LIFE IN LINE by Bryan Stillman - published in issue #2 of Belle SF magazine (currently available at Green Apple Books and Juicy News)
A buddy texts me from work at 4:00 pm on a weekday afternoon
saying he needs a burger. For twenty minutes, we go back and forth about when
and where and decide on Nopa as we do most of the time. I fly out the door to
catch the 24 Divisadero bus knowing that you have to get there at 5pm if you
want your choice of bar seats. Like many of the best bars and restaurants in
San Francisco, Nopa always has a line once they’re up and running but if you
time it right and get there early, you’ll find a seat and be ready to order
when the main menu goes live at 6pm.
My ten minute bus ride features a large man in a green felt
hat arguing with the bus driver about the virtues of Uber versus Lyft. Someone
sitting behind me is fragrant with hippie oil and weed and it looks like all of
the riders are amazed that the bus driver can still drive with her four inch
flaming red finger nails curling every which way. I get off the 24 at Hayes St.
in front of Popeye’s and make my way to the small line forming outside the
restaurant.
At the front of the line, a tall woman in a bright orange
bouffant wig leans against a guy who looks like he’s auditioning for “Taxi
Driver II.” Behind them, a twenty something couple in dark purple suits and
very long black hair are both wearing skinny black ties over their naked
chests. They’re either performance artists or just immersed in fashion. Two
guys in Giants hats and leather jackets complete the line until I step up. My
friend is due any moment.
The sun is still shining over Popeye’s so we keep our
sunglasses on.
In the US, San Francisco is far and away the number one city
when it comes to most restaurants per capita, no other city even comes close.
We like to go out here, so there are lines and sometimes you have to wait. I
don’t mind waiting to get in when I know that an amazing burger is patiently
waiting for me.
While waiting, I felt a real buzz in the air. Bi-Rite had
recently moved in next door fulfilling every San Francisco neighborhood’s
pressing need for a terribly expensive market with really good stuff. La
Urbana, the Independent, The Wine Kitchen plus Nopa and countless cafes and
works in progress – Divisadero Street north of the panhandle was expanding as
quickly as the reach of the NSA.
Standing there, I saw fresh tattoos, flaming wigs, Armani
suits, tattered jeans lined in fake fur while a Muni ‘paused’ at the corner of
Divisadero and Hayes as the driver was trying to reattach the unwieldy cables that
float above the buses like puppet strings from the dark side of the Cosmos. A
couple of gorgeous young women dressed in very short black cocktail dresses
stepped out of a beautiful blue Jaguar grasping hands and running towards the
Madrone Art bar on the corner of Fell street. Five minutes wasn’t very long to
wait with all this naked noise going on.
Even standing in line, the city felt in motion. San
Francisco feels to me like a celestial website, an often chaotic search to
experience as much life as possible before time runs out. The city provides
access to all types that we may never meet at home or online, sometimes
finding, sometimes losing the origins of the search. You never know who you
might meet while just ‘standing around.’ While I stood there checking my texts
with the passive fervor of an actor waiting for “the call,” I missed the guy
who was suddenly standing behind me in line.
“When does the Chupacabra arrive?”
At first, his voice sounded like one of those international
CNN news anchors full of serious authority and an untraceable continental
accent though likely just weeks away from being busted for meth and hookers.
Oh, wait, he was talking to me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I said.
“Chipotles? Isn’t there one moving in across the street to
replace Popeye’s?” A baffled look was all I could offer.
“My understanding is that Popeye’s is history, kaput,
finished. Grease be gone!” He declared.
“My friends call me the Maitre’D. Affectionately of course.
I’ve worked in several restaurants in this city over the past fifteen years
both fine dining and neighborhood joints. I don’t do it anymore. Too much booze
and too many yelpers for my tastes but there’s no place I’d rather be then
eating at the bar.”
The Maitre’D was casually dressed in a loose white collared
shirt and jeans, a baseball cap and expensive tennis shoes. All probably
ordered from the comfort of his laptop as a Zappos VIP. Did I really want to talk to him right now? Less than five
minutes to go before I hit the bar where Caleb will make me the best margarita
ever made and the plight of Popeye’s will be long forgotten.
The Maitre’D continued: “I mean do we really need
Chipotle’s? Nopalito is around the corner, La Urbana is breaking in
down the street and Padrecito is just over in Cole Valley. Tacos, cocktails and
a lively crowd is very well established around here.”
Of course he was right
about Chipolte’s. There’s something inherently disturbing about the authentic
neighborhood vibe of Popeye’s morphing into a corporate chain utterly lacking
in authenticity. It’s just wrong. San Francisco don’t play that.
The Maitre’D kept talking. I wasn’t certain if he was being
genuine or even if he needed a reply. So I just listened. An alert presence.
“I
read somewhere that kouign-amann is the new croissant. I thought that Cronuts
were the new Croissant. Right? It’s not like we need something new here, we
have everything: Cronuts, Macaroons, Fruit Tarts, Madeleines, Vanilla
Mascarpone, Valrhona Fudge, Sugar Brioche, Scones, Coffeecake, Flan and
Baguettes – oh god yes, we have plenty of Baguettes.” He finally stopped.
As I contemplated whether or not this guy really was waiting
in line for Nopa or just locked in a full soul embrace with a couple of grams
of organic mushrooms, he reached his crescendo: “A city is a place where what
you want is just around the corner. It’s where cafes are open on Holidays and
there’s a new burger to fall in love with every other month.”
Well, he was right about that. There’s always a new burger
to check out. This Maitre’D guy did look familiar. Maybe he sat me at some
restaurant over the years. Maybe he was a friendly guy with a deep appreciation
for all that is San Francisco. Just as I was about to ask him where he had
worked, the line extended.
A woman in her early forties with yoga toned arms and a
hyper focused expression joined us at the back of the line.
“How long have you two been together?” She asked. A common experience for guys of all ages in San Francisco:
You Must Be Gay.
“We just met.” I offered, shaking my no, no, no.
“Oh well, romances are born in the most unlikely of places.”
She shared her hope generously.
The Maitre’D sized her up, and with a warm smile he took
control: “How many in your party?” He asked.
“Oh my girlfriends will be here any minute. They’re always
late.” She said.
“Well, we don’t seat incomplete parties so find yourself a
seat at the bar and let us know when your friends arrive.” He was finished with
her.
The Maitre’D turned back to me with a conspiratorial grin
and then looked over my shoulder as if our time together was now over as well.
And it was as the doors had opened and they were letting us in.
I wondered if either of these two would sit next to me at
the bar and carry on. My friend would be here at any moment and I was eager for
bar snacks and tequila. But I had nothing to fear as the Maitre’D whipped past
the others waiting and quickly sat himself at the best seats at the end of the
community table by the Hayes Street window. He was a pro. He maintained his
professional demeanor though as he passed me:
“Enjoy your dinner. We hope to
see you again soon.”
As I claimed my seat at the far end of the bar, I thought
how wonderfully premature this madness was. Usually the entertainment started
after a drink at the bar as the restaurant filled in and we all got to the
prize. Tonight though it started in line with a couple of fellow diners just
waiting for a burger.
My friend had arrived. Maybe he’d been there all along.
