Ciao Bellina; A North Beach Saturday

"I'm proud to have been a Yankee. But I have found more happiness and contentment since I came back home to San Francisco than any man has a right to deserve. This is the friendliest city in the world."     Joe DiMaggio, Baseball great and resident of North Beach.

 "Does my American Dream retirement include a move to the City by the Bay?"   Me

It’s 7:30 in the morning of a bright clear Saturday in North Beach, San Francisco’s version of Little Italy.  The streets are mostly empty; there’s actually parking available which is as rare as a snowfall on San Francisco Bay.  Those who are out and about this morning are older, like me, the baby boom generation who’ve lost the knack and the urge to sleep in.  We’ve discovered that not only does the early bird catch the worm, he also finds parking and a nice window seat in the coffee house from which to watch the sun wake the city.   

Anyone coming to North Beach should leave the beach umbrella and the swim suit at home.  There hasn’t been a beach here since the late 19^th century when the area marked the northeast corner of San Francisco.  Before the turn of the century a landfill project pushed the waterfront out, away from the neighborhood and only the name serves to remind that this little district was at the bay’s edge.  The newly filled section became home to a busy fishing and shipping industry.  In the early 20^th century Italian immigrants in search of community established the little enclave as a west coast Little Italy; a character that still exists and is the magnet for tourists and locals who want to savor a little taste of Italy.

In the fifties, North Beach was ground zero for the beat generation and home to authors and poets who defined the beat movement; among them Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti who opened the City Lights Bookshop.  The Allen Ginsberg Project website describes the beats as, “a generation of youths seeking experience, kicks, enlightenment, self-definition, and meaning in a dull, spiritless society.”  To my parents the beatniks were lazy, shiftless, ne'er-do-wells; "bums" as my dad succinctly put it.

Being a neighborhood that didn’t seem content to rest on its laurels as a center for controversial new movements, North Beach became home, in the sixties, to the nation’s first topless club.  At the Condor, Carol Doda became famous for shaking her ample, heavily silicone injected breasts in front of gaping patrons.  The club, at the corner of Broadway and Columbus was conspicuous for its tall brightly lit sign; a caricature of Carol with enormous boobs tipped with bright red neon nipples that looked for all the world like Rudolph’s nose which could explain why Santa is such a jolly old soul.  The Condor spawned a series of clubs that lined Broadway and bent around the corner onto a block of Columbus.  The City Lights Bookshop and many of the strip clubs are still here, reminders of the area’s counterculture history.  

But I’m not here to shop for a book and, dammit, the strip clubs aren’t open this early.  My mission is to pick up a birthday present for my wife at a little shop that specializes in hand painted ceramics and to shop for some fresh Italian fare for dinner.  Arriving early allows me to park in a parking challenged neighborhood and to relax over caffe latte and take in the ambience.

Having caffe latte at Caffe Puccini which isn’t anything like Starbucks or Pete’s.  It has what they lack; charm, history and the flavor of a different era.  There are probably no more than 20 small tables here.  The woman who seems to be the proprietor speaks in an Italian accent, when she isn't actually speaking Italian, to the early crowd.  These must be the regulars who come for coffee and a quick bite before the tourists and out of towners show up.  Everyone seems to know each other here.   The woman managing the counter leaves for a bit and returns with bags stuffed with long crusty Italian loaves from a local bakery; bread for the midday sandwich crowd.  She greets a group of three old boys sitting at a table outside, speaking in accents as thick as red Italian gravy.  A sign on the window says no smoking within 20 feet of the door and they’re about 5 feet short of that.  No matter, they’re part of the experience.  To eighty-six these old boys would be the same as banning pasta and tiramisu from the neighborhood.  They converse with their hands, regulars who greet other regulars from this little quarter.  Every now and then their heads turn to follow the steps of a young woman.  In their younger years they might have called out, “Ciao bellina” (hello cutie) but today they’re satisfied to simply admire.  

