From the days of the Gold Rush and Barbary Coast, and through the last century when celebrated local columnist, Herb Caen, could be found perched on his favourite stool at the Washington Square Bar & Grill or Gold Dust Lounge, San Francisco has been a notorious drinking town.
For nearly thirty years we have frequented a lot of bars in the City, but one in particular continues to beckon every time we touch down at SFO.
A few groggy steps across Jack Kerouac Alley from the equally legendary City Lights booksellers, we had first crossed the threshold of Vesuvio Café on the final night of our first visit in 1995. Emerging from the nearby Stinking Rose restaurant where they “season our garlic with food” (and wine for that matter), we were parched.
Almost anywhere that sold alcohol would have been welcome.
But this was no ordinary bar.
It gave the appearance of having changed little since the days it was the epicentre of the Beat Generation. The walls were festooned with artworks, photographs and newspaper cuttings of celebrated visitors. Free cultural leaflets and magazines lay scattered on every available surface.
After a show or dinner, this became the place to conclude an evening’s entertainment. Equally, following an afternoon shopping expedition from Union Square through Chinatown to North Beach, it was the natural place to relax. Initially, we would sit downstairs at one of the glass topped tables, preferably at the one with the slatted wicker chair that became increasingly rickety over the ensuing years.
The return visit from the quirky gents toilet in the cellar allowed me to tip my imaginary hat to Dylan and Ginsberg in the photo of them at the top of the staircase.
In later years, we headed for the table in the alcove upstairs beneath the large framed photograph of James Joyce – perfect for people watching and following live Giants action on one of the small televisions above the bar.
Hot days would demand beer (Sierra Nevada Pale Ale or Sam Adams), but especially during the evening, gin and tonics were called for in advance of walking back along Montgomery Street towards Market and journeys back to apartments in Hayes Valley, NOPA, Noe Valley and Bernal Heights, by Muni, taxi, or more latterly Uber.
One seemingly ordinary incident on a quiet Tuesday afternoon in April ten years ago sums up Vesuvio’s appeal.
Two balding young men in hooped t-shirts and navy blue shorts planted their bulky backpacks on the sidewalk while they searched for their I.D. to gain entry. The doorman, in tweed jacket and brown corduroy pants, lounging on a chair that looked like it might cave in under him at any moment, gave them a cursory, but professional, glance, took a heavy drag of his cigarette, and waved them in.
As they threw their swag down on the first seats inside, and took large quaffs of their Amstel beer, one said:
“This is the place, man. We’re home bro”.
As I sit now upstairs at a table overlooking the alley, I occasionally avert my eyes from the Giants game in Colorado to observe an elderly tour guide, with frayed satchel over her shoulder, halting on the corner to recount the night Jack Kerouac spent in the bar when he was meant to be joining Lawrence Ferlinghetti at Big Sur. His small coterie of Japanese students, however, giggle and snap enthusiastically away at the bare bottomed woman sign above the door.
Yes, I was home too.
Tony Quarrington 