There are a lot of reasons I’m proud to be a San Franciscan:
1. This is one of the most picturesque places in the world—not to mention one can drive in almost any direction (barring South on 101) and the beauty continues. (Current example: The neon-yellow mustard flowers blooming in the vineyards up in the wine country right now.)
2. We have great food, amazing markets and left leaning politics.
3. A very extended etc.
But as proud as I am to live here, I don’t think San Francisco is perfect. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we listen to too much NPR, but sometimes I wonder if we’re just too sensible for our own good.
Unlike New Yorkers, we wear practical shoes; unlike Italians, we do not engage in public makeout sessions; unlike Bankokians, we wouldn’t even consider getting on a Vespa without a helmet (much less ride on it with our extended family and a cage of live chickens); unlike Parisians, we wouldn’t dare smoke while riding our bikes (barring the odd Mission hipster); unlike Los Angelenos, we pretend not to revel in Brangelina’s rumored separation; unlike Spaniards, we eat far before 10 pm.
(Note: Before Joe writes a comment below saying I’m a pot calling the kettle black, I’ll admit right here that I rarely make it up past Jon Stewart’s monologue and the last time I went clubbing was, well, I can’t recall. But this doesn’t mean I don’t have aspirations.)
It’s the last part of the above list that I’m most invested in, unsurprisingly. Something I’ve noticed however, is that when I visit the above cities, I find myself stepping up to the plate, energized by the collective whole. I do crazy things like wear high heels, ride Vespas (with a helmet) and most of all, eat late. In Tokyo, I found myself slurping up a bowl of curried noodles with pork tonkatsu at 4 am, barely registering the time (sure it had something to do with the amount of drink I’d consumed, but it also had something to do with the city’s joie de after-hours vivre). In New York, I walked out of Ssam Bar at 3 am, amazed to see the streets of the East Village were as busy as Chestnut Street on a Sunday morning. These cities always make me feel urban and cool but also fill me with a twinge of jealousy.
Which is the long way short to get to the point that we made the executive decision to keep Tacolicious open until midnight every night of the week for a reason—not for financial gain (ok, if it happens, it happens), but because we have visions of being part of making San Francisco a place where people spill out of restaurants into the wee hours and have somewhere to go after seeing a show at the Fillmore. I want to feel like this town is happening—that late-night dining isn’t even a question mark.
And we hope you’ll come. We hope you’ll come in at 11:45 pm, famished and looking for an almost midnight snack of a carnitas taco and a beer. We hope you’ll come in, post Avatar, still crossed eyed from the 3D glasses and slightly air sick from flying around on a dragon all night, looking to settle your stomach with a bowl of albondigas soup. We hope you’ll stop by after a evening sail on the Bay to warm up with a shot of tequila.
Rest assured should you need to have a shot of espresso to keep you going, we’ve got that too. (We also have a cocktail that mixes espresso with sambuca to great effect). And remember: that the whole pumpkin thing? It only happens in Cinderella.