The walls of this little caffe, painted in the Italian tricolors of red, green and white are dotted with crude little hand painted signs that would horrify the Starbucks suits at the giant’s mother ship in Seattle. The paint on the walls looks thick like coat after coat after coat were applied during the generations that the place has existed.  Caffe Puccini also lacks what Starbucks and Pete’s have. It lacks the canned music.  No Nat King Cole, Beatles, Diana Krall  or assorted world music.  The music here is the sound of old guys chatting, the kkkkaaawwwkkk of the milk steamer and the rumbling of the early morning delivery trucks and buses passing by on Columbus Ave.  There are no perky high school students behind the counter asking if you want soy milk or whipped cream on that frappa crappa drink.  It doesn’t have the cleansed, sterile, sanitary corporate boring sameness of every Starbucks around the world.  Driving through North Beach to get here I didn’t see a single Starbucks.  I hope I never do and I think I never will.  It wouldn’t fare well here.  The old locals here couldn’t relate to Kelli and Mellisa behind the counter and a barista named Randy.  They don’t even have baristas here.  They have guys who get your coffee for you.  No, Starbucks would be a wart on the face of the neighborhood. The caffe latte here tastes like real coffee, unmasked by plastic seasonal pumpkin or eggnog or over powered by caramel or some other glop. 

There’s no fast food here either; no McDonald’s, BK or fat vat run by a ball headed clown with a pointy nose.  The closest you might find to fast food is the Philly Cheesesteak joint at Columbus and Vallejo or Giordano Brother’s sandwich shop further down Columbus.  Giordano’s is a hangout for Pittsburgh expatriates where you get a tower of food that passes for a sandwich; a mountain of meat, coleslaw and fries straight out of the fryer all squeezed between hunks of Italian bread.  Don’t try to change the formula or the counter guys will send you on your way to have it your way somewhere else. 

Molinari's

Sandwiches from the shops in North Beach aren’t made to a uniform formula by a bored high school kid; yeah that would be perky Kelli and Melissa again.  You get your sandwich at Molinari’s deli from an adult who can tell you about the various cheeses and meats that stuff the counter.  At Molinari’s you don’t get corporate, day old bread.  You go to a bin, pick out your roll of choice and bring it to the counter where a fellow will handcraft your sandwich and banter with the crowd at the same time.  Molinari’s is a 19^th century icon.  It smells like a deli and looks like a deli; cold case loaded with cold cuts, salamis, sausages, roasted peppers, salads and cheeses, shelves stocked with tomato sauces, olive oils, pickled vegetables, wines and a variety of products from the old country.

I parked the car next to Washington Square Park in the shadow of St Peter and Paul’s Church, where some old folks meander along the paths.  A homeless guy is sleeping on the lawn warmed, as much as you could be warmed on a crisp autumn morn, by a little patch of sunlight.  An ancient Chinese couple doing their morning calesthenics windmill their arms to get the blood circulating in the chill of the morning.  Here and there on the green small groups of Chinese do Tai Chi.  Chinatown and North Beach border each other; the growing Asian community seaps into the smaller Italian enclave so that signs with Chinese characters sit between Birra Moretti and Peroni Nastro Azzuro signs.  For a while, the two communities carried on a coexistence that was at best uneasy but was mostly characterized by resentment on the part of the Italians who perceived the Asianization of the shrinking enclave.  This was in the late seventies and I was living in the city at the time.  To some extent, I shared the resentment but I didn’t take that discussion up with my girlfriend and confidant Linda.  While Ms. Wong was American born and spoke only a few phrases of Chinese, mostly off color, she could be fiercely Asian and the cultural makeup of North Beach wasn’t a battle I was willing to wage at the risk of a cold and lonely bed.

It was Linda who introduced me to the family style restaurants here; The Gold Spike and Dante Benedetti’s New Pisa.  The dinners were traditionally Italian.  You started with a big bowl of salad dressed simply with oil and vinegar and placed in the middle of the table.  After salad came a tureen of minestrone soup again placed in the middle of the table.  Following the soup there was a small plate of the pasta of the day.  Finally the main course arrived, maybe chicken or some seasoned roast beef with a side of mashed potatoes.  At the end of it all you got a little cup of spumoni ice cream and then you hoisted your bulk out to one of the local bars.  The Gold Spike was as simple you could get.  Plenty of wholesome, home style food served on oilcloth covered tables surrounded by walls that were mostly decorated with the business cards of patrons.  The New Pisa and The Gold Spike are gone now but North Beach doesn’t lack for food emporiums.  From sandwich shops to trattorias to the more upscale Fior d’ Italia and North Beach Restaurant there’s always good Italian food to be had.

