sacramento and Clay. Any San Franciscan with a sweet tooth is familiar with this old-school joint that serves some of the finest fried dough on the planet 24 hours a day. But even the most die-hard fan of Bob's apple fritters and giant donuts may not know that the late Eleanor Ahn, who used to run the place, is immortalized in a Sun Kil Moon song called “Glenn Tipton.”

After gazing at the goodies in the display case that faces the street and collecting all kinds of unsolicited opinions from others in line about which donut is best, I plop myself down at one of the small tables with a fritter, which lives up to the hype. I’m entertained by a woman who says she’s been coming to Bob's since she was a kid and offers a history of the neighborhood. But I’m disappointed when Sonia the cashier, who’s been working at Bob's for decades, stares blankly when asked if she’s familiar with Mark or his music. While attending to a steady stream of customers, she recalls that a patron once told her that someone was planning to write a song about Eleanor, otherwise she doesn’t seem as impressed by “Glenn Tipton” as I’d hoped she’d be.

Fans of Mark’s work know that he likes to talk about “colorful hill,” specifically going down it: Red House Painters’ debut release, Down Colorful Hill , includes a song of the same name, and then in “Priest Alley Song” from Songs for a Blue Guitar he talks about “Going past golden gate elementary everyday / kids down colorful hill / recess and fire drill.” But no maps of the city refer to any place with the name. So what exactly is colorful hill?

“I don’t want to be specific,” says Mark in an email conversation we had before my tour. “That’s my personal memory. It’s just

whatever you picture it to be. It’s just a title. It’s up to the listener to fill in the blanks.”

Fair enough. But as I start the walking portion of my day in an attempt to work off some of Bob’s calories, which includes a trek up Washington toward Priest Alley on Nob Hill, I stumble upon Spring Valley Elementary School. Considering that Golden Gate Elementary School was located at Turk and Pierce in the Western Addition before it closed, I’m starting to wonder if Mark employed some artistic license and referred to Spring Valley as Golden

Gate Elementary in “Priest Alley Song.”

First off, Priest Alley – a 56-step walkway between Jones and Leavenworth – is just a few blocks up from Spring Valley. Secondly, while checking out the playground at the school, I turn around to notice that it can be seen from a couple of buildings on the street where Mark lives. At the top of the steps I realize I’m basically standing right in front of people’s front doors. Not wanting to look like a peeping Tom, I go back down what I’ve decided to start calling colorful hill.

A few blocks up and over, I make it to Taylor between Sacramento and California, which separates Grace Cathedral from the adjacent park. “Grace Cathedral Park” is my favorite thing that Mark’s written, and it’s arguably one of the best songs ever made and is one of the most poetic ruminations on a doomed relationship.

I’ve always wondered which street Mark was walking down while he had his heartbreaking epiphany – California Street toward the Financial District? Taylor’s steep steps? Mason heading north, which offers the prettiest view? I only recently discovered that the green area is not actually called Grace Cathedral Park. It’s Huntington Park. “I was like you – I didn’t know the difference,” says Mark. “Grace Cathedral church is right there, so why not? Poets don’t have to follow rules.”

The park is situated in one of the most picturesque areas of town. It’s the perfect break-up spot: There are plenty of benches to sit and ponder your own impending breakup with a soundtrack of cable-car dings in the background. And if your thoughts start to get a bit too heavy, there are distractions like watching kids in the playground and the dogs, most of whom convince their owners to ignore the leash law. And, of course, you can wash away all of your sins across the street at Grace Cathedral. As I leave, I decide it’s Mason – that’s the hill I’d walk down if I were to break up with someone there.

Later that day, I walk down to Market, grab a K at the Powell Street station, and venture toward my final destination, where Mission Street bends. Mission Street runs both north and south and northeast and southwest, and where it bends under the Central Freeway is commemorated in Red House Painters’ “Make Like Paper.”

Considering that I used to live a block and a half from here, and it’s still on the route that I often use to get home from work, where Mission Street bends has always been a part of my San Francisco life. After getting off at Van Ness, I search for the house he’s singing about, but realize that there aren’t any houses along here. In fact, with the exception of the massive condo structure – completed long after the song was written – there’s nowhere to live where Mission Street bends, which is made up mostly of office buildings. “It was written so long ago, inspired by a relationship with a woman who lived around there,” says Mark. “If you tracked her down she’d probably say, ‘Mark who?’”

As I’ve learned on my day trip, Mark’s words tend to be more concerned with impressions than getting the facts exactly right, and that kind of projecting is also what makes for a great pop-culture pilgrimage. When visiting places that have inspired your favorite performers, you’re free to color the experience with your own thoughts and feelings. And sometimes that can make you feel closer to the artist than actually meeting him.

It’s going to take a whole day to make this circle around the city without a car, and in my case, it ended up costing $6 in Muni fees. Take the L to the zoo, the 18 north to the Dutch Windmill, the 5 east and 49 north to Bob's Donuts, then put on your walking shoes for the trip through Nob Hill. Any train from the Powell Street station will get you to Van Ness, which is close to where Mission Street bends. The most pertinent albums to bring along are Red House Painters’ Down Colorful Hill , Red House Painters (a.k.a. Rollercoaster ), Ocean Beach , and Songs for a Blue Guitar , and Sun Kil Moon’s Ghosts of the Great Highway . The two-and-a-half bucks you’ll spend on an apple fritter and coffee at Bob's is well worth it.