A San Francisco Christmas Morning, Wrapped In A Blanket Of Fog

San Francisco. North Beach. Christmas Morning. It was cold. It was wet. It was misty. But even still, it was beautiful.

San Francisco. The city was still sleeping, wrapped in a blanket of fog that clung to the streets like a lover barely willing to let go. I was here again, at the foot of the all too recognizable Transamerica building, its sharp point piercing the gray sky like a modern-day obelisk. It stood vigilant over this ever-changing city. The streets were empty, save for a few early risers and maybe the ghost of Christmas past. I pulled my collar up, protecting my exposed neck against the wet chill of the morning fog and set off down Columbus Street, my footsteps echoing in the quiet morning. As I slowly made my way through the classic North Beach neighborhood, the fog began to lift, revealing the familiar sights of San Francisco’s Little Italy. The neon signs of closed bars flickered weakly, their promises of good times and strong drinks put on hold for the holiday. The smell of fresh bread was absent on this morning as I wandered past a local bakery. It was a smell that was desperately missed at this hour, a savory aroma that would complete a warm memory and maybe even create a bit of desperately needed coziness in general at the moment.

I breathed in deeply, letting the cold, foggy air fill my lungs. The early morning breeze was crisp, fresh and nearly biting at my face as I trudged down Columbus Street. San Francisco on Christmas morning was nearly always a ghost town. The usual cacophony of street noise from buses, trollies, cars and people were replaced by an eerie, lingering silence. It was broken only by the occasional gust of wind whistling through the empty alleys and streets of North Beach. And as I stared down the empty sidewalk, I realized that I had just strolled up to The Devil’s Acre. This beautifully designed speakeasy was a bastion of boozy nostalgia. Today however, its doors were firmly padlocked against holiday revelers. This bar was named after the most notorious stretch of the old Barbary Coast. Today, however, it was quiet and lifeless, save for a small light that illuminated the giant mahogany bar. I stood out front for a moment, staring into the darkened windows, thinking back to a night not so long ago. The air inside had been thick with the smell of polished wood and high-proof spirits. It was cold outside. But inside, the atmosphere wrapped around me like a warm blanket soaked in soft, sweet smelling bourbon. I was seated in the center of that magnificent mahogany bar. That solid piece of wood was a work of beauty and love and was impressive to lean against.

The bartender and I chatted for a bit. We compared notes on our favorite bourbons and whiskeys as we reminisced about good experiences and bad experiences. While I thought about what I wanted to order, the bartender noticed that my eyes wandered up to the top shelf, where, as it just so happened, a bottle of 20-year-old Pappy Van Winkle stood. I was never one for religious experiences, but if there's a heaven, I imagine it smells a lot like that whiskey. Before I even knew what happened, he grabbed two glasses, snatched the bottle from the top shelf, and poured himself and me a generous measure of the thick, amber liquid. I remembered the way the color caught the low light, promising an unrepeatable depth of flavor. That first sip - good-God, it was like being punched in the mouth in the best way possible. Smooth as silk, complex in an unpretentious manner, with notes of vanilla, oak, and something ineffable that spoke of long Kentucky summers and patient aging. I nursed that pour for what felt like hours, savoring each sip as if it might never have the opportunity to taste Pappy Van Winkle ever again. The bartender continued to serve other customers, while continuing to sip his drink, toast with me once again, as we engaging in the kind of rambling, philosophical conversations that one might have on a lazy, late evening. The cold morning air brought me back to the present, as I took a moment and savored the quiet. I let the ghost of that perfect whiskey linger on my tongue as I pulled the zipper of my jacket all the way to the top and shoved my hands deep into my pockets for warmth. Standing on this nearly empty street, in the cold, I took another glance at The Devil's Acre, its windows reflecting the grey San Francisco sky, before turning and continuing my solitary Christmas morning walk down Columbus Street.

I stopped for a brief moment at 348 Columbus Avenue and took a deep breath, inhaling the memories of this address that would forever hold a special place in my heart, and in the hearts of others who spent so much time in this special cafe. For those that lived in this North Beach neighborhood for some time, it was hard to ever forget the Steps of Rome Caffe, now, sadly long gone. I stared up at the sign of 348’s new resident. Il Casaro Pizzeria which was dark and closed for the day as many businesses were on Christmas. The kitchen inside was silent. I pressed my nose against the cold, wet glass, and peered into the empty restaurant. I never had the heart to try this new place. It was as though my memories and my loyalty would never allow it. I peered sideways as my ear touched the smooth, cold surface of the glass. My memories drifted back and I could almost hear the laughter and cheers of a packed Steps of Rome Caffe as we all watched the World Cup. If I listened hard enough, I could almost make out the hissing of the cappuccino machine pushing out one espresso after another, caffeinating the early risers as they popped in and out of the morning rush. I glanced sideways remembering a plethora of patrons that once spilled out onto the sidewalk, all drinking, eating and some patiently standing and waiting for a seat in this classic cafe in North Beach that somehow held the heart and the soul of Little Italy in its tiny, ceramic cappuccino cup.

