Second Sight: Remembering Some San Francisco Neighborhoods - 1. i. Duboce Triangle

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i.

Duboce Triangle

 

 

Gentle, belovèd neighborhood of trees;

Of parklands mature and hilltop retreats;

Of paths and flowers; of contemplation –

Do Calla lilies or agapanthus,

Either lifting fugaciously white cups,

Or bursting periwinkle fleurs-de-lys,

Bloom anywhere quite as closely as ‘neath

The sharp blue skies of Duboce Triangle?

Paradise for dogs, our Leporello

Enjoyed his birthright and would promenade

Master of his own domain on the steep trails

Winding atop the eucalyptus-treed

And rocky outcrops of Buena Vista

And its companion of Corona Heights.

But it was Duboce Park he loved the most,

His home turf where he’d socialize daily,

Affording every canine urge inclined

Opportunity to run free under

Those late-afternoon suns of their freedom.

And happy were those dark Friday evenings

I’d come home from work on the subway train,

Which broke the surface behind the Safeway,

For when taking the J-Line, I’d get off

After the streetcar rounded the corner

And passed the postcard-perfect Lutheran church.

Victorian gem of a house of prayer,

Parish and congregation were kicked out

Of the Lutheran synod in the ‘90s

For letting its Gay congregants marry

‘Neath its towering steeple of the faith.

Hands folded in belief should ever pray

For bigotry’s removal in others –

At least, that’s what Christ himself tried to teach.

But these evenings, alighting on Church Street,

I’d sometimes have to think of our dinner,

And celebrate my little neighborhood

Provided rich options along those lines.

And such options too! For a few doors down

From the wide portals of the Lutheran church

Stood a Vietnamese-owned green grocer.

Their choice of produce beat the goliath

Corporate supermarket across the way

In both selection and superb freshness.

Great culinary curiosities

Inhabited that small shop’s grocery shelves,

And to here I’d come for Italian-grown

Sour cherries in a blue and white jar.

But if fatigue curtailed a mood to cook,

More choices waited as I then turned right

And started the gentle uphill walk home,

For tree-lined 14th Street – street of windows –

Offered a spacious Chinese take-away

With a moderate price and some great tastes.

And if other flavors were desired,

CyBelle’s Pizza stood just across the street.

One item on their menu paid tribute

To local San Francisco food culture,

For although many may have heard of it,

Few know how Greek Goddess salad dressing

Was devised in a hotel in this town.

CyBelle’s pizza version came with pesto,

Which became topped with garlic, broccoli,

Olives, feta and mozzarella cheese.

Molten-hot, straight from their oven and boxed,

What king ate better than we lucky few?

While walking onwards, upwards on to home,

This great street of bay windows provided

Unguarded glimpses of domestic life,

For many people were at home by dusk

Who never bothered with blinds right away,

And a glance casual, up to second floors,

Revealed dining room tables being set

As TVs glowed in adjacent spaces

With the evening news, more often than not.

At moments like this, I’d feel connected

To these strangers, who were nevertheless

Close to me simply by being right here,

Living ordinary, contented lives –

Lives, though different, still somehow matching mine.

But strolling onwards, at the next corner,

I’d peek through the glass of a unique shop.

This ground-floor establishment sold one thing:

Handmade, finish-it-yourself furniture

Of every size, make and variety.

Something for each room waited in that store,

And walking by the well-lit but closed place

Also lent comfort, for think of how many

Of the dining tables now being laid

For a communal suppertime above

Came from the hands of the woodworker here;

And I myself bought two CD cabinets

Which I never bothered to refinish,

Preferring to see the natural wood.

And continuing, past the drycleaner’s

With their wall-shelves of antique sad irons,

A few more paces would bring me up to

My treasured Noe Street, and heading left,

Just a few doors from the intersection,

I could climb our flat’s terrazzo steps home.

Yet the sort of places I had walked past

Were not uncommon for this neighborhood,

Where unique, one-of-a-kind businesses

Found soil to bloom in Duboce Triangle.

Some of my favorites I could even see

From the expanse of my home’s front window.

Such a case was the Peacock Music shop

With its resident black cat at the door

To greet those coming to re-string guitars,

Or browse banjos, or slap a tambourine.

While closer to us, and across the way,

Stood the venerable Thai House restaurant –

A place so delectable, it opened

Two Duboce Triangle establishments;

The original spot on Noe Street,

Cozy and intimate in which to eat,

And a larger venue on Market Street

Just two blocks down the hill from the first one.

I can still taste their special green curry,

With its mid-notes of ginger and lemongrass,

As a perfect complement to steamed fish.

But across Henry Street from Thai House was

Our regular eatery, where we’d go

To feel less homesick at least twice a week.

Many felt that way, and Take Sushi

Had walls plastered with tokens of family

In the form of postcards patrons, like us,

Had sent the restaurant from around the globe,

Expressing how much they missed “home cooking.”

