The Secrets of Cotogna. San Francisco's Culinary Fortress And Gastronomical Temple.

The sacred art of chefs and winemakers - good food and amazing wine was not just about eating and drinking. It was about connecting, exploring, experiencing and truly living.

San Francisco's North Beach was a neighborhood that sharply exhaled history no matter where you turned. Every corner was deeply steeped in stories of the past and constantly writing new stories to tell. I step out onto Columbus Avenue feeling the pulse of this old neighborhood’s vibrant Italian heritage running through my fingertips. The air was thick with the aroma of garlic and fresh basil, baking pizza dough, olive oil, Calabrian chili oil, and freshly grated parmesan. The chatter of diners spilled out from the open doors of trattorias lining the street as I strolled by at a leisurely pace, taking my time to immerse myself in every step. It was a place where the old-world charm of Italy met the eclectic spirit of San Francisco, that city by the bay kissed in rolling fog. Walking here, you couldn’t help but feel like you were part of something timeless, part of a story that had evolved and played out for over a century. The evening was cool, a typical San Francisco night with a gentle breeze rolling in from the bay, carrying with it the distant marine layer that gave this city its mysterious allure.

The neon lights of Italian restaurants flickered invitingly up and down Columbus Avenue, each one a beacon of warmth and hospitality. Eager restaurateurs stood outside of their establishments, their voices were a symphony of accented English and Italian as they beckoning passersby with promises of hefty portions of homemade pasta and generous pours the finest Chianti. A local young Italian beauty batted her long eyelashes at me, smiled and pointed to the menu proudly displayed outside of the doorway. In a thick Italian accent she stated “Its the best!” It was a scene that felt both familiar and exotic. It was testament to the enduring appeal of this neighborhood and why strolling here always brought so much nostalgia and comfort. I smiled and nodded at the Italian beauty as I slowly passed by, agreeing with her wholeheartedly, but this evening, I had a different destination in mind all together. She looked slightly disappointed that I was not tempted to venture in and explore the alluring menu, but I promised her I would definitely try the pasta all’amatriciana on my next visit.

As I continued to amble down Columbus Avenue, I could see the Transamerica Building rising up in the center of the diagonal path like a beacon marking the beginning or the end of the avenue, depending on where you began your journey. I have walked here countless times before. I lived here, exploring the nooks and crannies of Little Italy and spilling into China Town marveling at the margining and separation of cultures and worlds in this legendary city. I pass by iconic spots like The Stinking Rose and Molinari Delicatessen, each with its own incredible stories to tell. The owners all had tales that they have told their customers hundreds if not thousands of times again and again of their grandmother's secret recipes that they brought with them to San Francisco from Italy, how they can’t tell you all of the ingredients because its a family secret no matter how many times you beg for the recipe. There was a sense of camaraderie in every single restaurant in this iconic neighborhood, a common feeling, a shared understanding that food was more than just sustenance—it was a way of life. I’ve dined at some of these older places. Spent time here with friends, sitting outside for a traditional Italian dinner. Drank countless bottles of Amarone, Dolcetto and Chianti sometimes pairing them with food, sometimes consuming them as a pairing to conversation between primi and secondi piatti. Sat around a small outdoor table, crowded but comfortable, locked in a conversation of life. Taking time to slowly eat and drink into the night. Our Italian server noting that we have been to the old country, and were doing dinner in the proper in-country manner through a two to three hour long affair. As much as I longed for stopping and taking in a freshly sliced prosciutto and pairing it with a house red, I had an entirely different destination in mind with a completely non-traditional appetizer.