I strolled across Columbus Avenue at Vallejo Street and approached the bastion of Italian cooking. This was the place to go for all of my Italian grocery shopping every time I was in the city. Whether I wanted some hot coppa, soppressata, pepperoni picolocini, prosciutto, or the best burrata or pecorino you could ever find outside of Italy, this was the destination. Every single time I left the city to come home, I always stopped to get one of their incredible sandwiches. My favorite two being the Lucca Special which was imported mortadella with pistachio, provolone, sweet bell peppers, sun dried tomatoes, and lettuce and the Luciano Special, which was the Prosciutto di Parma, sweet or hot coppa, fresh mozzarella, sun dried tomatoes, onions, and lettuce on grilled fresh focaccia bread. Every crunchy bite was literally pure heaven wrapped in butcher paper. The Molinari Delicatessen. The doors were closed, the space inside was dark. The wine, tomatoes, olive oil, pasta and the cases and cases of fresh Italian meats and cheese stood waiting for patrons to purchase after Christmas. I pressed my forehead against their glass windows and stared longingly inside, my stomach growled in anticipation as though it expected them to open, just for me, and make a sandwich. Sadly, they were closed today for the holiday. But even through the dark and the cold, I could almost taste the perfect balance of cured meats, sharp cheese, and crusty grilled focaccia bread that made up their legendary sandwiches. Molinari was a deli. It was an Italian grocers. And, it was a San Francisco institution. It remained a constant in the ever-changing landscape of North Beach. And, it was a place that felt like a cozy, small, neighborhood bodega. A place that tourists swarmed to and packed with long lines, but a place that locals all could feel like it belonged to the neighborhood and only to them.

I turned and strolled up Columbus, deeper into the heart of North Beach, crossing back along the small triangular block of Grant and Vallejo, leaving China Town far to my left — a story for another chapter, another time, and maybe, just maybe, another place. Walking just one block down Vallejo, I stopped in front of Caffe Trieste. Just like its neighbors, this famous cafe’s windows were dark and empty. The bar behind the large counter was deserted, devoid of a typical day’s activities with baristas taking orders, running back and forth, making coffee, handing out pastries and collecting cash. It was one of the few places in San Francisco that still operated on physical currency and adamantly refused to join the digital age. But, locals and tourists alike knew that endearing fact, welcomed it and supported the cafe through thick and thin to ensure that its rich history would always continue. I peered inside, staring through the darkness of the empty cafe. There was history here. Long, deep rooted history. How many aspiring writers had sat at those tables, nursing cup after cup of coffee as they poured their souls onto the page? How many deals had been struck over a screen play, a new book offer, a new musical group coming together? Also, how many hearts had been broken? How many dreams or ideas were born and died within these walls? There were ghosts here too. I pressed my face even closer to the ice cold, wet glass, listing to the specters of Kerouac and Ginsberg, who I almost felt had lingered here, somewhere in the back. Their voices perhaps a faint whisper on the morning breeze, or an accompaniment to the hum of the cooler inside. But they were there. All you had to do was take the time and have the patience to stop and listen.

I turned back to Columbus Avenue, leaving the ghosts of Christmas past behind me. And, as I turned right, the very famous Stinking Rose loomed ahead, its shiny, new location a stone's throw from its original home just behind me, and across the street. Their motto: "We season our garlic with food" was always on my mind when I thought of them. I managed to have some very memorable dinners at their old, original location more than several times in the last 20 years. It was the kind of place that tourists flocked to, eager to experience the novelty of Count Vladimir's sizzling garlic prime ribeye stake, the 40 clove garlic chicken, or even Gilroy’s own special of garlic ice cream. Every garlic soaked dish held the promise of breath that could ward off vampires and spouses for weeks. But for those of us who were local, it was a restaurant that sat firmly in the heart and the spirit of San Francisco's culinary scene - always willing to push boundaries and challenge expectations. Always ready to provide warm comfort food for those of us who came in from the wet chilly cold of the city by the bay. To experience a local flare of divine garlic intervention, to dine with friends, meet new people, and perhaps leave feeling like we tasted the soul of the city.

