Ah, San Francisco. Oasis of culture and refinement set within the cars-and-cheeseburgers mentality of California. City of fine restaurants, opera and symphony, ballet, theater, museums. Liberal and tolerant, home to artists both renowned and wannabee, square hole for the square pegs, gravitational center for oddballs, screwballs, rumpots, stewpots, and marchers to every drummer you can name.
Despite all its allure, its wacky fascination, its plethora of attractions and attributes, San Francisco is at heart a hick town. My assertion might seem ridiculous, at first blush. But the evidence is all around, sometimes masked behind an urban sheen but very much present and visible nonetheless. All you have to do is look.
To begin with, San Francisco music audiences. You would think that the overwhelming majority are members of a new human species, homo standingovationus. What level of provincial insecurity, how desperate the need to appear artistically discerning, ricochets so many San Franciscans out of their seats at the conclusion of routine and/or pedestrian performances? Sometimes I wonder if SF audiences would stand for a flea circus. There’s nothing new about this phenomenon. On a radio broadcast from the 1940s featuring a then-lauded, now-forgotten pianist you can hear unfettered howls of approval, despite a performance that would barely pass muster at the local CMTA auditions.
Then there’s the lunge to bravo that infects opera audiences. Who can be the first to blare forth immediately following the last note of an aria? That must be particularly challenging during Baroque operas, with their long concluding ritornelli during which the singer is obliged just to stand there, or walk about looking distraught, or stomp around with spear extended. Provided the singer’s name has been mentioned by a critic, or been featured on a recent CD, or is just considered huzzah-worthy, the bravos and bravas will come.
And bring the umpty-millionth bus-n-truck of Camelot into town with some musty showbiz artifact as Arthur, and just watch ‘em line up, panting and salivating, for tickets. Then listen to ‘em cheer. For what? The sound system? The lighting? The ushers?
Another measure of San Francisco’s provincialness can be found in its atittude to, of all things, culinary fads. My neighborhood (the Castro) played host to an astonishing demonstration of this town’s willingness to go postal on any faddish whimsy, in the form of a sandwich stand—not even a restaurant proper—that opened on 16th Street. The place made nice sandwiches, to be sure. But there was nothing extraordinary about them.
But the lines started up early in the morning and stayed thick for the entire day. The entire sidewalk along that stretch of 16th Street was effectively blocked, while piles of flotsam and jetsam infected the neighborhood in the form of wrappers and trash. A mostly younger crowd, willing to wait 45 minutes to buy a sandwich. At first I figured the guy was selling them extremely cheaply; that would explain both the long lines and youngish clientele. But his prices were, if anything, a bit on the high side. We started calling it the “crack sandwich” joint, looking for an explanation—any explanation at all—of the inexplicable mass hysteria taking place before us.
Eventually the storm of neighborhood complaints closed the place down. But were they putting crack in the dressing? Giving away free joints? Taking a 50% loss on every sandwich sold? Tucking a rare, endangered species into the chik-n-surprize hummus wrap?
Nope. It had just become the hot place for sandwiches, for no particular reason. But that’s San Francisco for you: grab onto something, even if it’s not particularly distinguished, and turn it into a public obsession. Sandwiches: bread, filling, dressing, cheese, some veggies. No crack.
And then there is the challenge of finding a place for a late supper after a concert. You would think there would be no problem in Civic Center area, what with the massed evening offerings of symphony, opera, ballet, theaters, conservatory, etc. But even in San Francisco’s answer to Lincoln Center the sidewalks roll up by about 10:00 PM, and the streets are left to the traffic and the rolled-up sidewalks to the nutcases, druggies, and winos. It seems there are no open-late restaurants because there is no particular demand for them; this is a town that overall goes to bed early and gets up early. (Market Street traffic reaches near-gridlock levels by 7:30 AM most weekdays.) I would hazard a guess that the lion’s share of San Francisco’s over-rated nightlife is supported by tourists and the bridge-and-tube crowd.
But it really says something when it’s easier to find a late-night supper in downtown Walnut Creek than in San Francisco.
Heck, it might be easier in downtown Elgin, Kansas.