Jeff Burkhart (Photo by Lou Lesko)
I had to turn around twice on the oddly interspaced one-way streets of San Francisco. That coupled with pedestrians who walk out in front of moving cars without looking, only to then slow down and saunter across the street, created two unique challenges. Just to be clear, I’ve never lived in San Francisco, but I did go to school there.
When I was in journalism school at San Francisco State University, it dawned on me pretty quickly that getting off of the campus was the best way to get my lunch money to go farther. Not only was it cheaper but it was often far superior too.
I soon found a little Vietnamese restaurant on Irving. It was quirky in every respect. A bowl of pho and a Vietnamese coffee, a must for any sleep-deprived college student, would set you back about $8. With a $2 tip (25%), I felt pretty good about things.
The fish tank in the middle of the room wasn’t just decorative; it provided the actual fish for a few of the dishes. The Vietnamese soap operas playing at all hours on the 20-year-old TV only partially touched on the social dramas running in real time below.
It wasn’t odd to see a verbal sparring match between employees that lasted through an entire meal. The owner was easy to spot. He acted just like every owner of every restaurant everywhere. He made his rounds with the guests at tables, he scolded an employee or two and he opened the cash register needlessly; it all reminded me of an animal marking its territory. And even though none of that happened in a language I could understand, the actions themselves were pretty universal. It was also pretty clear it was a family affair, at least four generations were represented.
One day I arrived, and the menu had a note attached. In essence it said, “Sorry, but we have to raise our prices.” I looked at the menu several times and could not discern the change until I realized that the change was not in dollars; it was in cents. Five cents, in fact. The pho went from $5.90 to $5.95. And they apologized profusely for it.
Memory is a funny thing. I was sure I could just find the restaurant again, just by feel. I’ll know where it is, I thought. I literally went there hundreds of times during the years I attended that school. Author Thomas Wolfe once posited that “you can’t go home again,” partly because the home as you remember it no longer exists and neither does the person who remembers it.
Thirty years had passed, but when I walked up to the door, I knew that it was the place. Different tables, different paint but the same setup. Even the fish tank was there. And in place of the old TV was a newer TV, with newer soap operas.
When I was in school, I also worked in restaurants, specifically in high-end restaurants. I even interviewed at a high-end Vietnamese restaurant in San Francisco owned by a TV celebrity. All of those restaurants were the darlings of the media. One chef wrote a cookbook; the wine buyer of another was “sommelier of the year.” Their recipes appeared in the local papers, and the managers appeared on the 6 p.m. news. They were all considered the very epitome of the restaurant business. And now they are all gone. Every single one of them.
When my bowl of pho arrived, it was nearly exactly as I remembered it: substantial, hot and delicious. Granted the biggest difference was the price. It was three times as expensive! But in the greater scheme of things, even that wasn’t so bad.
Just as I was getting ready to pay, the owner entered the front door. Thirty years had passed, but there was no mistaking him. He worked the new tables just like he had the old. He softly scolded a server, pointing out a napkin-folding error, and then he went over and needlessly opened the cash register.
It warmed my heart. Far too often in the restaurant business it’s the new, the flashy, the celebrity-driven and the trendy that get all the press. In an environment where being first often trumps everything else, the ones that last are often the ones left behind.
Leaving me with these thoughts:
• Nothing reminds one of the past more accurately than a taste or a smell. And restaurants have both of those in abundance.
• “It’s going to kill the restaurant business!” says every trendy restaurant owner when their trend finally ends.
• James Beard, the legendary food pioneer whose name itself is synonymous with food awards, never won an award in his lifetime — not for his cooking, not for his books and not for his TV shows.
• The Michelin Guide is published by a car tire company. Just saying.
• You might never be able to go home, but on occasion, you just might be able to visit.
Jeff Burkhart is the author of “Twenty Years Behind Bars: The Spirited Adventures of a Real Bartender, Vol. I and II,” the host of the Barfly Podcast on iTunes (as seen in the NY Times) and an award-winning bartender at a local restaurant. Follow him at jeffburkhart.net and contact him at jeffbarflyIJ@outlook.com
Dining and Cooking