San Francisco: America's Favorite City

Perched on a coastal bay with sweeping views framed by the inspiring crimson arch of the Golden Gate Bridge , San Francisco is assured international recognition on the basis of that icon alone. The landscape, including what is likely the most impressive urban green space in the United States- the Golden Gate Park , along with an artistically sculpted skyline still only begins to reflect the city’s many glories.

Viewed from one of its 40 hilltops, even the infamous Alcatraz Prison is shrouded with romance since San Francisco is, above all, utterly, hopelessly, romantic. The famed cable cars, by no means relegated to mere tourist transportation, rumble up the steep hills, while the scent of lunchtime dim sum or Ghirardelli chocolate seduces through the open windows. Tourists and locals alike stream into Fisherman’s Wharf’s seafood establishments, and to North Beach delis, where they are transported to Italy in an eye blink. Strollers on Grant Avenue peer into bins of unidentifiable dried, pickled, and packaged objects, overseen by specimens of great fowl hanging helplessly in Chinatown’s storefront windows.

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San Francisco, always fresh, new and inventive, remains profoundly true to the American Dream. Perhaps it was the specters of gold miners who once camped in crammed pockets of the city at the turn of the nineteenth century, that lured modern day dotcom wunderkinds into its hills and valleys, again fostering the lure of quick riches. Though their bubbles inevitably burst, the energy and attitude of staking claim lives on.

This city was built through dedication and dreams with love of novelty its identifying spice, but romance is the city's hallmark. And what is romance without bread and wine, particularly sourdough bread and Napa Valley wine? San Franciscans, notoriously choosy about their "Cal-orie" sources, have developed a renown restaurant scene that laces most versions of gastronomic pleasure with a "Cal" highlight; a nod to the fresh, organic, products grown in the fertile valleys surrounding the bay area. Here chefs compete with the inspired haute cuisine that draws the city’s residents northward to Napa Valley as moths to flame. In the city proper, mid-week yearnings for equally sumptuous fare are satisfied at a gaggle of expense account worthy venues.

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In San Francisco’s SoMa, everyone appears either ultra-hip, particularly rich, or aspiring to it. The pursuit of the American Dream is unmistakably represented in places such as the W Hotel, the Transamerica Pyramid and the Sony Metreon. Even the fabulous Museum of Modern Art collections reflect the theme, while across town the overzealous zigzag of Lombard Street symbolically illustrates the crisscrossed history and indirect path to success the "dream" implies.

Getting around in San Francisco is relatively easy. The biggest caveat is "beware one-way streets and limited parking," although most hotels offer valet. The city is walkable from any of the neighborhoods - if you don‘t mind hills. To get across the bridge into Sausalito, Muir Woods, Napa Valley or any of San Francisco’s awesome coastal parks (and you really must go), best to rent a car. Insist on reliable directions and alternate routes. Traffic on weekends to the Napa Valley can create a hangover without the benefit of the wine. If you are able, go mid-week for a stupendously deserted experience in an otherwise over-touristy destination.

According to W’s promotional literature, the letter stands for warm, wonderful, witty, wired… welcome. Well!

The concept brand, begun by the Starwood group in 1998, experienced such phenomenal success with their first New York location that they expanded to dozens of cities. The intent, to offer a sense of home on the road to hip, urban professionals, has clients flocking to such homey succor as high-speed internet access, extensive CD libraries, sleek furnishings, down duvets, and ultra-cool zen luxuries--such as in-room etch-a-sketches.

Entering the lobby, lit solely by a collection of votive candles, I expected a pop culture quiz before my room key could be issued.
"Who designed Gwen Stefani’s wedding gown?"
"Who won the Grammy in the hip-hop category?"
"Please demonstrate the standing warrior pose."
Thank goodness it wasn’t so, or I would have forgone the comforts of Westin’s signature "heavenly bed" that night.

Instead, we were warmly greeted by the W staff, young enough to be our children and sophisticated enough to be our superiors. Behind the reception counter a thirty foot wall of aluminum beads shimmied in a delicate breeze emanating from an unidentifiable source. Candles flickered as guests rustled by. Mood music of the sort heard in shops that carry only single digit sizing, further called into question whether I was part of the intended target market.

In the Living Room, W’s lobby bar, lissome women and slender men with terrific hair picked at platters of sushi and played retro board games crafted of stainless steel. Upstairs, a martini bar, XYZ, heralded phase two of a night on the town for locals and guests alike. We walked through, marveling at the sight of the beautiful people, and decided we were both too underdressed and aged to take a seat, even if there had been one available.