An example of which, and mind you, I’d

Lived an unbroken four years in Japan,

It was in Take-zushi I’d first had

That savory delight of broiled kama –

The collar of the hamachi the chef

Bought fresh daily for the sushi and rolls.

Yaki-hama-kama was one of those

Esoteric sushi-family dishes

Relished in quiet peace among themselves,

Before the secret leaked, that is, and now

The formerly cheap-as-dirt cut of fish

Is found on many high-brow menus for

A price to rival that of caviar.

Take Sushi could be seen from our flat,

But still closer – in fact, across the street –

The Jumpin’ Java Coffee House beckoned.

A spacious place for regulars to work,

A single cup of artist-friendly joe

Was ticket enough to spend the whole day

People-watching and doing some writing.

This is where I outlined my short story

“Right Hand, Left Hand,” the central, turning point

In my Ni-Chome Tales about Gay life

In Tokyo’s Community neighborhood,

For perched upon Jumpin’ Java’s hard seats,

With their extra-strong coffee coursing through,

It made an oddly purgatorial

Environment to think of my past life

And where my present one could be going.

The owner was young, a fit blond man who

I hardly saw in the shop when open,

But late at night, long after its doors closed,

I’d see him in the shop, cleaning alone,

Naked, except for his tighty-whities.

Onto the waistband, he’d clip his Walkman,

And with the headphones no doubt blaring full,

He’d run the big, rotary floor buffer,

Keeping his coffee house shined to a tee.

I was aware – somehow – this slight young man

Was not the owner of the building where

His caffeine business thrived, for the landlord

Was something of a Duboce Triangle

Real estate magnate, owning quite a few

Of the stores and flat buildings on the street.

He was a taciturn Asian man who drove

A late-80s Cadillac, often seen

Parked in front of his own home, a few doors

Removed from where we lived on Noe Street.

Other one-of-a-kind establishments

Were also not far removed from our home.

One place, around the corner on 15th,

Was the retired Scandinavian

Sailors’ home, placed where it was on purpose

Because the “Young Scandinavian Club”

– An old-style venue for socializing –

Lived barely half-a-block down on Market.

On Market, too, was the Swedish deli,

Perfect for both eat-in meals or take-out,

And where our friend John liked to go often.

He loved the reasonable price so much,

Occasional bouts of food poisoning

Which he procured from the establishment

Would never dissuade him from going back.

If one cannot live on herring, then one

Prob’ly has no business living at all.

However, it was arguably nicer

To visit another Market Street spot,

Not very far down from it on Church Street.

Just Desserts was an unpretentious shop

Where you could get cake and sip on coffee,

For how just it was to come here after

A film caught at the Castro Theater,

Or with friends dining in the neighborhood.

Their pink-domed princess cakes, in full size or

Single-serve portions, were the perfect cap

To evenings spent in rowdy company

Or a special, one-on-one date for two.

And in such a relaxed mood with coffee,

Let me relay my Saturday routine,

For the morning could find me stepping out

To stroll amongst the tall, mature ash trees

And flowering planter beds on my street,

The sky preternaturally blue, and birds

Singing from the urban boughs overhead.

If I’d started late enough, I could catch

People setting out things for “sidewalk sales,”

San Francisco’s local equivalent

To other places’ yard or garage sales.

Interesting books always wound up in these,

And I bought Gerry Wills’ engrossing tome

Roman Culture at one; an in-depth look

Into Ancient Rome’s concept of itself

Through the civilization’s poetry.

Other days nabbed me a rotisserie,

And brand-new bread machine for twenty bucks –

A device that’s served my kneading needs now

For so long, it might need to be replaced.

But if no sales were set up, never mind;

I was probably on my way towards

The Italian deli on Market Street,

Next to the well-liked brunch destination

Of Bagdad Café, even though the fare

At La Mediterranée, so close by,

Was lusciously better and more filling,

For their sweet-tanged savories in phyllo

– Layer upon buttery layer – were

Hard to find duplicated anywhere.

In the deli, perhaps I’d come to buy

Some of their fresh, handmade pasta for home,

Or search for jarred anchovies, or capers.

But always, it was hard for me to leave

Without picking up a bottle of their

Specially imported limoncello;

And let’s face it, who would want to leave there

Without such a sweet and hard to find treat?

And once I had what I’d come here to get,

Right in front of the shop’s doors, there would be

Stacks of the city’s Sunday newspaper.

All on the honor system, you’d drop your

Dollar in the tin cup sitting nearby,

And heft your hundred-paged behemoth ‘neath

Your arm as you continued your walking.

But I was in no hurry to head home,

And stopping by right at the other corner,

I’d slip into a place called Cafe Flore.

Even the invocation of the name’s

Enough to make old-timers like me flush,

For ordering a plain cup of coffee,

I’d sit with my weekend paper, and cruise,

And read, and people-watch and feel as if

The future could only be the brighter,

All as bougainvillea and roses climbed

On the trellis enclosures making walls

Round about this al fresco coffee shop

– Under preternaturally sharp blue skies –

Where nothing but garden scents and warm smiles

Invited one to sit and feel at home.

 

 

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