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by Michael Phipps


Gold Rush miners wrote back home of “seeing the elephant,” and
this applied to a jaunt on San Francisco’s saloon circuit from its earliest
days. Writing about the pursuit of John Barleycorn in the City is no problem
for a fourth generation San Franciscan; deciding how to cut it down to a short
reflection however is a more monumental task. The solution is somewhat akin to
that of the casual traveler who tosses a dart into a globe to decide where he
should journey next. So here it goes.

My metaphysical dart landed in North Beach, a well-known Mecca of food as
well as drink. My family had lived in the neighborhood since the 19th
century, and I was well acquainted with it long before I could legally order a
drink. It was in college days during the 70’s, however, that I really began
to travel the circuit with my friends, starting at the lower end of Columbus
near Montgomery and progressing as the day itself did, up through the Latin
Quarter towards the northern waterfront. Mornings typically began at
Vesuvio’s Café, and typically with coffee. It was no ordinary coffee
however, being strongly laced with amaretto. Mornings in the old Beat icon
were quiet, and soft jazz usually made up the only sound to be heard. The
walls were decorated with avant-garde paintings and graffiti, and of course
people still smoked, cigarettes mostly, but occasionally even one of the
gnarled, noxious cigars known as Toscana.

From there we made our way up Columbus Avenue, past the just opening
delicatessens, markets, and still closed restaurants. Next stop: Gino and
Carlos on Green Street. Like other plain little bars like Tony Nik’s and
the Columbus Café, Gino and Carlos prided themselves on a lack of frills.
Good honest drinks for people who liked to drink would sum up their credo, and
here you could find the denizens of old North Beach, long retired, working
class, and often even Italian. Firemen mixed with butchers at the bar, and
everyone minded his own business. At this point, we might have progressed
from coffee to something more substantial, like a highball. Lunch was not far
off on the horizon.

For lunch, we occasionally ate something with our drinks, and so we could end
up at Dante Benedetti’s New Pisa, or Joe Caporale’s Capp’s Corner, where
generous family style meals were served up in the traditional fashion. The
centerpiece of both places however was the bar, old mahogany giants surrounded by photos of local sports heroes and politicians. Benedetti gave away most of
what he had earned in his life and that included the most generous drink in
the neighborhood—the bartender being the only employee on a set wage, as the
rest of the staff was family. Joe Capp was a man who would bet on two snails
racing down the sidewalk and make book for others in the process. These
characters gave life and style to their bars, where you were likely to meet
anyone from Joe Alioto to the All-City High School Running Back of 1938. Lunch
was never hurried, and might include something in the way of a digestivo taken
after the meal, just to be sociable.

Afternoon tea was taken at Portofino’s and included neither tea nor
Englishmen. It was a drab sort of room inside, extending from Columbus to
Stockton Street, providing two exits, a handy feature in case of need.
Cinzano or some other aperitif was the usual choice, and if you could avoid
the shady types frequenting the corners of the saloon—there were always
rumors of drug dealing floating about—the huge wall pictures of the Amalfi
Coast took one far away, mentally speaking. A short stay, one or two drinks
perhaps, and then it was off to a real cocktail hour. This was usually a
replay of lunch, with Capp’s Corner or New Pisa the venue of choice, or
maybe over to the Washington Square Bar and Grill, where Ed Moose and Sam
Deutsch held forth at the old bar, where sports figures, politicians, and
other “power players” were likely to be found on any given evening.
Dinner might be elsewhere, a smaller place with wine and a cheap meal.
Sometimes we went to the fabled Old Spaghetti Factory, where the bar served
draft Anchor Steam (which was rather hard to get in those days) in an old
style milkshake glass for a buck. Dinner might be another two bucks, but that
included red wine—no label.

By 10 pm we were sure to make our way back down Columbus to end up again
at Vesuvio’s for brandy-laced coffees, or perhaps over to Tosca’s for a
house cappuccino, which of course contained no coffee, but a shot of chocolate
and lots of brandy. By this time, Vesuvio’s would be packed and loud
conversation flowed out the windows opening onto Columbus, letting some fresh
air into the building, while the magic lantern played vintage slides onto the
wall. At Tosca’s you could nestle among the red leather booths of another
era and listen to opera on the vintage jukebox, that is unless the Mabuhay
Gardens was open behind us on Broadway, in which case you couldn’t hear a
note of music or conversation, and the building rumbled in a nightly replay of
’06.

