In Which San Francisco Impresses Me With Free Things And I Shoot A Sea Urchin

It was kind of cruel if you ask me. My manager Christian had an invitation to an "Exposicion Exclusivo de Mezcales Artisanales" (Exclusive Exposition of Artisan Mezcals) and he had tacked it to the bulletin board at work to stare at us as we boxed wings and breasts and potato salad.

It was kind of like "look how cool I am, I go to exclusive booze fiestas. Don't you wish people wanted you to drink their artisan mezcal instead of just bag their french fries and wings?" I suppose he felt bad about it (after I affixed a Post-It note to invite that expressed my thoughts on the matter), so yesterday, the day of the fest, he commuted his exclusive invite to yours truly. "Better RSVP now," he cautioned.

So here's me RSVPing.
Voicemail message: "Hi, you've reached bla bla bla. Bla bla bla. If you're RSVPing for the mezcal party, leave your name and the name of the restaurant you represent."
Me: (professional voice) "Hello, this is Caitlin Donohue of _____ restaurant and I'd like to RSVP for two. If you don't call me back I'll assume we're on the list."

It's fair to say I do not make the liquor buying decisions for the restaurant I work for. But, as a hostess two nights a week, I do come into contact with lots of liquor buying guests. Surely, this is a position of influence that artisan mezcal makers cannot well overlook.

It didn't even matter, anyways. Erik and I rolled up on our bikes to a long line in front of the club wherein the party was being held, a line that terminated at two large men who merely sniffed at my Oregon driver's license (I'll admit, the card's seen better days) and waved us through.

Inside we were bombarded with a club stuffed with Mexicana. Everywhere. Necklaces with strobing Mary medallions flashing red and green. Small men wandering about with mariachi guitars. Mayan inspired animal masks I refused to put on (what was this, Eyes Wide Shut?), odd life sized wooden dolls of old men and sheep wearing dresses. Agave plants.

And refreshments! A table full of tamales and tortilla chips, and most importantly, a bar full of Los Danzantes mezcal. For those of you who don't know, mezcal, like tequila is an alcohol made from fermenting the agave plant. But where tequila purveyors remove the pulp and other solids from the agave before putting it all in the still, mezcal is fermenting pulp and all. This lends it a much richer flavor, smokier and spicier than tequila. Mezcal, contrary to popular belief, is the one that gets the worm in the bottle that is said to produce hallucinations.

Agave plant. Looks like an artichoke

Donkey making mezcal. Clever donkey.

I didn't take those two pictures by the way. I don't know who did, either.

This being San Francisco, we couldn't drink the liquor without some trendy gimmick, and true to form the mezcal shooters each had a small piece of sea urchin in the bottom of the glass. I wouldn't say it was the best entree to sea urchin, but whatever, I appreciate the gesture.

So anyways, we got drunk, fed and stocked up on all the Mexican souveniers we didn't buy while we were actually in Mexico. For free! Oh, and a leggy blonde took a photo of Erik and I with her 35mm that I'm sure will immortalize me on some crappy nightlife website as being drunk and awkward-looking.

A job well done. The moral? Pester your boss about anything and everything. This will get results.

Much love,
CD

Pretending to Drink Illegally

Bourbon and Branch
501 Jones St, San Francisco, CA

So speaking of poor property retention skills, I've gone and lost my driver's license. Shocking.

Last night we were out on the town with the Anderson/Shea clan and I had to pull some fast ones not to slow up the show. You know, bat the eyelashes, talk real fast and swish through the bar door before the bouncer knows what hit him. Bonus points if I mention I'm from Oregon!

In light of my situation's illegalities, I suppose it was only right that we wound up at a speakeasy. Back in the 1920's, Prohibition San Francisco was a den of inequity, and one of the old haunts where the Bay came to play has been converted back to it's roots, into a swish downtown night spot on the corner of Jones and O'Farrell named Bourbon & Branch. "Speak-easy," for those of you keeping track, was bartenders' admonition to indiscreet boozers. Keep it under your hat bro, on the down low.

Us being new to town, we thought we were slick for finding out about the place. There was a odd swarm of police at the Jones Street entrance when we rocked up, but we were quietly informed that "the Library" was at the back.

We dropped the secret password (shhhh, it's "books") and stepped out into the coolest room ever. Bourbon and Branch looks like how I envision my life to be when I'm buying vintage clothes. There's red velvet patterned wallpaper, the ceilings are shiny stamped metal, all the bartenders (men) are wearing bowler hats and shaking drinks into highball glasses. The Library (which is just one of the bar's rooms, the most "selective" I guess) walls are lined with bookshelves that every once in awhile will swing open and become doors to other rooms, which have secret doors to other rooms themselves, each lovingly attended by an appropriately retro employee.

Cocktails were of the old-fashioned persuasion, gimlets and ginger beer. Looking lovely but at $11, you know I didn't try a single one, current financial situations being a bitch to launch a food and drink writing career on. But it's all good, because I had my first Anchor Steams since coming back to the Bay ($5). Also joining us was Delirium Tremens, a Belgium beer which is my all time favorite based purely on it's name and label ($10):

Pink elephants! Strutting crocs! Only in Ghent...

B & B rocks, in a totally hidden, underground way. Kind of. It's hard to suspend your belief in the conceit after viewing the bar's website, where the "secret" password is prominently displayed alongside hokey 'House Rules.' Aw, applesauce!

But gimmick though it may be, it's a gimmick done well. The Library was packed, but a cute redheaded bar runner took pity on our boothless state and escorted us through some secret passages to another, nearly empty room where we chilled on red velvet love seats and spied on Jones Street degenerates and millionaires and millionaire degenerates through peepholes in the thick wooden doors. The music is Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald style jams of the highest order and at a certain point when we were sitting there, Andrew pulled up suddenly on the latch of a hidden trap door that had probably been there since the heydays of our grandparents.

I'll be back. Next time I'm wearing a dress. And bringing my date a fedora. And maybe eleven dollars.

No Jive,

Caitlin