Hurried steps. A petite woman rushing through the door in a leopard skin string dress and white sunglasses. A man sitting by the bar, nursing an IPA, stood up. She had her earpiece attached to her ears and a black iPhone on her hand. "I'm so sorry." She said. He stood up as she took her coat off, and as she hopped onto the barstool, he waited and pushed the stool all the way in. She explained she had to take a business phone call. He smiled and said, "You looked great." This was a very popular restaurant with no signage on the door. Like the French Laundry. Only the address directed her here. The restaurant had two parts. One part was the communal table and bar area, the other part was a sit down dining area in a sunken part of the space.
"This reminds me of Ratskeller in Munich, by Marienplatz. The restaurant was built directly under the city hall, all sunken in." She said to the man. He's partially German, he spoke German but it was she who knew more about Germany than he.
Don Pisto was of course not German or Italian restaurant, it's Mexican street food. Through and through. "Does it look like where you just returned from?" She asked. He was in Mexico vacationing with his son. "No, but it felt like it should have been a very guy oriented restaurant." The decor was very masculine, no doubt, with open exposed fire for cooking. It felt like out of place. Surrounded by Italian restaurants in the heart of North Beach, this place was built like a welcoming home in Mexico, lived only by ordinary people, and you had just crashed their Saturday evening supper.
"The restaurant did not take reservations." He said. He'd been here before once, he said. He struck her as someone who dined out a lot, alone or otherwise. He did not know how to cook. Just then the host interrupted them and informed them that communal seats just opened up for them. The man asked to see if they could sit next to each other, rather than across from each other. Why wouldn't more restaurants insist on that? How could two people have a conversation over dinner if you were sitting across from each other in a noisy where the only way to communicate with one another is to shout out from the top of your lungs? She thought to herself. The host immediately agreed and two new table settings was made for the two of them.
"What's good here?" She asked. He studied menu. And he ordered her a glass of Sangria as if he could read her mind. It was very plum and very sweet. He took care of her as if he was the protagonist straight out of Jane Austin novel. Even though they had only been friends for nearly two decades, even though she never needed him to take care of her, even though, she suspected, this was how he was with all of his female friends. The wait staff was very attentive. She caught the dynamic very early on and directed her questions to this man. "What would you guys like to eat?" She asked. He said, "Well, I suppose we should get the ceviche and the spicy tuna tacos. And pollo and posole." He decided for her. Enough meals had been shared by the two of them, that she knew it would be easier for him to order for her and for her to not have to worry about her food. He was always extremely accommodating but was also very disciplined about the quantity of food. The restaurant served street food, therefore portion was well adjusted for that, a perfect way to share a meal with people without getting all very stuffed about it and feeling guilty after.
When the posole was served, two bowls appeared with some spices. It was a stew dish, delightful and hearty, unpretentious and delicious. He used the ladle to scoop soup into her bowl first. She added spice. Over that dish she learned that he was still in love with the woman he's been with for nearly three years. "I am into her. I love her. I like her. She's perfect for me." "No one's met 'her.'" She said. "They know about her. The general stuff." He protested. This man who had never been married, never lived with anyone, was now in love and had been in love for sometime. Perhaps there was hope after all. But for whom she was not sure.
Turned out that all four things on the menu were exceptional. The waitstaff brought the bill to the man. He opened his wallet to pay and she found this older picture of him. In the picture he had a broad smile, strikingly blond hair, and green eyes. He had a carefree look about him like a child. Not this man who's sitting next to her, more reserved, more serious, and not blond at all. This was not the friend she knew since she was very young. This was a man who was serious and disciplined about his life. Everything had to be slotted in. Everything had a place in his rather compartmentalized life.
"Do you really love her?" She asked again. He said, "Yes I do. Never before like this. Never before."
A meal was ending. Surprisingly delicious food. Surprisingly simple street food in surprisingly non Hispanic neighborhood.
"My fights is at 6:45. Lufthansa to Frankfurt and then Munich. Friday." She said.
"Mine is KLM, at 2:40, to Amsterdam. Friday." He said.
"Perhaps at the airport then." She said absent-mindedly.
"That would be neat." He said in earnest.
In a busy street food Mexican restaurant, two people exchanged travel information and updated each other on their personal lives.. A satisfied meal was had by the two, a declaration was made yet again by this man, and an unfinished glass of very plum, sweet, but strong sangria.