It could have been a tough blow to suddenly realize we were over the hill during a romantic weekend in San Francisco, but fortunately there were enough other distractions for us to give the depressing notion a second thought. Back at the room, a techno-pop CD whirled in the sound system and a zebra pattern chaise beckoned. Crisp tea-dyed hemp cotton duvets, berber carpets and black and white photos of San Francisco landmarks provided necessary comfort. Good Feng Shui does that to a person. Age is suddenly of no consequence.

A hand penned post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror teased, "Look under your pillow." Following directions, I excavated beneath a mountain of down and plucked out a complimentary spritz bottle of lavender facial refresher. On the night stand, a palm-sized blue bear encouraged "take life one dream at a time."

I flipped open the plantation style shutters to reveal a neon vision of paradise in the form of the Metreon, the Museum of Modern Art and the Yerba Buena Gardens 34 floors below. Minutes later, drifting easily into dreamy slumber, I was 25 again and W hotels were everywhere. Wow.

A vintage photo in the lobby reveals the St. Francis’ landmark status. In the tintype peek into the hotel’s turn-of-the-century origins, ladies in street-length skirts and gentlemen in dapper chapeaus congregate on Union Square benches across from the new hotel; there is no street traffic.

Designed to be a "Paris of the West," the hotel was so popular following its inaugural season in 1906, that plans to expand began a mere six months after opening. White-gloved service and attention to detail are a revered standard established during the elegant era and still permeate at St. Francis today. What other hotel offers to clean your silver coins, for instance? In the days when ladies wore white gloves, St. Francis made the effort to keep their money clean, and the service has carried over as a tradition.

We checked in late at the beautiful Westin St. Francis on a recent visit. In spite of the hour, the desk staff greeted us as chipper as sunrise over Golden Gate Bridge and acknowledged our Starwood membership by upgrading us to a top floor with an impressive view of the city’s skyline. We strolled through the Vegas-sized marble halls marveling at the classic architecture, surely a model of elegance even for this sophisticated city.

A glass elevator whisked us within moments to our towering hideout on the 31st floor where we were welcomed further by Westin’s signature "heavenly bed." The superior mattress, a duvet swaddled in luxurious but simple Egyptian linens, proved to be the most meaningful amenity of the well-appointed hotel.

Our large room had a substantial desk with internet connection, armoire, chaise lounge and marble bath. The fixtures and sink were designed by the renowned Sherle Wagner, an impressive feature adding to the room’s overall sophistication. But the view was the winning feature, especially since the Blue Angels were practicing their maneuvers right over our heads the next morning.

The Westin St. Francis is a gorgeous, old, well-dressed, hotel. There are few lobbies more magnificent than the St. Francis’ with its marble, columns, fixtures and carvings and the staircase leading to the venerable Compass Rose. Extensive facilities, including 24-hour room service, a state-of-the-art fitness center, and glorious newly installed spa, satisfy guests’ more modern requirements. With its central location across from Union Square, there’s hardly a more convenient or lively location in San Francisco. Add to that the Macy’s discount card included in check-in, and a stay at St. Francis may have you asking yourself, "What did I do to deserve all this?"

On small caveat; at $39/night, valet parking fees can add substantially to the total tariff. However, with so many fascinations within walking distance from St. Francis and the cable cars just outside the door, arriving without a car is a reasonable alternative. Or better yet, have your driver drop you off at the door…

On September 12, 2001, we expected to be eating at Farallon to celebrate a milestone birthday. Events prior to departure thwarted our plans, so it was with heightened anticipation that we rescheduled during our visit to San Francisco in February, 2003.

Alas, the dual holidays of Chinese New Year and Valentine’s Day found tables at the eatery already booked months in advance. Undaunted, I sent a last-ditch request to Farallon’s reservation manager, pleading my case with desperate determination.

To my delight, an email response announced, "Great sob story. We have reserved a table for two on Saturday night at 7:30 p.m." I was thrilled, but there existed a possibility, considering the expectations surrounding this dinner, that it could never quite live up to our exaggerated hopes.

