The reasons for a continued celebration of cultural clash are rooted in our history. The magnificent hotel rising up from the bones of a Clipper ship. A Canvas miners tent pitched next to a Monterey Colonial. The post '06 Nabob converts his town mansion into a store and apartment building and opens for business next to a credible copy of a English country Gothic Cathedral. The row of cleverly painted carpenter gothic townhouses interrupted by the stray Spanish neo-colonial facade The work not a result of early facadeism but a disgrace foisted upon one of the painted ladies in the distant past by an owner attempting to stay fashionable in the ever hopful game of collecting fashionable rents. The visual effect on the streetscape is much like encountering a group of elegant ladies, all of a certain age, whose wiles are more discrete than fresh and noticing that one or two of the ladies has had "some glamorous work" done. It can cause a less experienced gentleman a moment of pause. The charm of the rest of the group is perhaps appreciated for being more genuine and less taxing of a fellows smile.
A very sweet example of this sort of San Francisco style is found at a rather plain-jane store named Swensons Ice Cream. Located on Cable Car line at the corner of Union and Hyde. The corners there being uneventful ones on otherwise fashionable Russian Hill. Russian Hill is elegant San Francisco writ small on a half dozen densely built up blocks. Each house jealous of views of the bay and rare sunlight. The result is a lot of sophisticated, well heeled people living in rather small houses, too close together but then that could describe much of residential San Francisco in the teens.
The rich that seek domestic bliss upon its slopes were once bohemian rather than the Nabob rich of Nob Hill. That difference ended decades ago and Russian Hill is now home to "establishment" sorts. Swensons is a holdout from decades past. The long gone time when flats and tiny cottages were home to working artists and fishermen's families, living cheek to jowl with wealthier raffish residents. The very mix of people created a lovely village within the glorious city.
Very chic pocket sized restaurants replaced corner markets decades ago and their wine lists are as complete as any Napa winery, the produce as fresh and select as the finest farmer's market. The prices ignoring the financial crisis. The sidewalks are crowded with table and chairs set outdoor in an attempt to cultivate a Roman dining experience but one requiring that all spare space be filled by outdoor heaters. The romance of al fresco dining being somewhat challenged by our climate. The sight of chic pretty women sitting out of doors at tiny tables, inclining their heads towards their lovers, shivering in the cold is simply a sight not seen elsewhere in California during summer. The overall effect can be mere urbane pretense and yet the passing cable car and bellowing fog horn ground it all in a subtle San Francisco urban reality which is at once chic and timeless. All at once it is authentic, unique, lovely and not found elsewhere in the world. It is the perfect setting for Swenson.
The rich that seek domestic bliss upon its slopes were once bohemian rather than the Nabob rich of Nob Hill. That difference ended decades ago and Russian Hill is now home to "establishment" sorts. Swensons is a holdout from decades past. The long gone time when flats and tiny cottages were home to working artists and fishermen's families, living cheek to jowl with wealthier raffish residents. The very mix of people created a lovely village within the glorious city.
Very chic pocket sized restaurants replaced corner markets decades ago and their wine lists are as complete as any Napa winery, the produce as fresh and select as the finest farmer's market. The prices ignoring the financial crisis. The sidewalks are crowded with table and chairs set outdoor in an attempt to cultivate a Roman dining experience but one requiring that all spare space be filled by outdoor heaters. The romance of al fresco dining being somewhat challenged by our climate. The sight of chic pretty women sitting out of doors at tiny tables, inclining their heads towards their lovers, shivering in the cold is simply a sight not seen elsewhere in California during summer. The overall effect can be mere urbane pretense and yet the passing cable car and bellowing fog horn ground it all in a subtle San Francisco urban reality which is at once chic and timeless. All at once it is authentic, unique, lovely and not found elsewhere in the world. It is the perfect setting for Swenson.
