The Epic Quest For Chinese Whiskey

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land." -G.K. Chesterton

Chinatown

Happy Holidays! As the year comes to an end, it is difficult not to get sentimental. 2013 was a big year, full of adventures and struggles, but mainly a year of gaining trust. I've always been somewhat of a solitary person, and though I think that has helped me grow as an artist and fostered my independence, I realized that friends and family are really important elements for healthy living. And who better to celebrate a beautiful city, great food and even better wine with, than with those I love? 

In celebration of this year's holiday season, Isabelle and I hit the streets in search of presents. This week's adventure: The Epic Quest for Chinese Whiskey.

To begin the day, we met under the bright sun at the end of the cable car line, Powell and Market. It was Isabelle's first time on the historic cable car, and we risked limbs and phones for great photos. 

Isabelle on her first cable car ride.

The View.

Having begun their first run in 1873, and being named a historic monument in 1964, I doubt much has changed with these dinosaurs of transportation. They still lumber through the streets, stopping in the center of intersections, honking at each other in solidarity. And though most San Franciscans wouldn't be caught dead riding the cars, I find them to be exceptional emblems; the quickest and easiest reminder of this city's history.

We took the Hyde line up to Bay Street where we slowly began our journey through North Beach and on down to Chinatown. 

Despite it being December, it was a cool 67˚F, and we were irritated at the jackets and scarves we were cursed to carry: the non-curse of living in the most beautiful city in the world.

Sts. Peter and Paul

We took a quick break in Washington Park, careful not to linger too long- the allure of drinking champagne on the park bench was almost too great for us. Still, a quick note about the church Saints Peter and Paul, 666 Filbert Street, ca 1924. Back in the day, this church was built as an intended replica of the Duomo in Orvieto, Italy. Having seen the Duomo on a very rainy day, it's difficult to find the similarities. Though the church was planned to have its facade mosaicked, it's been (for better or worse) left blank.

What travel books won't tell you is that my kitchen manager once worked in an office in Chinatown. One day this man broke in, waving a weapon. Having chased him out of the building, security kept in hot pursuit until the police would arrive. The man ran directly for the church. At the time, they were doing work on the bell towers, and had scaffolding surrounding the exterior. The man started climbing. He made it all the way to the bell tower before the police were able to apprehend him.

Orvieto

Walking down Columbus street, we ducked into various shops, including Buyer's Best Friend Mercato, a new artisanal food shop. Their motto: eat everything. Our guide pulled out compost-able tasting spoons and we tried everything from salted caramel to an unusual combination of Meyer lemon curd and white balsamic vinegar. Delicious!

Feeling thirsty from all of our sampling, we decided to step into Vesuvio, across the Jack Kerouac Alley from City Lights Books. 

When I first was moving to the city from Portland, Oregon, I had a lunch date. Having scoured the neighborhood for restaurants, we finally settled on this little French bistro across the street. The facade of Vesuvio immediately caught my eye as having a rather eclectic exterior. I noticed that there were words scribbled above the door: "We are itching to get away from Portland Oregon."  I took that as a great sign.

(A note about that quote: according to old postcards from Henry Lenoir, there had been a major flea infestation in Portland near the end of the 19th century. Get it? Itching... )

Original Painting by Shawn O'Shaughnessy, overlooking Jack Kerouac Alley.

A little about the history of Vesuvio: An old haunt of the beats, Henry Lenoir (the owner) decided to market on the craze. He sold beatnik kits, which included berets, sandals, black turtlenecks, black-rimmed glasses and fake beards. Sadly, they are no longer available. But I'm pretty sure you can find a fake mustache anywhere.

It's an exquisite building and a required stopping point for anyone in the neighborhood. When that door closes behind you, time seems to stop. 

Built on the ground floor of the Cavalli Building in 1913, it conveys the beautiful Italian Renaissance Revival style, and is covered with murals by Shawn O'Shaughnessy. 

Vesuvio, interior.