As I rounded the corner on Union Street, the quiet streets began to give way to the open expanse of Washington Square. The grass was damp with morning dew, and a few early dog walkers circled the perimeter, their breath visible in the cold air. I strolled over to an empty bench and sat down. It was so peaceful at this early hour. I took a second and let the silence of the moment wash over me. I enjoyed the early morning quiet, sitting here on this sliver of green, in the midst of the cold damp air, and surrounded by concrete and glass. From where I sat, I could see the twin spires of Saints Peter and Paul Church rising above the trees. The church stood as a silent sentinel, watching over the neighborhood as it had for generations. This of-course wasn’t the original church. The first church was built in 1884 on the corner of Filbert Street and Grant Avenue, several blocks over from its current residence. However, it was destroyed by the Great Quake of 1906. Construction on the current building was completed in 1924. And now, here it stood, watching over Washington Square and over the North Beach.

I sat and enjoyed the crisp and foggy Christmas morning. The sun slowly began to peak through the fog, showing a small sliver of the stunning blue Bay Area sky above. A beam of shiny light streamed down casting a golden glow over the park, illumining the trees and the grass, and even created a brief feeling of warmth. I was here in San Francisco, on Christmas morning. A former resident who had come home to walk through its streets, enveloping myself in nostalgia and desire, while I managed to breathe in some of the city’s soul. I’ve enjoyed, and continue to enjoy so many amazing meals in this neighborhood. Late-night slices of pizza, grease dripping down my chin as I stumbled home from some dive bar where I ended my night with friends. Midnight spaghetti, slurped hungrily at half-past one in the morning with friends as we were not ready for the night to end, yet still needed that perfect fix to soak up the alcohol from the night’s carousing. And even in the early mornings, when I was either on the run to work, or had time to stop and read the morning paper or an amazing new book I discovered. I stopped in at The Steps of Rome Caffe to guzzle down or slowly sip the perfectly crafted cappuccino that had fueled my day. Each meal was a memory, a snapshot of a moment in time, of a place, something that was experienced, shared, enjoyed, and never forgotten.

I sat on my bench in Washington Square, my fingers interlaced to stay warm. Slowly, the city slowly began to wake up around me. I heard the distant rumble of the first cable car of the day, its bell ringing out like a Christmas morning clarion call. The familiar “ka-chunk ka-chunk” of the sound of the rails echoing through the city. A few more people entered the park, strolling slowly about. Some carried a hot coffee and a newspaper to enjoy in the crisp morning air. Others were simply out for a morning stroll with their dogs, taking them on a brisk walk, and out to do their business. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the sounds of the city wash over me like a blanket. I could hear everything. The cooing of pigeons from the surrounding rooftops and trees. The rustle of newspaper pages being turned at the next bench over. The faint strains of Christmas music drifting from an open window behind me. The distance sounds of children giggling as they tore open their presents on Christmas morning echoing down the street. This was the symphony of San Francisco, a melody as complex and beautiful as the city itself.

They say that certain senses become sharper when one sense was dulled. With my eyes shut, still enjoying the sounds of the city, I suddenly caught the all too familiar and highly desired aroma of coffee as the intoxicating scent drifted across my nose. I opened one eye, hoping not to lose this amazing bouquet of chocolate, hazelnut and let’s just be honest here, caffeine. Yes, when you want it badly enough, I firmly believe that one can actually smell caffeine. And before you inquire, yes, it’s delicious. I glanced over at a nearby cafe that had opened its doors, defying the holiday closure. This was from where this suspected yet intoxicating aroma was drifting from. North Beach, as it seemed, was always full of amazing surprises. I stood up, stretching my legs, feeling the chill that had settled in around me. If I was going to beat the crowd to grab a cappuccino, and maybe, just maybe a warm cornetto, I was determined to hustle. I quickly made my way over to this bastion of caffeine. It seems I was starting yet another Christmas morning here. Crafting yet another chapter in my ongoing love affair with this magnificent city. No matter where life took me, a part of my heart would always belong to these hills, to these streets, to this beautiful, maddening, endlessly fascinating place. I was here. In San Francisco. In North Beach. On Christmas Day. It was cold. It was wet. It was misty. But even still, it was beautiful.