After a post-parade, pre-dinner drink at the St. Frances, we sashayed down the side street off Union Square and caught site of the twinkling windows fronting the restaurant. In the otherwise rain-soaked darkness, Farallon appeared as an inhabited island settled in a desolate sea. Once inside, we were immediately enchanted by an ephemeral collection of glowing jellyfish suspended from the ceiling in the anteroom bar. When the hostess approached, I had almost forgotten why we‘d come, content to soak in the sea-inspired art and mesmerizing fixtures of this modern day Atlantis. Shell-shaped wall sconces, elaborate Gaudi like tile works and a copper fish-scale canopy covering the prep area set the stage for the works of seafood art that would later emerge from the kitchen.

We sat ring-side of the bustling demonstration kitchen where servers and chefs were given marching orders from an ever-present master of cuisine. A unique wood fire range emitted a subtle campfire aroma, adding to the romantic ambiance. Overhead, back-lit frescoes of mythical, whimsical sea creatures supervised the action below as servers and patrons wove their way through the semi-circular booths that swirl through the large dining room.

My husband started dinner with a selection of oysters gathered from North America’s finest nesting grounds. I chose a braised endive salad with blue cheese, watercress and walnuts. Although I didn’t require an added impetus to eat, given the heavenly aromas emanating from the cook top, the first course was an effective digestif with its tangy, tart flavors, suggesting I may have been able to handle the multi-course tasting menu after all.

Hoping instead to hook the freshest of the seafood options, I chose the Roasted Local Halibut with no regrets. Expertly prepared, the meaty fish was set atop a pureed artichoke chowder that complimented the dish with a precision born only in the hands of a fine chef. French press coffee served with passion fruit cake with ginger sabayon, the lusciously sinful Italian concoction of eggs and brandy, was the finale for our long-awaited dining experience.

And then, as the candle flickered at the bottom of the votive glass, it was over.

Thankfully, there was no anti-climax. Farallon had proven decidedly more memorable for the waiting.

From fireworks to macaroni, evidence often traces the roots of notions, great and small, to the clever people of China. So on the occasion of Chinese New Year, it seemed only fitting to turn a grateful nod to the Chinese in recognition of their contribution to the time-honored culinary tradition known worldwide as the grazing table.

To the Chinese it is known better as dim sum, which appropriately means, "heart’s delight." More substantial than hors d’ouevres, more appealing than tapas, dim sum refers to both the type of food and the strategic parading of steam carts filled with a variety of tasty morsels meant to tempt but never totally satisfy. Pork stuffed buns, deep fried shrimp porcupine balls, Peking duck, wontons and pot stickers, and seared scallops are some of the diverse options presented on small plates by competing "cart ladies" who pass by the table at regular intervals and tempt as Eve with an apple. According to these ladies, enough is never enough as they happily scribble another check and add it to the mounting stack under the hot mustard bottle and soy sauce.

Dim Sum is an ideal weekend brunch menu, as it’s essential to partake with plenty of time on your hands. In order to savor from the boundless selections, sharing is required, making dim sum a prime social activity as well.

We knew we wanted dim sum from the moment we planned our trip, but hadn‘t yet determined where; in San Francisco the options are extensive. Since hunger struck quickly that lazy Saturday, we followed the advice of our concierge and walked five blocks to the nearest specialist, who also happened to be one of the most highly regarded in a city of supposed experts in the matter.

Canton Seafood and Dim Sum is a grand scale dining room with high ceilings and lofty windows that filter the afternoon light and cast shadows on the aging walls. The revelry of the night before (Chinese New Year) likely kept the crowds down this "day after" and only a few of the many tables scattered about the large room hummed with friendly chatter. Profuse artificial flower arrangements and oilcloth table coverings presented an atmosphere slightly seedy though not worrisome. In fact, lazy Saturdays were just made for dives like this.

We sat in the back near the fresh seafood tanks that crawled with tentacled and clawed creatures skulking drunkenly in the briny waters. We did what people tend to do when eating dim sum; we ordered and ate too much. (It was the second order of honey barbequed pork buns that finally did me in.) But by consuming copious amounts of green tea and engaging in the easy-going dialogue this manner of dining seems to spontaneously encourage, we ended the meal with a greater appreciation of the reference in the name.

Relax, wile away the afternoon and eat to your heart‘s delight. Clever, these Chinese.

There are diners that simulate the look of a bygone era; they are "retro." There are diners that are authentically old and crusty; they are "dives." If a dive is fortunate enough to have built a loyal clientele over the years by offering unique service and specialties, they are destined to become "classics."

