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- 04/18/2023
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Second Sight: Remembering Some San Francisco Neighborhoods - 3. iii. Noe Valley
.
iii.
Noe Valley
Noe Valley, neighborhood of houses
Lined upon hilltops blanketed in fog,
Whose ever fertile air supports green spots
For plants both tropical and temperate to thrive,
Like the crimson passionflower vining
Over wall and window of a neighbor.
When the season was right, these flowers set
Tiny red fruit I was once told could make
The tartest, sweetest jam in the city;
Black-eyed Susans climbed a telephone pole
Placed a few dozen feet from our front walk;
Every margin that could be spared concrete
Became oasis for flowering shrubs,
And colors, from mute ivory to strong blue,
Greeted a stroller to the neighborhood.
And when we lived there, there was transition:
The “New-Come” Lesbian families who’d
Arrived in waves in the 1980s
Began to up-sell their beautiful homes
To commuters working in San Jose:
Those who were stock option rich and wanted
Someplace fun to spend their weekend money.
But when we lived there, the old guard still thrived,
And those who’d arrived after World War Two
Held sway on 24th Street’s businesses.
One tempting sign of which I discovered
Shopping at the Cala supermarket,
For every Saturday morning I’d find
The fresh meat case positively groaning
With all imaginable cuts of lamb,
Including their delectable kidneys
Which make for a be-deviling breakfast.
One day I was lucky enough to catch
The Cala lady putting out these cuts
And asked why it should be this grocery store
– From all the many food venues in town –
Would have lamb tenderloin and lamb rump steak
While every other supermarket’s bare,
And you’d be lucky to find overpriced,
Anything-but-fresh lambchops on offer.
She told me the lamb was here for the Greeks;
That it was here for the Croatian folks;
And for all who hailed from that part of the world,
Moved to Noe Valley in the ‘40s
To construct their own American Dream.
And I, for one, felt grateful to shop here,
Where Cala supported community.
Steamrolled by conformity, it’s now
A Whole Foods where everything is the same,
Because cookie-cutter is comforting
To the sub-divided, suburban mind.
Which puts me in mind of the entertainment
One could hunt down in the good, bygone days,
And reminds me of the video store
And its black curtain, kept way in the back,
Behind which all the triple-X tapes stood,
Waiting to be snagged; rented for the night.
How different from ‘the big’ video shop
– Still a mom-‘n-pop operation though,
And not one of those block-busting chain stores –
Where they didn’t even have porn for let.
But once, Noe Valley was unique
And the blocks between Castro and Church streets
Bustled with an old-world type of commerce,
For even before I lived there, I’d go
To the French bakery on Twenty-Fourth
And indulge in buying their country loaves,
Which cut lengthwise into thick, long slices,
Could prove ideal for lining my antique,
Iron, gallon-sized Apple Charlotte mold,
Where butter and heat turned the crust golden,
And bathed my ears in the praise of my guests.
Another place we’d go even before
We lived on Vicksburg was the donut shop
At 24th and Church, which pleased to say,
Still serves contented customers today,
Unlike my belovèd Phoenix Bookstore,
Where I bought and sold many a copy;
Or the tiny Uncommon Scents business
Where soap and incense from around the globe
Waited, at the customer’s fingertips,
And the owner’s smile was itself perfume.
Mom and pop has given way to corporate,
But of all the remembered retailers,
Holidays were best at Snickerdoodles,
An uncommon emporium of cards,
Stationery, giftwrap, and the gifts too.
Everything from a glass case devoted
To graduation gifts for new lawyers,
To sterling teething rings for baby-mouths
– And rubber chickens for every occasion –
Snickerdoodles was the best shop in town
To look for high-class seasonal décor,
Whether papier-mâché Easter rabbits,
Strings of chili pepper lights for Xmas trees;
Or the holiday I treasured them for,
For their Halloween decorations were
Second to none, and quite a few of my
Jack-o-lanterns still bear their store’s price tags.
But places are places, while it’s people
Who matter most in shaping neighborhoods,
And Noe Valley had that Post-War Verve
Driven out of most San Francisco haunts;
Like the Ace Hardware on 24th Street,
Where, when you walked in, you were greeted by
The handsome smile of handsome teenage clerks,
For these boys had been trained in the old ways
And would personally lead you around
The compact but awesomely well-stocked store
The instant you murmured what you needed.
Because, five-eighths inch nut, or three-inch screw
– Or a whole new Weber bar-bee-que grill –
The boy would know exactly where it lived
Amongst the tight aisles and millions of drawers
Meant for the opposite of self-service.
In ways, it was the nicest tradition,
And smiling, helpful young men never hurt.
For despite a neighborhood’s garden spots,
Or the style of her built environments,
It’s the people who live there that matter,
And one person who always comes to mind
Was the Greek, gentleman pizza maker.
He had come the States in the ‘40s,
Escaping the Communists’ invasion
Of his ancient democratic homeland,
And opened his unassumingly named
“Noe Valley Pizza” on Twenty-Fourth
At the northeastern corner of Sanchez Street.
I can still remember the warm evenings
We’d take the pleasant journey from our home,
Down the hill to the main shopping district,
And over, past many of the places
I’ve already named in reminiscing,
To the man’s pizzeria, walking by
His gently parked, buff-colored Cadillac
Round the side of his business’ front door.
Inside, all was decorated as if
A set for a 1950s movie;
But no place imaginable could be
As inviting as that restaurant’s setting.
Sitting at the red-checkered-laid tables,
The owner would come by after you’d ordered
To say hello and catch up on the news.
And pizza! Glorious with Greek touches:
Like his imported, fresh oregano,
So different from the supermarket kind;
And toppings of crumbled, chunky feta;
Or onions caramelized in red wine;
With chopped walnuts just for their unctuous bite.
For if there was better pizza on earth,
Sadly, I’ve lived yet to encounter it.
And thus, with thoughts of his resounding thanks
And his ever-friendly “Do come again!”
Still lingering in my ears, I shall close
My stroll through the Noe Valley that was,
Knowing my memories are but my own,
And my neighborhood, but a point in time
In its long, ever-changing history.
_
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6
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