(A note about Shawn O'Shaughnessy: you can see another major work of his along the shore of Ocean Beach. There is a long cement curving wall that separates the sand from the pedestrian path. He created this back in 1929 and he built it so deep beneath the sand, that to replace it now would cost roughly $5000 per linear foot. Today, it's covered in lovely graffiti, a beautiful personal counterpart to the never-ending, impersonal ocean.)

Though the bar tends to cater to the history-buffs, with it's cement 86-ed list (where the names of all those black-listed is carved) to the impressive list of vagabonds, hooligans and famous beatnik patrons, Isabelle and I felt quite at home, ordering a few pints and grabbing a table upstairs. 

Replenished, we decided it was time to begin the quest for the whiskey.  A few weeks back, when the four of us had gone to Li Po Lounge for their famous Mai Tais, Spencer became fixated on finding a small bottle of the Chinese Whiskey. Thinking this was going to be a very easy Christmas present, we started looking for liquor stores. Whatever your suspicions may be, there are absolutely little-to-no liquor stores in all of Chinatown! We zigged, we zagged, we walked backwards, we went into stores that had stores inside them. Finally, after a good hour or so, we did find a little smoke shop. Behind the counter were those tiny airplane size bottles of booze. I pointed to the only one not in English. "$32 for you." $32 for 2 ounces of alcohol??? You've got to be kidding me! 

Resuming the search, we wandered down Waverly Place, through alleys, back out to North Beach, and then to downtown. Finally, we found a bar. I asked the bartender and she pointed us ten blocks away, in the same direction we had come. Ironically enough, four doors down from Vesuvio was a liquor store, and sure enough, they had an entire wall of Chinese Whiskey. 

Exhausted, we decided we needed another pick-me-up. This time, it was a glass of Prosecco and a Panini at Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope Cafe. 

The Sentinel/Zoetrope Building

Purchased in the 1970s by Coppala, the building undertook massive renovation and now houses the American Zoetrope movie studio, famous for it's production of Apocalypse Now, Bram Stoker's Dracula, George Lucas' American Graffiti, and films by Jean Luc Godard, Akira Kurosawa, and Godfrey Reggio.

Wasting Booze.

Rumor has it that Francis himself wrote the Godfather inside the Zoetrope building. Another legend has it that the caesar salad was created here, when one of the earlier restaurants was owned by the Caesar family, a profitable restaurant shut down by Prohibition. 

Loving Booze.

I could take a moment to regale you with the infamous stories of various tenants here, but why bother when all the text books have already done it? I will say that personally, I find something so breathtaking in the aged bronze, that cool and austere green, the giant revolving door that could easily usher in three people at a time, not to mention the sheer charm of sampling good snacks and great wine in a triangular cafe. I have been here many times, and never for more than a quick snack, and every time, it's been worth it. 

The building itself, a Beaux-Arts flatiron, was begun before the 1906 earthquake, and it straddles North Beach, the Financial District and Chinatown. It is San Francisco's designated landmark number 33.

The Sentinel surviving the 1906 Earthquake.

(more on this artistic movement, later)

North Beach is one of my favorite neighborhoods in San Francisco. Though it can be a bit overwhelming navigating through the never-ending crowds of tourists, it's absolutely worth it, especially on a Monday afternoon. And in the spirit of the Italian immigrants who helped make it what it is today, and a nod to the Beats who helped keep the Bohemian spirit alive, I raise my glass: a happy holiday Cheer to you. May each day be a great adventure with great company.

Your Adventurers.

And so it begins: The Holidays

It's that Holiday Time

Christmas carols have never made any sense to me. They sing about snow, Jesus and people being jolly. In my experience, the holidays have been stressful, dark and depressing (I lived in Oregon for a long time- the rain really does get to you). But, there's something unique in San Francisco. I was actually "complaining" to a friend of mine the other day about how in the summertime, I got excited for fall, because I assumed it would be colder and the parties would slow. Boy was I wrong! The fall is our real summer, and everyone comes out to celebrate. Then, late fall, I was getting excited awaiting winter, also thinking that the cold would force people to stay in. Nope, it's the holiday season. 

I've given up hope. There will never be an end to fun in San Francisco. 

