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
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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.