This past weekend I had the pleasure of visiting a real speakeasy during a business trip to San Francisco. (well, as close as one can get in 2011 USA). You can find the address on google, but even still you could unknowingly walk past the unassuming doorway. And to find yourself denied access almost as easily. Sure.. its pretty hammed up and it's sure as hell not going to make me pine for the bygone days of prohibition, but there's an endearing quality to the schtick: people who find their way inside generally appreciate a fine cocktail, and this place takes great pride in making them right. The spirits are properly measured and served, mixed with fresh ingredients; certainly no soda-fountain guns or premade mixes. The kind of bar I'd open if I had the capital.
Bourbon and Branch (website)
501 Jones Street
San Francisco, CA 94102
On my recent trip to San Francisco, I heard rumors of a nearby speakeasy -- a cocktail destination for purists, and I knew I had to venture out. Fortunately it was less than 3 blocks (within easy stumbling distance) from my hotel, but just knowing the location was no guarantee of success. Reservations are required and you're required to know the daily password to gain entrance. As they only accept reservation requests for 2-6 on their website, and I was a solo traveler on this trip, I called ahead to ask about bar seating and was given a time to arrive and the all-important password. Already feeling a little bit of cloak-and-dagger glee, I walked as unassumingly as I could toward their doorway and pressed the doorbell. The deadbolt on the door slid, and it opened a tiny crack.
"Password, please?"
"The password is ___" (you didn't think I'd tell you, did you
)
"Welcome sir.."
And thus began my voyage into cocktail bliss.
I was led to my seat at the bar by the doorlady and greeted by the bartender Steven, dressed a bit more like a "newsie" than what I'd expect a 1930 bartender to look like. Nevertheless, a gaze around the place gave off the ambiance of that bygone era. Hardly a single electric light, save for the cash register and the federally-mandated "exit" sign was to be found near eye level. Only candlelight and a flapper-dress-esque chandelier near the center of the room. The bar is wood, the music ragtime and similar, the wallpaper elegant in a dark, old-fashioned kind of way. A few two-seater booths run the length of the opposite wall, with more seating up the back stairway. Apparently a genuine 1930 speakeasy once existed in the basement, which was presently under renovation according to the barkeep. But the bar was where the action was, and I wasn't moving an inch. The aura of smoke and shadows, quiet, dignified yet reckless-to-the-law tipplers was all around me.
Steven handed me a drink menu, but I knew my first choice: Manhattan. And in front of my eyes, it came to life. Half-ready to remark that "if you have to ask, I guess I was wrong about this place," I was met with no jaw-dropping inquiries about what sort of bourbon I'd prefer, or whether I wanted it "rocks" or "up." Just a jigger of Rittenhouse in the shaker, along with Punt e Mes, a dash of bitters, stirred and strained masterfully and presented in as much an unpretentious of an "up" glass as I've ever seen. Superb.
As I was thoroughly enjoying the first of five drinks, I perused the menu. The usual suspects were all there, near the front: Martini, sours, gimlets, brandy alexander. It was enough to make a cocktail purist cry tears of joy into his Manhattan. Certainly a few interesting homespun creations intermixed -- scant few with vodka (there was a bottle of Smirnoff on the bottom shelf, but happily I didn't see it emerge any further for the duration of my stay), some of which looked somewhat sacrilegious. But glancing around again... fresh fruit in bowls around the bar being peeled for garnish, twisted, and oils deftly being liberated into drinks being shaken with gusto, I knew that they were all mixed with the same care and quality as the classics. And with that, this purist approves.
My second was a sidecar, venturing into the slightly-more-fruity end of my spectrum. Again, superb. The third, a sazerac, which I thought might confuse him. As soon as I saw the sugar cube come out and get doused with Peychaud's, I knew I needed fear not. Delightful. The absinthe was perfect -- present on the nose, but nearly tasteless in the drink.
About this time a young couple came in and were seated near me at the bar. The gentleman glanced at the menu for a moment, gave it a pass, and ordered "something flaming." The look on Steven's and my faces must have said "are you sure you're in the right place, chum?" Steven proceeded to explain that this wasn't the place for lighters and flair, and suggested some strange mango highball that the man only finished about half of before leaving, realizing that despite having to make reservations, no, this bar doesn't serve food. I suspect the "house rule" about no cell phone use, photo taking, or loud talking to have been contrary to his plans for the evening as well. (Another rule? "Don't even dream of ordering a cosmo")
The decision on my penultimate drink was given over to Steven, who made me a concoction (the name of which I sadly can't remember) featuring bourbon, pear brandy, nocino, a splash of Laphroig (I know.. I gasped a little too) and Peychaud's. Here was a barkeep who knew my tastes, and knew just how far he could push the envelope, and he delivered. And here I, castlecraver, hereby admit to having found a (*deep breath*) cocktail mixed with a (*whimper*) single malt to have been... quite agreeable.
Finally, at the end of the evening, I decided to crack their excellent selection of malts properly and treat myself to a dram of Port Ellen 1982 while I took in the last of the nirvana I'd found. We were born the same year, but I'll admit that malt had far more character and likability than I.