Swenson is, in addition to being the only ice cream store left in the city's north end not given over to tourists, superb! The shop's 20th century ordinariness is its charm. The storefront window on Hyde Street features an ice cream making machine which is lovingly maintained and is used in the preparation of the solid if not expansive choice of flavors. Its well cared for metal has a mellowed glow. Can there be anything more joyful in the mechanical world than a lovingly cared for Ice Cream machine? Waiting patiently (mid-day, mid-week is the best time for quick service, a rare hot Friday night being the worst) you can, when the interior door is open, see shelves lined with large dark brown glass bottles full of flavoring syrups. Bold script written on labels of tan paper announce flavors. While I wait for service I indulge in a fantasy of donning a white lab coat and mentally play for a moment the mad scientist concocting ever more scintillating tastes of delight. I for one would die happily of Swiss Chocolate Orange Chip overdose. It would a worthy end if my demise yielded a low calorie, low fat version of the superb caloric laden delights without sacrificing portion size. I think there would be no finer reason to be celebrated. That is not to be. Swensons is a well run place whose employees have no time to spare to indulge the whimsey of a 21st century foodie on a stroll.
I only allow myself the treat if I stroll before, during and after my eating the decadent scoop. Luckily, the views in the neighborhood are their own reward and I happily set out, melting indulgence in hand.
The location is equal part San Francisco plutocrat, plebeian, historic and modern. The class of toil resident on the hill is chiefly represented by young urban professional's who rent Romeo flats. The monthly rates paid to absentee landlords would have been extravagant annual salaries when Jack London was sailing on the crested bay below. Strolling with quickly melting cone in hand I slowly pass dollhouse size house after doll house sized house. Many painted colors chic 15 years ago when a golden age had been declared and now sun faded in the mist. The views are still superb butonce bright futures are shadowed for the moment in gloom. Gloom being the chief color offered up in post Great Recession San Francisco. The painting of houses in the colorists latest choices is no longer deemed prudent in the post speculative property market.
Rising in stark counterpoint on a block otherwise dominated by a 19th century plutocrat's octagon sided mansion is a Brute design highrise. It is an arrogant and ugly thing. Its salesmens pitch fullfilled in unrelentingly horrid design. Floor after ever higher floor housing units promised built to offer the resident superior views over the lower floors. The crescendo of poured concrete is unremitting until the Penthouse floor is reached. There two story floor to ceiling windows cap the bleak Stassi headquarter design. This Penthouse is where a Getty and his childhood friend, now a middle aged politician, held youthful orgies fueled by an excess of hedonism, drugs, booze and stupidity. This part of Russian Hill, once intended to have the look of a Tuscan hill town ruled by a benign oligarchy more Dante than Medici is more Benito than Fellini around this brutally placed mid century monstrosity. It does inform even the mildly attentive stroller about the arrogance of last quarter 20th century modern building design arrogance.
The casita sized villa's of Russian Hill Lane are made more glorious by the shadow of the simply wrong and massive. The rightness and charm of small house and garden much like a strong American arm, fist and finger answer to the International style nightmare down the block. The juxtaposition is made tolerable.perhaps even chic by the view of the Ferry's on the bay below. A blast of a foghorn, the sound of the clang of a Cable Cars bell rung by the gripman to announce the cars jolting start, feeling the warmth of late afternoon sun and the mellowing effect of a scoop of Swiss Chocolate Orange Chip Ice Cream softens the harshest of sights and Russian Hill plays its part in the fiction of 21st century San Francisco.
The spell cast is not unlike that cast by the fictional Pied Piper of Hamlin.. Where have all Hamlin's children gone? On a mildly misty late summer afternoon, fog horns blasting, a cone melting in hand, as a black Audi sedan driven by a handsome man drives past I think I might know. Listen very carefully and in the stillness of the fog you can hear a flutes note wafting here and than there. Careful now the lotus is having its effect!
The spell cast is not unlike that cast by the fictional Pied Piper of Hamlin.. Where have all Hamlin's children gone? On a mildly misty late summer afternoon, fog horns blasting, a cone melting in hand, as a black Audi sedan driven by a handsome man drives past I think I might know. Listen very carefully and in the stillness of the fog you can hear a flutes note wafting here and than there. Careful now the lotus is having its effect!
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