Breakfast, of course, started out with donuts. Before we left Tucson, Aimee and I joked about making this a donut tour of the Pacific Northwest. But like any good joke, it was rooted in a bit of truth, and that truth was taking shape quite nicely.
We grabbed a dozen, and took them over to Fernando's parents' house. Aimee taught her goddaughter appropriate donut eating form.
But her brother was a longtime pro.
In case I haven't made the point already, these kids are world-class cute.
And in case the dozen donuts weren't enough, Fernando's mom insisted we have some huevos rancheros. After all, there's no point starving ourselves. Of course, she didn't call them huevos rancheros. For actual, real-life rancheros, it's just called breakfast. Not surprisingly, it was the best we'd ever had.
Ready to burst, we got back into the (now childless) minivan and headed west. A couple of hours later, we pulled up to the entrance of the DeYoung museum in Golden Gate Park. Our plan was to pretend to like modern art just long enough to drop our bags off in their cloakroom. We were going to be spending the next couple of days with a longtime friend (who many of you will recognize), but he was in San Jose for work until that evening, and we didn't want to lug our gear all day.
The DeYoung's lobby was fantastic, but since the cloakroom was before the ticket counter, that's really all we saw. I'm sure it's a very lovely museum.
We walked through the museums and forests of Golden Gate Park, and made our way over to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. The area is named for the intersection of (you guessed it) Haight and Ashbury streets, which was ground zero for the 1960s music and cultural revolution that the city is known for. These days, it's pretty much just filled with trustafarians trying to out-hobo each other. Every now and then, you can catch a whiff of presumably historic vomit and BO. Nonetheless, it's a very cool area, and as a fan of Joplin, Hendrix, Garcia, and the rest, it was a treat to walk through where it all began.
A couple hours later, we meandered our way back to Golden Gate Park to meet Tim. He was just getting back from San Jose, and we all were looking forward to some dinner.
Tim drove us around for a bit, and gave us a quick tour of his neighborhood. Or as Tim likes to call it, "finding a parking spot." He lives in the Mission District, a very cool part of town that is a blend of working professionals, ethnic pockets, and well-dressed, seemingly unemployed 20-somethings that fill the coffee shops and city parks 24 hours a day. Tim calls them the consultant class, and most are probably web developers and graphic designers that make more in two hours than we do all week.
As we were pulling in, Tim gave us a quick rundown of life in San Francisco, summarized by: "If you can get a room in an apartment for less than $1300, you're getting a steal," and "I have curbside compost pickup." He clearly loves living here, and it wasn't hard for us to see why. The rent could be an issue, though.
Tim took us to the Maverick restaurant for dinner. He had heard great things about it, but it was the first time for all of us. And as urban as we like to think Tucson is, Tim reminded us what real city living is like when he made the reservation with an app on his smartphone.
When we walked into the restaurant, we were all a little surprised with how fancy it was. But we were in the mood for some good food, and this was vacation, after all. We knew what kind of place we had gone to when the sommelier went on a five minute rant about how we never should have planted Syrah grapes in California, and there were so many better fits for the region. Duh.
But all three bites of our meals were outstanding, and we even forgave the waiter for wasting a tablespoon of our wine (value: $12) on an unnecessary glass rinsing ritual. When the sommelier overheard that we owned a brewery, he brought over a bottle of top-shelf specialty beer that we all tasted with his compliments. We were gradually warming up to the finer life.
For dessert, Tim walked us over to one of San Francisco's growing number of boutique ice cream shops. We got $4 ice cream sandwiches that tasted like $6 ice cream sandwiches.
To round out our tour of Tim's stomping grounds, we went over to Monk's Kettle for a nightcap. The pub is a specialty beer mecca, and Tim knew a few of the staff. The bartender brought over a few samples and chatted with us for a bit, "since it was a slow night." Of course, a slow night in San Francisco meant that all of the tables were full, and there were half a dozen people waiting outside. But it's all relative, I guess.
Stuffed and tipsy, we walked back to Tim's apartment, and chatted with his roommates for a bit. It was great to see Tim's slice of San Francisco life, and it was even nicer to catch up with him.