Sears Fine Foods, established in 1938, secured their fate early on by providing a heated Cadillac in the street in front of the diner to serve as a waiting room for the throngs of people who came here for the house specialty - a platter of 18 miniature Swedish pancakes. Today, there is no Caddie parked in the present tow-away zone out front, but a telephone booth just inside the door holds a few records for "packing ‘em in" and reminds customers of the restaurant’s funky outlook. The founder was, after all, a circus clown before opening the restaurant.

In an era of packaged and manufactured nostalgia, it’s refreshing to find an authentic holdout right there on Powell. Sears looks more like a restaurant you’d find in Chicago or Philadelphia than in highbrow Nob Hill, but there it stands, dripping in kitsch, with bubblegum-pink walls and oilcloths and heavily trod flooring that’s obviously taken a licking over the years.

We walked to Sears from the St. Francis after being assured that they would still be serving breakfast well past noon. A cheerful but seasoned hostess lead us to a table in the back of the long, mirrored room and made us comfortable by offering drinks immediately. Our regular waitress arrived a bit later, admitting she’d been thrown a few extra tables this morning, but assuring us we’d get the best service possible.

I watched a platter of the famed Swedish pancakes being delivered to the table next door (space is tight in the restaurant) and decided against them, since they didn’t appear to be as thin and crispy as I’d have expected, in spite of the fact that the restaurant serves 11,000 of these babies a day.

Instead, I opted for lunch and was quickly overwhelmed with a platter of club sandwiches, only a quarter of which I could finish. My husband had the "two eggs with choice of meat" combo, passing on the admittedly enticing waffle with whipped cream. For groups, Sears offers a unique "Ranch Breakfast" whereby groups of six or more can share platters of fruit, pancakes, eggs, meats, breads and more for only $11.00 per person, including choice of drinks. Classic diner sandwiches and salads round out the menu.

Not everyone will tap into the ambience of Sears, but it has benefited at least a few people. Sidney, a maitre d' hired to work for Sears at age 106, smoked till he was 60, drank until 95 and never did give up the ladies, claiming his vices and his job at Sears kept him young.

But I wonder if it isn't something in those pancakes? Can’t hurt to test the theory.

It was raining steadily, making me happy I’d passed on the $25 bleacher seats at the Chinese New Year parade. Dodging raindrops and a sea of red umbrellas that jammed the packed sidewalks, we ducked into the lobby of the venerable St. Frances’ hotel.

Still shaking his coat, my husband was already marveling at the intricately carved ceiling of the great hall. Marble columns lined the massive room and an exhaustive collection of classic furnishing commanded attention by means of laser sharp indirect lighting.

"Well, what now?" I asked, snapping him from his architectural reverie.
"Want to just watch from here?" he asked.
I suspected long ago that the man was brilliant and moments such as this serve to confirm the opinion.

Walking up the broad stairs graced with tree-limb sized brass railings, we stepped into the hushed enclave of San Francisco salon society. Whispered tete-a-tetes circled the room where carefully positioned tables afforded a warm, dry, civilized reviewing stand for the gaudy parade on the streets below. Intensely bright lights had been set up along the parade route and when viewed from the second floor of the St. Frances through room sized windows and persistent rain, the entire scene resembled an IMAX cinema experience more than an urban fest. Now focusing on a crowd that only moments earlier counted us in their soggy numbers, I was particularly satisfied by the immediate contrast in the experience as umbrella wielding fans insistently snaked alongside the flower festooned floats, come wind or rain.

Suddenly, in my new environment, I felt like a drowned hound dog in contrast to the impeccable couples sipping their martinis around us.
"Uh-h, think I should go freshen up?" I whispered to my companion, not wanting to mar his view. But he was still finding it difficult to pull his eyes from the ceiling detail and polished mahogany fixtures of the bar. Without even glancing in my direction he assured in that most predictable of husband voices, "Naw, you look fine."

The waiter approached with a silver tray and white towel draped over his arm.
"Fine night for a parade," I said. "May I?" I snatched the towel and dabbed my face. He chuckled and announced it was a San Francisco tradition to lure people to outdoor venues and then methodically douse them with water at the peak of their merriment.
"Makes it all that much more fun, doesn’t it?" he winked.

It took only two sips of a Manhattan to warm me. I nudged a smidgeon of caviar the size of a baby’s fingernail onto a toast point and realized no one in the room gave so much as a questioning glance in my direction. Yes, we were quite momentarily content in the affable cocoon on the second floor of the great St. Frances.

"Hey, next time we visit, let’s stay here," my husband suggested, "…better place to watch the parade."
"Sure," I agreed easily, "and let’s snag that table by the window next time."