I cross to the other side of Columbus street, the Transamerica Building rising up over my right shoulder. And as I stepped on the sidewalk, The Devil's Acre instantly came into view. This unique speakeasy cocktail bar paid homage to San Francisco's Barbary Coast era, and was actually an old nickname for this section of the neighborhood. Its entrance was unassuming, but stepping inside felt like entering another world entirely. The bar was dimly lit, the walls adorned with relics from a time when saloons and apothecaries blurred the lines between medicine and merriment, when you could lurk in a shadowy corner, enjoying some strong concoction, plotting and scheming, or perhaps behaving in a manner unbefitting a gentlemen of the city. The bar was decorated with floor tiles that were replicas of vintage wooden pill tiles and time-worn apothecary jars, canisters, and devices. The ambience was a reminder that fun and trouble often ran a thin line that could easily be crossed if given the opportunity. The bartender, a modern-day alchemist, beckoned me to venture ever closure with a nod and carefully placed napkin. I slid up to the solid, sturdy bar and reviewed the cocktail menu. The bar menu was a booklet designed like an almanac with carefully curated drinks served in glasses meant to evoke nostalgia for another time and another place. However, I instantly spotted my selection off of the menu, located behind the bartender, displayed proudly on the shelf like a glowing monolith. Without hesitation, I raised two fingers and ordered the Pappy Van Winkle family reserve bourbon grinning broadly from ear to ear. While the other original cocktails were very tempting, the Pappy instantly drew me in and carried its own legend, much like this city itself.

I sat and sipped, the bourbon's warmth spreading through me as my bartender and I talk about San Francisco and its ever-changing landscape. My bartender was a lifelong resident and shared stories of the city's evolution and constant change—from the tech-fueled frenzy of the dot com era to the changing landscape of gentrification. From Covid’s effect on the neighborhood with the loss of several iconic restaurants that shuttered their doors after decades of family-owned operation, to the changing environment of new eateries and establishments bringing in something old and something new to entice both locals and visitors. There was a wistfulness in his voice when he spoke. It was almost a longing for the San Francisco of yesterday. However, there was also an appreciation for the city's resilience and its ability to reinvent itself in the face of unstoppable change and shifts in the wind. Our conversation felt both intimate and expansive. It reminded me a lot of this city that we both love; him a resident and me a former resident, but now a tourist. I paid my tab and tipped my bartender and headed out for dinner. The Devil's Acre had a way of transporting you into the past and making time stand still during your stay, even if it was just for one drink. I stepping back onto Columbus taking a left and proceeded down the street, the cool San Francisco night pulling me forward. The restaurants were all bustling, their windows aglow with the laughter and enjoyment of diners settling in for their own slice of la dolce vita.

The sounds and smells of North Beach enveloping me like a familiar embrace as I continued on my leisurely stroll making my way down Columbus and taking a sharp left turn on Pacific. This neighborhood adamantly refused to be forgotten, dismissed any notation of shifting away from its roots no matter the change in residents, the ebb and flow of a global pandemic or the changing tide of restaurants and bars coming and going in this West Coast slice of Italian culture. North Beach’s history was etched deeply here, tattooed into the very fabric of San Francisco and was forever part of this city’s DNA. New construction, new paint, facelifts and constant rebuilding. No amount of change could shift away the feeling that each step here felt like a journey through time and was a persistent reminder of the countless stories that have unfolded in this Italian slice of San Francisco.

I approached my dinner destination with excitement and trepidation. As the trip up to San Francisco was a last minute necessity, and was completely unplanned, securing a reservation for this evening was a little difficult since my desired place to eat was completely booked up for the night and showed a full booking for the next several days. As I strolled, the familiar red-brick building slowly came into focus, its outside dining area draped in lush trees and sparking piazza lighting adding an a mystic allure to the corner. Aromas of pizza, pasta, garlic and herbs drifted out onto the street and welcomed me in as I stepped forward. Cotogna. Nestled in the heart of San Francisco's historic Jackson Square, it was a culinary fortress and a gastronomical temple. Reservations here however, were as coveted as a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's factory when coming to dine at the very last minute. The restaurant's reputation for house-made pastas and spit-roasted meats preceded it by leagues. However, finding a seat without prior planning potentially could be met with a fairly long wait time, which was completely worth it. The only agonizing aspect being pelted in the face with aromas of succulent cooked meats, freshly made pasta, and garlic making you struggle to control your hunger as you waited for a seat. I approached the bustling corner of Montgomery and Pacific, the air thick with the aroma of wood-fired perfection. It was a siren call to the gastronomically inclined, and I willingly answered the call to usher myself ever closer. The scene was a symphony of clinking glasses, cutlery tapping on plates, animated conversations, and laugher of new and old friends. It was the kind of place where the kitchen's heartbeat was palpable, and every dish was a testament to the chef's artistry, love and utter dedication to their craft.