This year, I've decided to make the holidays my own. If I were to write a Christmas carol, it would be about sparkling palm trees, gin fizz parties, and dating. Not such a bad tune, I'd think.

One of the first things we did to celebrate this holiday season was to go downtown for an ice skating adventure.

First stop: Chinatown.

Chinatown

For this Monday, my friend Spencer decided to tag along. A bartender, gifted photographer and avid collector, Spencer always has some interesting information to impart. If you ask him, he could draw you a very detailed map of the 1906 fire lines through the Mission District. Currently, he's turned me onto to this new app, Ghost Detector Pro, that 'photographs' ghosts. Skeptical as I am, I confess to loving it.

those are ghosts

Spencer, ghost app and I headed to Li Po Lounge in Chinatown to meet Krysten and Isabelle, for Chinese Mai Tais: Dark Rum, Light Rum, 151 Rum, Chinese Whiskey, and Pineapple Juice. TROUBLE.

* History note: Ah Toy, a Chinese immigrant, created Chinatown's first bordello, on what is now known as Waverly Place. A tall and beautiful woman, she caught the eye of many men, giving her the idea of opening her own peep show. That evolved into a bordello, and soon she was "importing" young Chinese girls for employment. In and out of court throughout her career, she finally retired, opting to sell clams instead. 

Li Po Lounge

Properly satiated and with a burning desire for adventure, we headed to our second stop: the Westin Saint Francis, to ride their glass elevators. I remember riding them with my grandparents when I was a child, but sadly, you can no longer access them without a room key. 

Refusing defeat, we waited for distraction, and thankfully, we didn't have to wait long. Some man swiped his card, and we stepped in behind him. Though we only made it to the nineteenth floor, it was still worth it.

As any building over a hundred years old would, the Saint Francis has some interesting history. It was built in 1904 and survived the 1906 earthquake. Immediately, it was considered one of the city's most prestigious addresses. Unsurprising, it's accommodated many famous people including Helen Keller, Woodrow Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt, Cecil B. DeMille, Charlie Chaplin, Isadora Duncan, and Sinclair Lewis, to name a few. 

One of my favorite stories involved a very famous chef and the 1916 Presidential election. Victor Hirtzler, chef of the royal courts in Europe, (having lost his job when the government of Portugal went bankrupt due to the richness of his food) was coaxed into working at the Saint Francis. During the presidential campaign, Charles Evans Hughes, the Republican candidate, was staying at the hotel. There was an important strike, in which the waiters (members of the culinary union) walked out twenty minutes before a large banquet. Hitzler, undeterred, insisted on serving the banquet himself. The Union, having found out that Hughes had crossed the line and eaten the food anyway, denounced him as anti-union, costing him the election.

Another story, involved the silent film actor Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle. Hosting a three day party on the twelfth floor, a young actress was taken ill and died four days later. Arbuckle was then arrested and tried for manslaughter. This was one of the most publicized trials in California history, and one of Hollywood's first scandals. Acquitted, Arbuckle's career was ruined. Will H. Hays pulled his films, and began his systematic censorship of American motion pictures, a type of regulation that existed in Hollywood until the 1970s.

We don't like him.

Leaving the hotel, we crossed to Union Square to go ice skating. Union Square in December is lovely, with everything bright and gaudy. Though the palm trees have Christmas lights, and at most, people were wearing heavy sweaters, outdoor ice skating is about as close to the rest of the country as we could get for holiday traditions. 

As for Union Square, have you ever wanted to know who the bronze beauty is, soaring high above? That's Victory, and she was modeled after the "Great Grandmother of San Francisco" Alma le Normand de Bretteville. A total babe, she started turning heads in art school. Choosing to model in order to pay for painting classes, she soon became quite famous among the art circles. Sculptor Robert Aitken asked her to model for this sculpture, a monument noting the recent assassination of William McKinley and to honor the naval hero Admiral Dewey. She holds the laurel wreath of peace and points her triumphant trident to heaven. It was unveiled in 1902.

Having married a man of means, she went on to become a very prestigious art collector. Needing a place to showcase her collection, she built the California Palace of the Legion of Honor.

