When in doubt, eat next door (San Francisco #2)
September 11th 2009 00:09
San Francisco is a great city, but they go to bed early. This week I scored a world first – kicked out of three bars at closing time, all before 2am. The spirit of this trip is ‘do no planning’, which is all very spontaneous, but can leave you high and dry. I have learned that sometimes it pays to be prepared…
After a day of exploring the city, I drop into Bloomingdales but don't get much service dressed in shorts, t-shirt and joggers. So, I decide to tart up and hit the shops, which are open till 8.30pm. I never make it that far, getting trapped by a very smooth salesman right outside Bloomingdales, who manages to sell me the most expensive face cream in the world. Right now, only 24 hours after owning it I have actually regressed to childhood. You won’t recognise me, unless you knew me when I was 10. Really. It should be called reincarnation cream, it’s so good. I hope it’s good enough to eat, because I can’t afford to buy any more food for the rest of the trip.
So, super salesman recommends a nice restaurant nearby, but I get lost, wandering into what is the dodgiest part of San Francisco at night, near the Civic Centre. It takes about 3 minutes for all my solo travel bravery to evaporate. No doubt the choice of the skinny jeans and long boots didn’t help to make me invisible. I jump on the first tram back to the hotel, except I’m freaking out so much, I miss the stop and have to walk two extra blocks with that big sign on my head saying “please harass me for money/sex/my boots.”
By now it is the frighteningly late time of 9pm and I’m back at the hotel. I’ve decided to wimp out and grab dinner from the little French bistro in Claude Lane, near the Hotel des Arts. It’s called Café Claude. (www.cafeclaude.com)
You’d think it would be full of French people (and you know I love the Gauls), but no, not one. Fortunately, it is even better. Yes, Italians. Romans, even. Alessandro Piazza, the manager, treats me like a princess on my first attempt at solo dining, seating me near a nice British couple, then proceeding to send a steady stream of kind (and quite attractive) waiters to attend to me. David the bartender (from Uruguay) made me two delicious cocktails. My food was divine – a selection of vegetarian side dishes I was desperate for, after three days of the meat diet – and followed with a perfect macchiato.
Anyone who knows me can see where I’m going with this. Coffee at 11pm means there’s no way I’m going to bed. Café Claude closes, so a few people from Claude’s head to a Basque restaurant/bar across the lane, Gitane. (www.gitanerestaurant.com) Another cocktail and then it’s closing time there too. Thank God for the Irish. Just up the road in Mark Lane, Irish Bank and Restaurant, complete with its own confessional, kicked on till after 1.30am. (www.theirishbank.com) And… that’s all folks. In San Francisco, you can’t buy a drink after 2am. It’s staggering really. Nothing left to do but go to bed. Still, it’s the only real criticism I have of this awesome city. I’ll never forget it.
After a day of exploring the city, I drop into Bloomingdales but don't get much service dressed in shorts, t-shirt and joggers. So, I decide to tart up and hit the shops, which are open till 8.30pm. I never make it that far, getting trapped by a very smooth salesman right outside Bloomingdales, who manages to sell me the most expensive face cream in the world. Right now, only 24 hours after owning it I have actually regressed to childhood. You won’t recognise me, unless you knew me when I was 10. Really. It should be called reincarnation cream, it’s so good. I hope it’s good enough to eat, because I can’t afford to buy any more food for the rest of the trip.
So, super salesman recommends a nice restaurant nearby, but I get lost, wandering into what is the dodgiest part of San Francisco at night, near the Civic Centre. It takes about 3 minutes for all my solo travel bravery to evaporate. No doubt the choice of the skinny jeans and long boots didn’t help to make me invisible. I jump on the first tram back to the hotel, except I’m freaking out so much, I miss the stop and have to walk two extra blocks with that big sign on my head saying “please harass me for money/sex/my boots.”
By now it is the frighteningly late time of 9pm and I’m back at the hotel. I’ve decided to wimp out and grab dinner from the little French bistro in Claude Lane, near the Hotel des Arts. It’s called Café Claude. (www.cafeclaude.com)
You’d think it would be full of French people (and you know I love the Gauls), but no, not one. Fortunately, it is even better. Yes, Italians. Romans, even. Alessandro Piazza, the manager, treats me like a princess on my first attempt at solo dining, seating me near a nice British couple, then proceeding to send a steady stream of kind (and quite attractive) waiters to attend to me. David the bartender (from Uruguay) made me two delicious cocktails. My food was divine – a selection of vegetarian side dishes I was desperate for, after three days of the meat diet – and followed with a perfect macchiato.
Anyone who knows me can see where I’m going with this. Coffee at 11pm means there’s no way I’m going to bed. Café Claude closes, so a few people from Claude’s head to a Basque restaurant/bar across the lane, Gitane. (www.gitanerestaurant.com) Another cocktail and then it’s closing time there too. Thank God for the Irish. Just up the road in Mark Lane, Irish Bank and Restaurant, complete with its own confessional, kicked on till after 1.30am. (www.theirishbank.com) And… that’s all folks. In San Francisco, you can’t buy a drink after 2am. It’s staggering really. Nothing left to do but go to bed. Still, it’s the only real criticism I have of this awesome city. I’ll never forget it.
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