San Francisco belongs to no one and everyone. There have been thousands of would-be claimants but she eventually wriggles out of every one of their grasps.

Western Addition (SF) – Two Bartenders pit two beloved bars against one another using a set of aesthetic and practical criteria

As 2024 winds down, we’re reflecting on another incredible year of sharing the stories, art, culture, and nightlife that make the Bay Area so unique. BrokeAssStuart.com wouldn’t be what it is without you—our community of readers, supporters, and believers in independent media. This year, instead of asking you to join Patreon

Highway 101 blows a continual load of cars onto a zone of central San Francisco difficult to define. Not the Mission, not QUITE the Castro, nor Hayes Valley (although realtors would disagree with that), and not precisely the newly-minted “Mid-Market” either, it’s an odd knot of sinew connecting a variety

Off Menu Screed: Two distinct camps: those who champion the Mission Burrito and them who wave the flag for the San Diego version

Restaurants are in a perpetual state of flux. A dishwasher at Gracias Madre is caught smuggling quinoa back to the Bolivian farmers who originally produced it and is shown his walking papers; a pastry chef and assistant manager at Gary Danko, nude except for a couple of heavy parkas, are interrupted in the walk-in freezer mid-coitus, white powder rimming their quivering nostrils.

The Richmond. Utter that small collection of phonemes three times in a row a la Beetlejuice and you might suddenly find yourself clad in a thick, grey knit sweater, gazing thoughtfully over the thick foaming head of a pint of stout from a plush barstool at flocks of angry asian women fighting over dragon fruit and flip-flops on the sidewalk outside

The quest for the finest offal in the city. A Multi-Colored Brick Road (ahem) strewn with Brains and Heart for the Courageous.

For those interested in the consumption of fine entrails, we present to you here within The Organ Trail, a weekly collection of macabre signposts pointing towards zones of high offal-saturation scattered throughout our little slice of peninsular heaven.