The hostess greeted me with a warm smile as she immediately glanced at her screen, ready to confirm my reservation. She was the gatekeeper to this culinary haven and perhaps even sensed my desperation that was masked as casual curiosity for the bustling establishment. After a few exchanged pleasantries, a respectful nod to the sommelier standing to her left, I found that suddenly, the impossible somehow became possible within the span of a moment. Perhaps it was serendipity, perhaps a bit of good fortune, but sometimes dining alone does have its privileges. While it might seem like dumb luck, the party of three that was seated prior to my arrival, though an odd number to seat, left a single chair unoccupied. And with a kind wink and a head tilt from my gracious hostess, I eagerly followed her inside with the giddiness of a 14 year old boy. I passed waiting patrons at the crowded doorway and found myself perched at the Chef’s counter, the culinary equivalent of front-row seating at a Rolling Stones rock concert.

In front of me, the chefs were the maestros, orchestrating a movement of masterful techniques, each sauce an accompaniment of flavor, each dish a crescendo of taste. I watched them work, marveling at their perfect choreography and timing. The calling of orders. The splashing of sauces. The flipping of pans. The arrangement of dishes. The staggering of requests perfectly timed to each patron and to every table. I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments and felt the pulse of Cotogna, a place where food was a narrative, a story told through the sizzle of pans, the tossing of ingredients and the precise dance of knives and cutting boards. I heard the calling of the orders. I listened to the sizzle of meats being grilled, the flesh of steak echoing the sounds of butter and herbs over flame. I heard the gliding of plates against metal and wood. I heard an arrangement of voices, all in perfect sync. In that moment, I was not just a diner. That evening I was part of the performance, taking part in an experience that would linger long after the last bite of the evening.

I opened my eyes, inhaled deeply taking in the intense aromas wafting from the open kitchen in front of me and wrapped my fingers around the long sides of the menu, arranged perfectly for this evening. Cotogna was known for its homemade pastas and its incredible list of wines from both Italy and Napa. I glanced down the dinner menu, my tastebuds already beginning to sing as I longingly stared at every dish on the list, knowing that I only had so much room for tonights dinner. I couldn’t help but dream that if there was a moment without consequence, that I would order every dish to sample a bit of this and a slice of that on the menu this evening. However, I knew in my heart, and in my stomach, that I would have to pick one pasta and perhaps maybe an antipasti to compliment the meal while simply letting the others go for another time, and another meal of enjoyment and splurging. But before any food decisions could be made, wine had to be selected to pair properly for this evening. I didn’t have to venture far down the menu before my eyes came to rest on one particular bottle. My sommelier clasped his hands gently as he leaned over to ask if I had any questions or required any suggestions for wine for this evening. I simply pointed to my selection and uttered the phrase “yes, please.” My sommelier raised an eyebrow, inquired if I had this particular bottle before. I informed him that I had, and that I was invited to a special tasting party held in secret in San Francisco to sample it and its two sister bottles extensively. But that is a story for another time.

The Wine

The dull roar of the restaurant reverberated in the air as Daniel, the sommelier approached with a special bottle lovingly cradled in his arm. He presented the bottle that I selected in a casual, and almost elegant lean. The dark bottle with its opera themed label hung in the spotlight as I glanced over it, my eyes painted its surface, my tastebuds already prepared for the thick nectar that rested within. The bottle in mystery; a 2019 Pas de Cheval Intermezzo Cabernet Sauvignon from Saint Helena, lovingly crafted by the talented duo of Maayan Koschitsky and Vanessa Conlin. This wine was a promise of an experience, an invitation to explore the depths of Napa Valley's offerings, and a whisper in a bottle that swore to grow to a crescendo when uncorked. Daniel gently pulled the cork and the air was immediately filled with the wine's dark, fruity aroma. Blackberries, black cassis, and a whisper of smoke drifted upwards and created a fragrant melange that enveloped me mingling with the scents of garlic and butter that wafted from the open kitchen in front of me. The first sip was magnificent, a bold introduction to a wine that was both large-scaled and elegantly structured. The tannins were ripe and perfectly integrated, wrapping around the vibrant red-berry fruit with a richness that was almost palpable. It was a wine that demanded attention, a bold statement that left a lasting impression on the palate with its tightly packed, full-bodied nature.

