Keith McCullar and I would not immediately be described as gregarious, and in this benighted burg we spend quite a bit of time in our recliners watching our, I don’t know, 20,000 channels of TV. Yes, we do moderate a bit of that with nearly daily trips to the gym, trying to ameliorate the form our midsections have become to match the form of the recliner seats. But still, not much social contact beyond those limited to our business, and as Keith has it lately ‘I feel like a shut-in’.
Not too surprising, then, that Keith sought to take the matter in hand, deciding at long last to take advantage of the invitations posted by a local bon vivant to attend a Friday mixer for the local, shall we say, cognoscenti. We did go and found that as there were only a handful of folk attending, no drinks and conviviality were on offer, but only dinner. That we didn’t want- and didn’t need- and quickly therefore absented ourselves, followed, it must be said, by the bon vivant who had extended the invite, promising that in future a venue would be found more conducive to mixing. I hope so.
However, as Keith and I had made something of an effort and in anticipation of some refreshment, we decided to carry on to another watering hole. I have to say at this point that we do both of us enjoy a drink. For my gentle readers’ benefit, you needn’t smirk and nudge one another, as ‘enjoy a drink’ is not meant as euphemistic understatement. In fact, it is as just as written, that we like to go out once or twice a month, and have a drink each, and possibly some kind of bar snack shared between us, and then go home.
Sounds dull, I know, but it is a habit born in late years when we’d man our gallery in Jackson Square on Saturdays just the two of us, when we’d often be met by clients or colleagues at closing time, and it would be, appropriately, time for refreshments. For clients, this usually meant sampling the supply we did then and do now have on hand to slake the thirst and loosen the tongue. But for dealer colleagues, it was a different matter. Our premises were too much like their own premises, and we mutually would decide to enjoy each other’s company in a venue that looked less like the place of our labours. A couple of weeks ago I posted a photo on my Facebook page of Rick Scott, a friend of long standing and a San Francisco dealer of some renown, and it was Rick with whom, late on Saturday afternoon, we would frequently venture forth.
We were, frankly, spoiled for choice. As our gallery was on Jackson Street between Sansome and Montgomery, we could walk to Tosca or the Comstock Saloon along Columbus Avenue, or take advantage of the hotel bars in a number of nearby hostelries- the Palace, the St Francis, the Four Seasons, or what became our favorite, and remains the SF home away from home for Keith and me, Le Meridien at Clay and Battery. Initially drawn by their happy hour special of $8 Manhattans, we’d stay for their fine selection of bar snacks and happily found that, for years, the bar and kitchen staff were unchanged and cheerfully acknowledged our patronage whenever we were there. If all this sounds cloyingly like something out of ‘Cheers’ or even ‘Duffy’s Tavern’, you’d be correct. A drink out is really a drink out if it is accompanied by an hospitable venue.
This is all written, gentle readers, by means of prefacing our subsequent experience this last Friday, quickly leaving before we even got started what we had looked forward to as a casual, convivial early evening opportunity for a drink. Getting into the car, we decided to move on to a venue only a block from our offices. We don’t go there all the time, but at least locally, it is our favourite and most frequently patronized. Dimly lit and clubby- in a quilted red leather sort of way- and with a good selection of bar food, it is owned and run by a young man, the scion of a local grandee, who always recognized us and was in every way a good host. Lately, though, he’s been very much absent, taken up with the establishment of a small chain of- wait for it- poke restaurants. So, disappointing to say, when we went to our preferred venue, we were met by someone at the host’s station who didn’t know us- which is forgivable- but didn’t care to either. We know when we’re not welcome, so we left.
And where then what became for us a small quest take us? We went home, our thirst unslaked and our bottoms then planted in our pair of recliners in front of the TV. This is greatly condensed, this part, as Keith and I did in fact discuss other options, limited though they were, but none were appealing. We were faced with the naked fact of the dearth of local hospitality, with very few watering holes locally of the cocktail lounge variety, and virtually nothing of the hotel bars we’ve enjoyed elsewhere. Now I will readily admit that where we’ve lived in late years, and to those places we’ve had the opportunity to travel, we’ve been, as written above, spoiled for choice. Even so, our local burg has a population approaching a million, and why is it, I ask, that it cannot support a single four star, to say nothing of a five-star, hotel? This remains an open question.
This blog entry will seem familiar to one of my Facebook friends, the young man who cuts my hair and did so late yesterday afternoon, to whom I related this tale of droughty woe, but as befits his trade he has his ear to the ground and eye to the keyhole and was able to tell me that some relief was at hand. My gentle readers will doubtless remember my frequent encomia to Fresno’s premier bar and restaurant of blessed memory, The Daily Planet. It was taken over by a team of young caterers and run as an events venue as The Painted Table. There have been rumours for quite some time that the venue would open to the public, and apparently this has been confirmed in the local press, but more reliably by our gentleman’s hairdresser David Stone at LaVogue.
I have to say, we have used The Painted Table on several occasions and found their catering service to be top notch- reasonably inventive cuisine professionally presented- and do look forward to their opening The Painted Table to the public, of whom Keith McCullar and I plan to be numbered. Mind you, The Painted Table chaps will have to clear a high bar given the longtime success of the Daily Planet, made even more successful in my mind’s eye with the passing of years. For the moment, though, we remain thirsty, but the prospective opening will be looked forward to in the same manner as the view of an oasis to a desert traveler.