We like her.

Though the season is in full swing, we are just getting started on our holiday making. More adventures to come!

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Welcome!

If you're here, I'm guessing you are looking for something to do in our wonderful city.  And I'm so glad you came to me!

Why me? Here's a little backstory.

Having been in the food service industry for over ten years, I don't remember what weekends look like. For me, it's a huge wait list and an endless procession of tables, dishes, stress, and snide comments. For the rest of you, it's bottomless mimosas, block parties and flea markets. 

My weekends consist of Monday and Tuesday. Sunday nights find the streets bare, with everyone home, nursing their early evening hangover.  And though I often bitch about drinking on the weekends, with the amateurs, there is a lot to be said about going to a bar where there are actually people there, rather than the sad-sack crew I see on Monday afternoons (no offense guys. You know I love you!). Restaurants and museums are usually closed, I can guarantee, it will be damned near impossible to find bottomless mimosas, and I haven't been to a flea market in at least fifteen years.

The sting: seven am, Sunday morning. Exhausted, grouchy, slow to get out of bed, dreading work, I check my facebook to see the endless photos and posts from your glorious Saturdays; the street fairs and festivals planned for Sunday. 

But this is unsustainable! Like all negative sensations, all a girl should really have to do is just wash that shit right out of her hair! Broken hearts get mended with new dresses and haircuts, right? So, my pathetic life can be made glorious by a simple acceptance of my fate! Though my streets are bare on my days off, I never have to stand in line. I get the cherished table in the most coveted restaurant, usually with no wait. In Oregon, they offer Service Industry deals every Sunday and Monday, meaning you can drink for at least half off. But here, in our fair city, the best comeuppance is the absolute jealousy I seem to inspire in all my regular-weekender friends. Their weekends are allowed to be tortuously decadent, but seeing a post by me, bragging about listening to mix tapes with my sissy on our way to Sonoma for wine tasting, is enough to set them on edge. 

Guess what? This is just the beginning.

Welcome to Manic Monday.

Typically, I'm hung over, surly, and ready to get my day drink on. I start early, usually with brunch or a quick snack, and then, either alone, with my pug, or friends nearby, I hit the streets. And typically we do everything, from uber-touristy bullshit to dive bar drinking, normal neighborhood things to do, or getting out of the city. But no matter what, it's always new (at least to us), it's always a blast, and it's always documented on Instagram (#whitneyloulou).

Who We Are

Whitney: This is me. I'm uncomfortably in my thirties and who, according to my psychic, is outrageously anxious and in desperate need of believing I'm worth good things. Conversely, my ego can be taken down a notch, and I need to come to terms with the fact that I scare the shit out of anyone/ everyone I meet. I will not tell you my astrological sign, as it might make your brain implode.  And yet, an omission: a friend once asked me to describe my style in two words: slept in.

I wait tables. I paint. I walk my dog to the bar. I sometimes play piano. I'm broke and am always in heels and dresses, and I'm really good of talking you out of precious things. But what I'm really good at is food and wine and art, and the seedy back story of my city. I can take you underground, with the secret handshake. I will you tell you all the stories our families so desperately try over up, AND, I'll show you pictures.

Daisy: age 3.4, pug. Likes short butt-runs on the beach, big beasty dogs that want to eat her, licking nostrils at dawn, and being the big spoon. She's scared of the wind in Bart tunnels, is incredibly good with strangers, and always manages to get something free from the bartender. 

Krysten: age 23, server/ environmental scientist (left). Likes feeding people delicious and healthy alternatives, dropping her vegetable debris in water to see if it will continue to grow, and giving more sound advice than some of my 80 year old friends.

Isabelle: age 23, antique slinger/ marine biologist (right). Lover of rats and ferrets and all things that make me go, EW. Likes providing salami for my reforming vegetarian tendencies, and is a very willing participant. I'm waiting to find her dark secrets and make her shriek with glee. I find her fascinating. We are clearly newer friends.

Our typical adventures: San fucking Francisco on Monday morning. We do, we drink, we document. And you should totally come with.