Bohemian San Francisco — Some Italian Restaurants, Impress of Mexico/recipe

Some Italian Restaurants "Is everybody happy?

Oh, it is only nine o'clock and we've got all night."

It was a clear, fresh young voice, full of the joy of living and came from a young woman whose carefree air seemed to say of her existence as of the night "We've got all life before us."

The voice, the healthful face and vigorous form, the very live and joyous expression were all significant of the time and place.

It was Sunday night and the place was Steve Sanguinetti's, with roisterers in full swing and every table filled and dozens of patrons waiting along the walls ready to take each seat as it was emptied.

Here were young men and women just returned from their various picnics across the Bay to their one great event of the week--a Sunday dinner at Sanguinetti's. Over in one corner of the stifling room, on a raised platform, sat two oily and fat negroes, making the place hideous with their ribald songs and the twanging of a guitar and banjo.

When, a familiar air was sounded the entire gathering joined in chorus, and when such tunes as "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" came, the place was pandemonium.

Yet through it all perfect order was kept by the fat proprietor, his muscular "bouncer" and two policemen stationed at the doors.

Noise was rather invited than frowned upon, and the only line drawn regarding conduct was the throwing of bread.

Probably Steve did not want it wasted.

It was all free and easy and nobody took offense at anything said or done.

In fact if one were squeamish about such things Sanguinetti's was no place for him or her.

One found one's self talking and laughing with the people about as if they were old friends.

It made no difference how you were dressed, nor how dignified you tried to be, it was all one with the crowd around the tables.

If you wished to stay there in comfort you had to be one of them, and dignity had to be left outside or it would make you so uncomfortable that you would carry it out, to an accompaniment of laughter and jeers of the rest of the diners.

So far as eating was concerned that was not one of the considerations when discussing Sanguinetti's. It was a table d'hote dinner served with a bottle of "Dago red," for fifty cents.

You gave the waiter a tip of fifteen cents or "two bits" as you felt liberal, and he was satisfied.

If you were especially pleased you gave the darkeys ten cents, not because you enjoyed the music, but just "because."

The one merit of Sanguinetti's before the fire was the fact that all the regular customers were unaffected and natural.

They came from the factories, canneries, shops, and drays, and after a week of heart-breaking work this was their one relaxation and they enjoyed it to the full.

Many people from the residential part of the city, and many visitors at the hotels, went there as a part of slumming trips, but the real sentiment was expressed by the young girl when she sang out "Is everybody happy?"

Sanguinetti still has his restaurant, and there is still to be found the perspiring darkeys, playing and singing their impossible music, and a crowd still congregates there, but it is not the old crowd for this, like all things else in San Francisco, has changed, and instead of the old-time assemblage of young men and women whose lack of convention came from their natural environment, there is now a crowd of young and old people who patronize it because they have heard it is "so Bohemian."

Thrifty hotel guides take tourists there and tell them it is "the only real Bohemian restaurant in San Francisco," and when the outlanders see the antics of the people and listen to the ribald jests and bad music of the darkeys, they go back to their hotels and tell with bated breath of one of the most wonderful things they have ever seen, and it is one of the wonderful things of their limited experience.

Among the pre-fire restaurants of note were several Italian places which appealed to the Bohemian spirit through their good cooking and absence of conventionality, together with the inexpensiveness of the dinners.

Among these were the Buon Gusto, the Fior d'Italia, La Estrella, Campi's and the Gianduja.

Of these Campi's, in Clay street below Sansome, was the most noted, and the primitive style of serving combined with his excellent cooking brought him fame.

All of these places, or at least restaurants with these names, are still in existence.

Jule's, the Fly Trap, the St. Germain and the Cosmos laid claim to distinction through their inexpensiveness, up to the time of the fire.

All of these names are still to be seen over restaurants and they are still in that class, Jule's, possibly, being better than it was before the fire.

A good dinner of seven or eight courses, well cooked and well served, could be had in these places for fifty cents.

Lombardi's was of the same type but his price was but twenty-five cents for a course dinner in many respects the equal of the others.

Pop Floyd, recently killed by his bartender in an altercation, had a place down in California street much patronized by business men.

He had very good service and the best of cooking, and for many years hundreds of business men gathered there at luncheon in lieu of a club.

The place is still in existence and good service and good food is to be had there, but it has lost its Bohemian atmosphere.

In Pine street above Montgomery was the Viticultural, a restaurant that had great vogue owing to the excellence of its cooking.

Its specialty was marrow on toast and broiled mushrooms, and game.

To speak of Bohemian San Francisco and say nothing of the old Hoffman saloon, on Second and Market streets, would be like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out.