"Until we meet again." They hugged to say goodbye.
It was a typical summer evening in San Francisco: fog was setting in, wind had picked up. At an atypical restaurant in North Beach, a declaration of some sort was muttered. A story, yet to be written. A meal, surprisingly authentic, A goodbye, reluctantly made, A new journey, still to be taken.
"This reminds me of Ratskeller in Munich, by Marienplatz. The restaurant was built directly under the city hall, all sunken in." She said to the man. He's partially German, he spoke German but it was she who knew more about Germany than he.
Don Pisto was of course not German or Italian restaurant, it's Mexican street food. Through and through. "Does it look like where you just returned from?" She asked. He was in Mexico vacationing with his son. "No, but it felt like it should have been a very guy oriented restaurant." The decor was very masculine, no doubt, with open exposed fire for cooking. It felt like out of place. Surrounded by Italian restaurants in the heart of North Beach, this place was built like a welcoming home in Mexico, lived only by ordinary people, and you had just crashed their Saturday evening supper.
"The restaurant did not take reservations." He said. He'd been here before once, he said. He struck her as someone who dined out a lot, alone or otherwise. He did not know how to cook. Just then the host interrupted them and informed them that communal seats just opened up for them. The man asked to see if they could sit next to each other, rather than across from each other. Why wouldn't more restaurants insist on that? How could two people have a conversation over dinner if you were sitting across from each other in a noisy where the only way to communicate with one another is to shout out from the top of your lungs? She thought to herself. The host immediately agreed and two new table settings was made for the two of them.
"What's good here?" She asked. He studied menu. And he ordered her a glass of Sangria as if he could read her mind. It was very plum and very sweet. He took care of her as if he was the protagonist straight out of Jane Austin novel. Even though they had only been friends for nearly two decades, even though she never needed him to take care of her, even though, she suspected, this was how he was with all of his female friends. The wait staff was very attentive. She caught the dynamic very early on and directed her questions to this man. "What would you guys like to eat?" She asked. He said, "Well, I suppose we should get the ceviche and the spicy tuna tacos. And pollo and posole." He decided for her. Enough meals had been shared by the two of them, that she knew it would be easier for him to order for her and for her to not have to worry about her food. He was always extremely accommodating but was also very disciplined about the quantity of food. The restaurant served street food, therefore portion was well adjusted for that, a perfect way to share a meal with people without getting all very stuffed about it and feeling guilty after.
When the posole was served, two bowls appeared with some spices. It was a stew dish, delightful and hearty, unpretentious and delicious. He used the ladle to scoop soup into her bowl first. She added spice. Over that dish she learned that he was still in love with the woman he's been with for nearly three years. "I am into her. I love her. I like her. She's perfect for me." "No one's met 'her.'" She said. "They know about her. The general stuff." He protested. This man who had never been married, never lived with anyone, was now in love and had been in love for sometime. Perhaps there was hope after all. But for whom she was not sure.
Turned out that all four things on the menu were exceptional. The waitstaff brought the bill to the man. He opened his wallet to pay and she found this older picture of him. In the picture he had a broad smile, strikingly blond hair, and green eyes. He had a carefree look about him like a child. Not this man who's sitting next to her, more reserved, more serious, and not blond at all. This was not the friend she knew since she was very young. This was a man who was serious and disciplined about his life. Everything had to be slotted in. Everything had a place in his rather compartmentalized life.
"Do you really love her?" She asked again. He said, "Yes I do. Never before like this. Never before."
A meal was ending. Surprisingly delicious food. Surprisingly simple street food in surprisingly non Hispanic neighborhood.
"My fights is at 6:45. Lufthansa to Frankfurt and then Munich. Friday." She said.
"Mine is KLM, at 2:40, to Amsterdam. Friday." He said.
"Perhaps at the airport then." She said absent-mindedly.
"That would be neat." He said in earnest.
In a busy street food Mexican restaurant, two people exchanged travel information and updated each other on their personal lives.. A satisfied meal was had by the two, a declaration was made yet again by this man, and an unfinished glass of very plum, sweet, but strong sangria.
"Until we meet again." They hugged to say goodbye.
It was a typical summer evening in San Francisco: fog was setting in, wind had picked up. At an atypical restaurant in North Beach, a declaration of some sort was muttered. A story, yet to be written. A meal, surprisingly authentic, A goodbye, reluctantly made, A new journey, still to be taken.
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