After coffee I go to Biordi’s for the ceramics, leaving the purchase to be wrapped while I run my other errands and stroll the neighborhood.  Past A. Cavalli a little Italian bookshop/café that’s been around since 1881, up Stockton Street to Little City Market at the intersection of Vallejo.  At Little City you get quality meats and actual veal scallopinne, not the crappy little shreds of veal that Lucky and the local suburban supers try to pass off.  At Molinari's I pick up sweet Sicilian sausage and balls of creamy fresh mozzarella.  The woman at Biordi has told me that there’s a little bakery on Grant Ave that makes only bread.  Grant is a narrow one way street that cuts through Chinatown crosses Columbus Ave and suddenly becomes North Beach.  It’s like walking through China and crossing the street into Italy.  Grant is a mix of little boutiques, specialty shops and hole in the wall bars.  These little dives are likely hangouts for the old signores I saw at the coffee houses this morning.  I’m a little disappointed that I never frequented these little haunts during my early San Francisco days.

The bakery is a nondescript little corner shop that you wouldn’t recognize as a bakery were it not for the bread in the window.  I walk in and am greeted by a woman behind the counter. She’s talking to a cop, who’s leaning on the counter holding a Styrofoam coffee cup.  I sort through the loaves while the two exchange local gossip.  They stop briefly as I’m rung up and as I turn to leave they resume chatting. 

I could live in this neighborhood; seriously.  I can see myself getting up of an early morning and running down Columbus towards the waterfront, turning left at the bay, running past Aquatic Park, along the Marina Green and Crissy Field in the Presidio, the former Army post and down to little Fort Point at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge.  I can see myself sitting at any one the little caffes after my run, watching the neighborhood wake up.  I could easily escape the cheap tract home sameness of suburbia, ruled by a humorless, heavy handed home owners association that puts down any hint of charm and independence all in the name of maintaining property values that lost their value when the housing marked augured in.  Busy body neighbors who cruise the streets finking on the basketball hoop over the garage or the Christmas lights that are still up on January 10^th.  I could see myself at the little tratrorias, sitting at a little table sipping dago red, eating focaccia or a pizza margherita  or having an evening meal of pasta Bolongese.  Of course with all that I might see myself at about 250 pounds and growing.  I could see myself becoming one of the old regulars, scraping the rust off the Italian I was once fluent in, shopping for meat at Little City, bread at the local bakery, hanging out at one of the little hole in the wall bars or heading down Stockton Street into Chinatown for produce.

It’s popular to put down city life as being detached and impersonal.  What I’ve seen strolling the streets of North Beach puts the lie to that notion; a little district where people wave, exchange greetings and ask about the family.   Now if you’re looking for impersonal and detached, come visit my little suburban neighborhood.  When Robert Frost wrote Mending Wall, he could have been sitting on a porch here in Hercules California jotting down the words, “Good fences make good neighbors.”  People here keep to themselves, don’t ask after the family, don’t know how the kids who went away to college are doing; hell don’t even know who is working or unemployed, sick or healthy, happily married or boinking someone’s spouse up the street.  Homeowners here put up welcome signs on their doors but look with a narrowed eye of suspicion at an unfamiliar car cruising down the street.  "Neighborhood Watch; we report…"  Hercules is the quintessence of the bedroom community; bereft of a downtown; vacuous and absolutely wanting of anything that would resemble charm.  

On the other hand, I do have to ask myself if I really could live in North Beach.  I’ve been a suburbanite for most of my life.  My short stints in San Francisco were in the outlying Richmond and Sunset Districts.  I moved there because those districts have a little of suburbia in them.  I don’t even know what a North Beach flat looks like.  How would I do without a backyard where I could fire up the grill?  I do know I could well do without yard work; hate it, always have, always will.  Would I like someone living above and below me?  Would I miss the deer and wild turkeys on the other side of my backyard fence?  Could I be lulled to sleep by the city sounds outside my window?  These are all questions I would have to find some answers to before I consider that my American Dream might lead me to settling in the city.  Of course the overriding question is; what would the wife say?