I Found Community Behind the Counter at Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store

There are certain life changes that you come to expect as you get older. Though somehow, I felt entirely unprepared to experience the sudden breakdown of community that I felt as an emerging adult. Perhaps we don’t even begin to think about community until we feel its absence. After all, you can’t see the water when you’re swimming in it. 

I didn’t seriously consider my relationship to it until I realized that I had fully relied on being in school to maintain regular social interactions, and had lost that easy access to connection upon graduation. I didn’t even truly understand what community looked like as an adult until I found it again in the unlikely home of Mario’s Bohemian Cafe & Cigar Store, the fifty-five-year-old family-owned restaurant that stands as a relic on the corner of Columbus and Union.

A few months after moving back to San Francisco as an eager post grad, I began my first nine-to-five desk job. This highly anticipated and hard fought entrance into my career was met with a surprising form of loneliness. Despite finally returning home to my childhood friends, we were all confused on why we couldn’t keep up plans, why texting felt like pulling teeth, and why our promises to start a book club kept falling through. There was no blueprint in managing the daunting and unexciting reality of life outside of full time office work, not to mention that most of us lived with our parents, who didn’t want to drink and get high with us nearly as much as we had grown accustomed to in our beloved college homes.

In a city where you must regularly face slogans such as “stop hiring humans,” connection can feel counterculture. Furthermore, only half of people ages 18-34 report spending time with in-person communities, citing a lack of affordable and welcoming environments to connect with others IRL. With this absence of in-person communal spaces, it almost feels inevitable to be alone, despite our biology protesting otherwise. 

Eventually, I was worn down by the overwhelming nature of working myself to the bone in a career that didn’t suit me, and I chose to return to service work. 

Upon entering Mario’s, I was struck by the concept of finding companionship in old San Francisco restaurants. Many regulars have been returning to this small institution in the Italian district for years, eating the same sandwiches, sharing the same stories, watching the same black and white movies on our tired television, and confirming with just a nod that they would be getting the “usual.” 

I observed the dedication of my regulars to continue coming back to a place where they would sit, solitarily, and seek out engagement with their neighbors. These customers were often older, which I found to be an even more interesting piece to the puzzle. In an age that is often identified as isolating, these folks were going out of their way to sit their ass on an uncomfortable stool in exchange for the possibility of pleasant chat. It was inspiring.

My relationship to connection and community changed immediately. Of course, it’s not uncommon to treat servers and bartenders as cheaper replacements for therapists, so my experience shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Regardless, I was shocked at my new role as both a facilitator and witness to the community that I had been seeking. 

For my part, I embraced my position as a gateway to connection by talking the ear off of whoever was stuck waiting for their focaccia sandwich to come out of our tiny oven (spoiler alert, it ain’t any time soon). I made a distinct effort, even when I was tired and sick of asking people “if they had any fun plans over the weekend,” to show that I cared. I now had a responsibility to attend Roger’s art gallery opening, to get a poetry lesson from Solomon at City Lights Bookstore, to share my streaming password with Whitney so that we could chat about that show she was excited to watch. You can’t just experience community from the sidelines, you must accept a responsibility to show up for people.

The thing is, people don’t come to Mario’s just to eat and drink — you can chug a beer on your couch or get takeout and eat happily in front of your TV. People come to places like Mario’s for the social experience, the low pressure environment of conversation without expectations or the need for coordination.  

When you become a regular, you don’t need to make plans. All you have to do is show up and be brave enough to comment on your neighbor’s cool jacket at the bar, or check in on that patron who was anxiously working on a school paper the last time you asked them to borrow a chair, or tell the guy sitting alone that you enjoyed his sandwich recommendation and would be ordering it again. 

Stop asking Chat GPT for the best place to meet people in San Francisco — these community spaces exist for us if you are looking for them. There is no barrier to entry, only a will to continue showing up and a desire to be social. Go out there and start chatting your ass off. We all need it.