And then it was over. Never so happy to pay out the nose for overpriced drinks, I settled up, shook hands, and made my way quietly to the still-deadbolted door, and let out into the awaiting groups in the dark outside who presumably didn't know the password.
Gents, if you're ever in San Francisco, I most strongly recommend Bourbon and Branch for a drink or five. Make sure you call ahead for the password, dress smartly, and bring your appetite for imbibing the way it was meant to be done.
Bourbon and Branch (website)
501 Jones Street
San Francisco, CA 94102
On my recent trip to San Francisco, I heard rumors of a nearby speakeasy -- a cocktail destination for purists, and I knew I had to venture out. Fortunately it was less than 3 blocks (within easy stumbling distance) from my hotel, but just knowing the location was no guarantee of success. Reservations are required and you're required to know the daily password to gain entrance. As they only accept reservation requests for 2-6 on their website, and I was a solo traveler on this trip, I called ahead to ask about bar seating and was given a time to arrive and the all-important password. Already feeling a little bit of cloak-and-dagger glee, I walked as unassumingly as I could toward their doorway and pressed the doorbell. The deadbolt on the door slid, and it opened a tiny crack.
"Password, please?"
"The password is ___" (you didn't think I'd tell you, did you
)"Welcome sir.."
And thus began my voyage into cocktail bliss.
I was led to my seat at the bar by the doorlady and greeted by the bartender Steven, dressed a bit more like a "newsie" than what I'd expect a 1930 bartender to look like. Nevertheless, a gaze around the place gave off the ambiance of that bygone era. Hardly a single electric light, save for the cash register and the federally-mandated "exit" sign was to be found near eye level. Only candlelight and a flapper-dress-esque chandelier near the center of the room. The bar is wood, the music ragtime and similar, the wallpaper elegant in a dark, old-fashioned kind of way. A few two-seater booths run the length of the opposite wall, with more seating up the back stairway. Apparently a genuine 1930 speakeasy once existed in the basement, which was presently under renovation according to the barkeep. But the bar was where the action was, and I wasn't moving an inch. The aura of smoke and shadows, quiet, dignified yet reckless-to-the-law tipplers was all around me.
Steven handed me a drink menu, but I knew my first choice: Manhattan. And in front of my eyes, it came to life. Half-ready to remark that "if you have to ask, I guess I was wrong about this place," I was met with no jaw-dropping inquiries about what sort of bourbon I'd prefer, or whether I wanted it "rocks" or "up." Just a jigger of Rittenhouse in the shaker, along with Punt e Mes, a dash of bitters, stirred and strained masterfully and presented in as much an unpretentious of an "up" glass as I've ever seen. Superb.
As I was thoroughly enjoying the first of five drinks, I perused the menu. The usual suspects were all there, near the front: Martini, sours, gimlets, brandy alexander. It was enough to make a cocktail purist cry tears of joy into his Manhattan. Certainly a few interesting homespun creations intermixed -- scant few with vodka (there was a bottle of Smirnoff on the bottom shelf, but happily I didn't see it emerge any further for the duration of my stay), some of which looked somewhat sacrilegious. But glancing around again... fresh fruit in bowls around the bar being peeled for garnish, twisted, and oils deftly being liberated into drinks being shaken with gusto, I knew that they were all mixed with the same care and quality as the classics. And with that, this purist approves.
My second was a sidecar, venturing into the slightly-more-fruity end of my spectrum. Again, superb. The third, a sazerac, which I thought might confuse him. As soon as I saw the sugar cube come out and get doused with Peychaud's, I knew I needed fear not. Delightful. The absinthe was perfect -- present on the nose, but nearly tasteless in the drink.
About this time a young couple came in and were seated near me at the bar. The gentleman glanced at the menu for a moment, gave it a pass, and ordered "something flaming." The look on Steven's and my faces must have said "are you sure you're in the right place, chum?" Steven proceeded to explain that this wasn't the place for lighters and flair, and suggested some strange mango highball that the man only finished about half of before leaving, realizing that despite having to make reservations, no, this bar doesn't serve food. I suspect the "house rule" about no cell phone use, photo taking, or loud talking to have been contrary to his plans for the evening as well. (Another rule? "Don't even dream of ordering a cosmo")
The decision on my penultimate drink was given over to Steven, who made me a concoction (the name of which I sadly can't remember) featuring bourbon, pear brandy, nocino, a splash of Laphroig (I know.. I gasped a little too) and Peychaud's. Here was a barkeep who knew my tastes, and knew just how far he could push the envelope, and he delivered. And here I, castlecraver, hereby admit to having found a (*deep breath*) cocktail mixed with a (*whimper*) single malt to have been... quite agreeable.
Finally, at the end of the evening, I decided to crack their excellent selection of malts properly and treat myself to a dram of Port Ellen 1982 while I took in the last of the nirvana I'd found. We were born the same year, but I'll admit that malt had far more character and likability than I.
And then it was over. Never so happy to pay out the nose for overpriced drinks, I settled up, shook hands, and made my way quietly to the still-deadbolted door, and let out into the awaiting groups in the dark outside who presumably didn't know the password.
Gents, if you're ever in San Francisco, I most strongly recommend Bourbon and Branch for a drink or five. Make sure you call ahead for the password, dress smartly, and bring your appetite for imbibing the way it was meant to be done.
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