"Pop" Sullivan, or "Billy" Sullivan, according to the degree of familiarity of the acquaintance, boasted of the fact that from the day this place opened until he sold the doors were closed but once, the keys having been thrown away on opening day.

During all the years of its existence the only day it was closed was the day of the funeral of Sullivan's mother.

Here was the most magnificent bar in San Francisco, and in connection was a restaurant that catered to people who not only knew good things but ordered them.

The back part of the place with entrance on Second street was divided off into little rooms with tables large enough for four.

These rooms were most lavish in their decoration, the most interesting feature being that they were all made of different beautiful woods, highly polished.

Woods were here from all parts of the world, each being distinctive.

In these rooms guests were served with the best the market afforded, by discreet darkeys.

This place was the best patronized of all the Bohemian resorts of the city up to the time of the fire.

One of the special dainties served were the Hoffman House biscuits, light and flaky, such as could be found nowhere else.

Out by Marshall Square, by the City Hall, was Good Fellow's Grotto, started by Techau, who afterward built and ran the Techau Tavern.

This place was in a basement and had much vogue among politicians and those connected with the city government.

It specialized on beefsteaks.

Under the St. Ann building, at Eddy and Powell streets, was the Louvre, started and managed by Carl Zinkand, who afterward opened the place in Market above Fourth street, called Zinkand's. This was distinctly German in appointments and cooking and was the best of its kind in the city.

Under the Phelan building at O'Farrell and Market was the Old Louvre in which place one could get German cooking, but it was not a place that appealed to those who knew good service.

Bab's had a meteoric career and was worthy of much longer life, but Babcock had too high an idealization of what San Francisco wanted.

He emulated the Parisian restaurants in oddities, one of his rooms being patterned after the famous Cabaret de la Mort, and one dined off a coffin and was lighted by green colored tapers affixed to skulls.

Aside from its oddities it was one of the best places for a good meal for Bab had the art of catering down to a nicety.

There were rooms decorated to represent various countries and in each room you could get a dinner of the country represented.

Thompson's was another place that was too elaborate for its patronage and after a varied existence from the old Oyster Loaf to a cafeteria Thompson was compelled to leave for other fields and San Francisco lost a splendid restaurateur.

He opened the place under the Flood building, after the fire, in most magnificent style, taking in two partners.

The enormous expense and necessary debt contracted to open the place was too much and Thompson had to give up his interest.

This place is now running as the Portola-Louvre.

Much could be written of these old-time restaurants, and as we write story after story amusing, interesting, and instructive come to mind, each indicative of the period when true Bohemianism was to be found in the City that Was.

An incident that occurred in the old Fior d'Italia well illustrates this spirit of camaraderie, as it shows the good-fellowship that then obtained.

We went to that restaurant for dinner one evening, and the proprietor, knowing our interest in human nature studies, showed us to a little table in the back part of the room, where we could have a good view of all the tables.

Our table was large enough to seat four comfortably, and presently, as the room became crowded, the proprietor, with many excuses, asked if he could seat two gentlemen with us.

They were upper class Italians, exceedingly polite, and apologized profusely for intruding upon us.

In a few minutes another gentleman entered and our companions at once began frantic gesticulations and called him to our table, where room was made and another cover laid.

Again and again this occurred until finally at a table suited for four, nine of us were eating, laughing, and talking together, we being taken into the comradeship without question.

When it came time for us to depart the entire seven rose and stood, bowing as we passed from the restaurant.

Impress of Mexico Running through all the fabric of San Francisco's history is the thread of Mexican and Spanish romance and tradition, carrying us back to the very days when the trooper sent out by Portola first set eyes on the great inland sea now known as San Francisco Bay.

It would seem that the cuisinaire most indelibly stamped on the taste of the old San Franciscan would, therefore, be of either Spanish or Mexican origin.

That this is not a fact is because among the earliest corners to California after it passed from Mexican hands to those of the United States, were French and Italian cooks, and the bon vivants of both lands who wanted their own style of cooking.

While the Spanish did not impress their cooking on San Francisco, it is the cuisine of the Latin races that has given to it its greatest gastronomic prestige, and there still remains from those very early days recipes of the famous dishes which had their beginnings either in Spain or Mexico.

There is much misconception regarding both Spanish and Mexican cooking, for it is generally accepted as a fact that all Mexican and Spanish dishes are so filled with red pepper as to be unpalatable to the normal stomach of those trained to what is called "plain American cooking."

Certain dishes of Mexican and Spanish origin owe their fine flavor to discriminating use of chili caliente or chili dulce, but many of the best dishes are entirely innocent of either.

The difference between Spanish and Mexican cooking is largely a matter of sentiment.

It is a peculiarity of the Spaniard that he does not wish to be classed as a Mexican, and on the other hand the Mexican is angry if he be called a Spaniard.