But like all great bottles of deep red, this wine needed time to breathe. Time to unfold its layers and reveal its true complexities. It sat in the glass as I gently swirled it, opening its layers playfully, the initial boldness softening, giving way to a more nuanced expression of flavors. The tannins eased and began to relax, allowing the fruit to shine through with greater clarity. The once-dominant black fruit notes started to intertwine with subtler elements. Hints of earthiness and a touch of spice danced around the edges as if to tease elegantly. It was as if the wine was telling a story, each line, each verse, each paragraph, and each chapter more intriguing than the last. I took every guilty pleasure in my eagerness to see where it would lead. Like Alice down the rabbit hole I went, chasing after a torrent of mysterious textures and flavors into the unknown. With every passing moment, the Pas de Cheval Intermezzo transformed itself again and again, becoming different more complex, the fruit notes more prominent and taking one bow after the next. This bottle was a testament to the artistry of its creators, a reminder of the beauty of patience, and of allowing something to evolve naturally. The wine had shifted from a powerful crescendo to a symphony of flavors, each sip a new discovery and fresh glimpse into the minds of the winemakers. It was an experience that was a blend of anticipation, surprise, and satisfaction, all set against the backdrop of Cotogna's warm and inviting atmosphere.

Primi Piatti

I was so focused and lost in my glass of Pas de Cheval that I almost didn’t notice my server gently placing my first course right in front of me as I took a long and deeply involved sip from my glass. The shaved truffle pasta arrived with an elegant glide and turn of the plate. The dish was a masterpiece of simplicity and indulgence all rolled into one creation. I twirled the pasta between my fork, taking a guilty pleasure in the earthy aromas that were released as the shaved truffles and sauce clung to my metal utensil. The homemade pasta was cooked perfectly al dente. It was a dish that whispered of decadence and restraint and was a testament to the chef’s understanding that sometimes, less was definitely more. The truffles brought a rich and almost intoxicating scent that enveloped me, drawing me into a world where time slowed, and every bite demanded my complete and full attention.

I took my first forkful with a slow and calculated ease, the truffle’s flavor unfurling slowly like a story being told one delicious word at a time. The chef fully understood that the pasta was merely a canvas, the truffle was its muse. However, together they created a symphony of taste that was both familiar and exotic. Each bite a perpetual reminder of why truffles were so revered, their unique ability to elevate any dish from the ordinary to the sublime. The texture of the pasta was silky and smooth and deeply contrasted beautifully with the delicate crunch of the truffle shavings. It was a dish that didn’t need to shout and didn’t need to announce itself loudly. Rather, it quietly seduced, stroked each tastebud and invited me to savor each mouthful to fully appreciate the craftsmanship that went into its creation. This dish was an experience and a reminder of the powers of alchemy that chefs possess in their creations to transport and transform any dish into an experience, a memory and a lasting impression.

The pairing with the 2019 Pas de Cheval Cabernet was an indulgence of sin and gratification. The wine, with its deep, ruby hue, was a bold counterpoint to the subtlety of the pasta, the tannins played gleefully between the each strand. The wine’s bouquet was rich with notes of dark berries and a hint of oak, delivering a complexity that mirrored the pasta it accompanied. With every sip, the tannins dance on my palate, their assertiveness tempered by the pasta’s creamy embrace. The Cabernet’s robust character complemented the truffle’s earthiness as well as enhancing the dish and elevating it in a harmonious duet. It was a pairing that spoke to the skill of the winemakers and the chef, a testament to the art of matching food and wine in a way that elevated both. A magical combination of taste and texture that created a lasting memory that would forever stay with me no matter what my next experience would be.