Of course we didn’t always follow this same course; North Beach has no
shortage of bars and that doesn’t even include adjacent areas like Jackson
Square, Chinatown, and the Wharf, all with their own bibulous attractions for
the serious tippler. This also doesn’t include other dens of iniquity like
Spec’s or the Last Chance, of which other, more hair-raising tales could be
told. That is, however, is another story about another elephant.

Gold Rush miners wrote back home of “seeing the elephant,” and
this applied to a jaunt on San Francisco’s saloon circuit from its earliest
days.

My metaphysical dart landed in North Beach, a well-known Mecca of food as
well as drink. My family had lived in the neighborhood since the 19th
century, and I was well acquainted with it long before I could legally order a
drink. It was in college days during the 70’s, however, that I really began
to travel the circuit with my friends, starting at the lower end of Columbus
near Montgomery and progressing as the day itself did, up through the Latin
Quarter towards the northern waterfront. Mornings typically began at
Vesuvio’s Café, and typically with coffee. It was no ordinary coffee
however, being strongly laced with amaretto. Mornings in the old Beat icon
were quiet, and soft jazz usually made up the only sound to be heard. The
walls were decorated with avant-garde paintings and graffiti, and of course
people still smoked, cigarettes mostly, but occasionally even one of the
gnarled, noxious cigars known as Toscana.

From there we made our way up Columbus Avenue, past the just opening
delicatessens, markets, and still closed restaurants. Next stop: Gino and
Carlos on Green Street. Like other plain little bars like Tony Nik’s and
the Columbus Café, Gino and Carlos prided themselves on a lack of frills.
Good honest drinks for people who liked to drink would sum up their credo, and
here you could find the denizens of old North Beach, long retired, working
class, and often even Italian. Firemen mixed with butchers at the bar, and
everyone minded his own business.

For lunch, we occasionally ate something with our drinks, and so we could end
up at Dante Benedetti’s New Pisa, or Joe Caporale’s Capp’s Corner, where
generous family style meals were served up in the traditional fashion. The
centerpiece of both places however was the bar, old mahogany giants surrounded by photos of local sports heroes and politicians. Benedetti gave away most of what he had earned in his life and that included the most generous drink inthe neighborhood—the bartender being the only employee on a set wage, as therest of the staff was family. Joe Capp was a man who would bet on two snails racing down the sidewalk and make book for others in the process. These
characters gave life and style to their bars, where you were likely to meet anyone from Joe Alioto to the All-City High School Running Back of 1938. Lunch was never hurried, and might include something in the way of a digestivo taken after the meal, just to be sociable.

Afternoon tea was taken at Portofino’s and included neither tea nor
Englishmen. It was a drab sort of room inside, extending from Columbus to
Stockton Street, providing two exits, a handy feature in case of need.
Cinzano or some other aperitif was the usual choice, and if you could avoid
the shady types frequenting the corners of the saloon—there were always
rumors of drug dealing floating about—the huge wall pictures of the Amalfi
Coast took one far away, mentally speaking. A short stay, one or two drinks
perhaps, and then it was off to a real cocktail hour. This was usually a
replay of lunch, with Capp’s Corner or New Pisa the venue of choice, or
maybe over to the Washington Square Bar and Grill, where Ed Moose and Sam
Deutsch held forth at the old bar, where sports figures, politicians, and
other “power players” were likely to be found on any given evening.
Dinner might be elsewhere, a smaller place with wine and a cheap meal.
Sometimes we went to the fabled Old Spaghetti Factory, where the bar served
draft Anchor Steam (which was rather hard to get in those days) in an old
style milkshake glass for a buck. Dinner might be another two bucks, but that
included red wine—no label.

By 10 pm we were sure to make our way back down Columbus to end up again
at Vesuvio’s for brandy-laced coffees, or perhaps over to Tosca’s for a
house cappuccino, which of course contained no coffee, but a shot of chocolate
and lots of brandy. By this time, Vesuvio’s would be packed and loud
conversation flowed out the windows opening onto Columbus, letting some fresh
air into the building, while the magic lantern played vintage slides onto the
wall. At Tosca’s you could nestle among the red leather booths of another
era and listen to opera on the vintage jukebox, that is unless the Mabuhay
Gardens was open behind us on Broadway, in which case you couldn’t hear a
note of music or conversation, and the building rumbled in a nightly replay of
’06.
Of course we didn’t always follow this same course; North Beach has no
shortage of bars and that doesn’t even include adjacent areas like Jackson
Square, Chinatown, and the Wharf, all with their own bibulous attractions for
the serious tippler. This also doesn’t include other dens of iniquity like
Spec’s or the Last Chance, of which other, more hair-raising tales could be
told. That is, however, is another story about another elephant.

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