But the fact remains that their cooking is much alike, so much so, in fact, as to be indistinguishable except by different names for similar dishes, and frequently these are the same.

The two famous and world-known dishes of this class of cooking are tortillas and tamales.

It is generally supposed that both of these are the product of Mexico, but this is not the case.

The tamale had its origin in Spain and was carried to Mexico by the conquistadors, and taken up as a national dish by the natives after many years.

The tortilla, on the other hand, is made now exactly as it was made by the Mexican Indian when the Spanish found the country.

The aborigine prepared his corn on a stone metate and made it into cakes by patting it with the hand, then cooked it on a hot stone before an open fire.

It is still made in that manner in the heart of Mexico, and we could tell a story of how we saw this done one night in the midst of a dense tropical forest, while muleteers and mozas of a great caravan sat around their little campfires, whose fitful light served to intensify the weird appearance of the shadows of the Indians as they passed to and fro among their packs, but this is not the place for such stories.

Of the old Mexican restaurants, those of us who can look back to the days of a quarter of a century ago remember old Felipe and Maria, the Mexican couple who kept the little place in the alley back of the old county jail, off Broadway.

Here one had to depend entirely upon sentiment, or rather sentimentality, to be pleased.

The cooking was truly Mexican for it included the usual Mexican disregard for dirt.

Chattering monkeys and parrots were hanging around the kitchen, peering into pots and fingering viands, and they served to attract attention from myriads of cockroaches that swarmed about the walls.

One could go to this place just on the theory that one is willing to try anything once, but aside from its picturesque old couple, and its Dantesque appearance, it offered nothing to induce a return unless it was to entertain a friend.

Everyone who lived in San Francisco before the fire remembers Ricardo, he of the one eye, who served so well at Luna's, on Vallejo and Dupont streets.

Ricardo had but one eye but he could see the wants of his patrons much better than many of the later day waiters who have two.

Luna's brought fame to San Francisco and in more than one novel of San Francisco life it was featured.

Entering the place one came into the home life of the Luna family, and reached the dining room through the parlor, where Mrs. Luna, busy with her drawn work, and all the little Lunas and the neighbors and their children foregathered in the window spaces behind the torn Nottingham curtains which partially concealed the interior from passers on the street.

The elder sons and daughters attended to the wants of those who fancied any of the curios displayed in the long showcase that extended from the door to the rear of the room.

Passing through this family group one came to the curtained dining room proper, although there were a number of tables in the family parlor to be used in case of a rush of patrons.

Luna's dinners were a feature of the old San Francisco.

They were strictly Mexican, from the unpalatable soup (Mexicans do not understand how to make good soup) to the "dulce" served at the close of the meal.

First came the appetizers in form of thin slices of salami and of a peculiar Mexican sausage, so extremely hot with chili pepino as to immediately call for a drink of claret to assuage the burning.

Then came the soup which we experienced ones always passed over.

The salad of modern tables was replaced by an enchilada, and then came either chili con carne or chili con polle according to the day of the week, Sundays having as the extra attraction the chili con pollo, or chicken with pepper.

In place of bread they served tortillas, which were rolled and used as a spoon or fork if one were so inclined.

Following this was what is known among unenlightened as "stuffed pepper," but which is called by the Spanish, from which country it gets its name, "chili reinas."

To signify the close of the meal came frijoles fritas or fried beans, and these were followed by the dessert consisting of some preserved fruit or of a sweet tamale.

Fifty cents paid the bill and a tip of fifteen cents to Ricardo made him as happy and as profuse with his thanks as the present day waiter on receipt of half a dollar.

Accepting Luna's as the best type of the Mexican restaurant of the days before the fire, our inquiry developed the fact that the dish on which he specialized was chili reinas, and this is the recipe he used in their preparation: Chili Reinas Roast large bell peppers until the skin turns black.

Wash in cold water and rub off the blackened skin.

Cut around the stem and remove the seed and coarse veins.

Take some dry Monterey cheese, grated fine, and with this fill the peppers, closing the end with a wooden toothpick.

Prepare a batter made as follows: Beat the yolks and whites of six eggs separately, then mix, and stir in a little flour to make a thin batter.

Have a pan of boiling lard ready and after dipping the stuffed pepper into the batter dip it into the lard.

Remove quickly and dip again in the batter and then again in the lard where it is to remain until fried a light, golden brown, keeping the peppers entirely covered with the boiling lard.

Take the seeds of the peppers, one small white onion and two tomatoes, and grind all together into a pulp, add a little salt and let cook ten minutes.

When the chilies are fried turn the remainder of the batter into the tomatoes and boil twenty minutes, then turn this sauce over the peppers.

This is a most delicious dish and can be varied by using finely ground meat to stuff the peppers instead of The cheese.