The Evening’s End

As I finished the last of my rich and indulgent dish, I pushed back in my seat, lovingly swirling the glass of wine in front of me. My server smiled and remove the empty bowl, having watched me nearly scrape clean every inch of the heavenly cream from every crevice with my fork. She politely inquired if I would like any dessert, and I sadly shook my head knowing full well that I had no more room for anything else. I raised my glass, hinting that the last of this amazing bottle would be my dessert, a rich and decadent liquid finish to an indulgent meal. I looked around at the precise choreographed performance that continued in front of me without missing a beat. Sitting here at the Chef’s Counter I felt a connection to the culinary journey unfolding all evening right in front of me. The open kitchen was a stage set every day for performance, the chefs its performers, each movement deliberate and precise, timed and called. There was a rhythm to their work, a choreography that spoke of years of practice and passion, of command and of direction. Watching them move, I could see the artistry involved in creating a dish like the shaved truffle pasta or an antipasti like the blue fin tuna that was artfully arranged, placed and executed to perfection. The kitchen performance was an expression of creativity and a way to connect with others who would share in the experience and the joy of a well-prepared meal. It was magic. It was artistry. It was pure alchemy.

The chef's counter was a front-row seat to a mesmerizing culinary ballet executed for hours every evening. The open kitchen was a stage where each chef, clad in crisp whites, moved with the precision and grace of a seasoned dancer. It was a cooking performance in a symphony of sizzling pans, the rhythmic chop of knives, and the soft murmur of orders being relayed. I sat transfixed, sipping slowly on the final drops of this elegant wine watching the chefs orchestrate a seamless flow of creativity and technique, each dish emerging as a masterpiece of art and science. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of garlic and herbs, of fire and olive oil. The chefs were like artists, each with their own palette of flavors and textures, working together in perfect harmony. There's a palpable energy in this open space, a shared passion that linked them together as they crafted dish after dish after dish with meticulous attention to detail, executing each task with unwavering consistency, creativity and focused dedication.

The last sip of wine lingered on my palate like a final note in a gorgeous symphony. It was an unforgettable tapestry of rich fragrances and textures that continued to resonated with me all evening. As the night drew to a close, I settled the bill tipping my server and my sommelier generously, a token of appreciation for their role in making the evening experience completely unforgettable. As I pushed back from my seat, I made sure to thank the head chef who wandered over to shake my hand. He was the maestro who orchestrated this symphony of flavors with passion and precision creating an evening for me that I would never forget. To thank his team for their generous hospitality and unmatched creativity, I purchased a round of whiskey for the kitchen staff. I waved a hand up in the air in a patron’s salute to the kitchen as I turned to leave, the chef’s all raising a glass in thanks.

Stepping out into the San Francisco night after the meal that I just experienced was intoxicating. The cool air rushed to greet me, enveloping me in a crisp blanket as I took my first steps on to Pacific. The city buzzed with its usual energy. It was a vibrant backdrop to my contemplative mood as I walked with a satiated spirit. The night in North Beach unfolded like a scene from a noir film, with the fog rolling in from the bay, wrapping the city in its cool embrace. After experiencing one of the best meals of my life,I wandered the storied streets of this vibrant Italian neighborhood. The air carried a thick scent of the ocean that clung to the buildings around me, mingling with the aromas of Italian cuisine wafting from the trattorias that line the streets of Columbus. The fog softened the harsh edges of the city by the bay, turning streetlights into halos and muffling the sounds of the bustling nightlife as evening busses rolled by. I walk past the iconic City Lights Bookstore feeling that I could almost hear the whispers of the Beat poets who once roamed these very streets, their rebellious spirits still echoing in the alleyways.

In the dim glow of the evening, North Beach transformed into a tapestry of sights and sounds, each corner offering a new story, in a never ending play at night. The laughter from deep inside of the bars spilled into the empty street, a cacophony of voices, laughter, music and clinking glasses that felt both intimate and universal, welcoming and yet distant. North Beach was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the past and present coexisted in a delicate dance. The fog, ever-present, lended an air of mystery to the night, as if the city was keeping its most tantalizing tales just out of reach behind closed doors and hidden in darkened side streets. This was San Francisco at its finest. A city that defied expectations, where every meal was a journey and every night a wandering adventure. Here, in the heart of Little Italy, I felt the pulse of the city, alive and electric, a reminder of why this place has captured the hearts of so many, including my own. From the culinary alchemy of Cotogna, to the magic and the human experience of the winemakers of Napa, there was a kinship with those who understood that good food and amazing wine was not just about eating and drinking, but about connecting, exploring, experiencing and truly living.