The Mission seemed cold and desolate on a Monday night, a ghost town with a few specters haunting the sidewalk — staring, perhaps looking for shelter, but saying nothing. Walking down the street, it seemed like most businesses were shuttered, either for the night or permanently, but every other block or so, there was a spot that looked warm and inviting, with a lively crowd inside. Islands in the darkness.
One of those places was Buddy, a wine bar on 22nd Street between Mission Street and South Van Ness Avenue. Stepping inside, I found Buddy to be small, warm, and friendly … and packed. It has a few tables, maybe seven seats at the bar, and no TVs. The music was loud and fast-paced. Its most distinguishing feature is that the kitchen is right behind the bar, which means there’s always something happening to look at.
I stepped in, and was immediately stopped by the manager, who asked if there was anything I needed. I blinked, his solicitousness seemed a little excessive, and said “just a seat at the bar.”
“Ah,” he said. “I think I see one.” There was, in fact, exactly one open, in plain view. “Let me walk you over,” he said. Which, again, seemed a bit much, given that it was all of five feet away. But at least I felt attended to, I suppose.
I sat down between a very preppy-looking young couple to my left — the guy could be a touring-show understudy for a Ken doll — and a curly haired, scruffy-looking guy in a T-shirt on my right, who was aggressively doodling in a notebook. About half the people sitting at the bar were on their phones.
The Buddy manager immediately got me a menu, and poured a glass of water. He might have gone overboard when I stepped in the door, but it felt like a very personal touch now.
Buddy has a small drink list and a small menu; it’s going for quality over choice. It’s primarily a wine bar: Its wines are in frequent rotation, while it has only four items under “co-ferment, cider, and beer,” and just six cocktails, most of which are wine-based.
I ordered a Bitter Milk Punch (bitter wines, vermouths, lemon, pineapple, angostura bitters, $15) and asked the manager whether he recommended the chicken liver mousse or the wagyu tri-tip. He suggested the beef. I went with it.
The curly haired guy next to me looked over. “If you want to try both, I’m having the mousse,” he said. “I can cut you off a corner.”
“Sure,” I said, surprised, but hey — what the hell. He very meticulously cut off a small corner of bread with the mousse on it, careful, precise, and hygienic, and indicated that I could pick it up. I did, and it was absolutely superb. Just first rate.
The Bitter Milk Punch arrived a moment later in a small glass with a giant clear ice cube floating in it. The presentation annoyed me, but the taste was delightful. Gentler than I’d expected, but still flavorful. I was impressed. Two for two.
I looked around again. Buddy was truly jumping; busy enough that some people were even sitting at tables outside in the desolate cold. It was pleasantly high energy, but between the constant action of the kitchen, the loud and up-tempo music and the crowded atmosphere, it was hard for me to imagine ever lingering here, just to hang out. Which is a pity, because that’s one of the things I most look for in a bar. Do I just … want to be here?
I looked back over at the guy to my right — we’ll call him Albert, although that is very much not his name — and told him that I really liked the kitchen behind the bar set-up. “It’s a lot of fun,” he said, “but I work in restaurants, and let me tell you: It’s really stressful, because you can’t hide anything. Any mistakes you make, everyone sees.”
“Oh, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “Hey, I understand if it’s none of my business, but can I ask what you’re drawing in the notebook?”
“Sure!” he said, “I’m a linotype artist … ” Suddenly, he jumped into the deep end of a conversation about what the medium of linotype means to him, and the kind of things he’s oddly obsessed with creating. I found myself feeling so, so, grateful that this is still a city where a random stranger you meet in a bar is passionately engaged in his nonsensical art projects. Bless you, San Francisco.
In particular, Albert likes to create images for T-shirts that have “this + that” symbolism. Things like “ham and eggs,” “night and day,” “tragedy and comedy.”
“I’m obsessed with it,” he said. “If you have any ideas, please let me know.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “if we’re going to be philosophical, there’s always ‘being’ and ‘nothingness.’”
“Oh! Yes, getting a little Heideggarian there! Yes, absolutely. I love philosophy.”
It was actually a Sartre reference, but close enough.
“Are you a philosopher?” he asked.
“Amateur.”
“What are you into?”
A conversation about philosophy with a strange linotype t-shirt artist at a bar? It suddenly felt very much like I was living in a Wes Anderson movie. “Well, mostly the existentialists, although more Karl Jaspers than Heidegger and Sartre, and the early crew: Kierkegaard and Unamuno and James. Also the phenomenologists … ”
‘You know,” he jumped in. “I prefer phenomenology as a method of inquiry into reality, rather than a conclusion about reality.”
Oh! Okay! We were really going there! “That sounds exactly right to me … ”
“Are you familiar with the people who were adding dramaturgy to phenomenology? In the 1960s? There was somebody … Aaron Conway, I think?”
“No … I don’t know him. The closest thing I can think of to dramaturgy in something like that is Erving Goffman, who wrote ‘The Presentation of Self’ … ”
“’In Everyday Life!’ Yes! That’s him! Erving Goffman! That’s who I meant! That’s an amazing book!”
“It is really good … ”
‘You know, I really think we lost something when philosophy became this remote, analytic subject for academics, instead of a way in which we learn to be citizens in a democracy. That’s always seemed, to me, to be where it really matters, for us to develop the habits of mind we need to understand the world and be any good at self-governance. That’s what philosophy’s for to me.”
“I’m so with you … ”
Over wagyu tri-tip (which was also excellent), I bemoaned the dominance of analytic philosophy in the U.S. I cut off a bite of steak for Albert; it was only fair. I ordered an ‘Ol Bud (aperol, vanilla, cacao, orange, chai $15). Which was great. I tried the trumpet mushrooms, which were superb. By this point, the tables at Buddy were still going strong, but everyone sitting at the bar had left, except us … and one guy far to my left, in a T-shirt and knit cap, reading a book.
Clearly lingering.
Two philosophers scarfing down parts of dead chicken and cow.