This one's for the gals up in Portland.
It's for them, because they told me tales of their San Francisco adventures long before I had any of my own. They came for business, stayed for pleasure, and occasionally return, just to kick the ball around with me for a bit.
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One of their stories centers around this venue, a haven of sustenance - both epicurial and emotional. How they'd emerged from a business pitch, dazed and drained, and had turned their weary eyes upward and saw this.
Tadich Grill, touted as the city's oldest restaurant establishment (circa 1860's) still has the air of old school diner meets speakeasy. The hubbub in the bar richochets off the black and white tile and pressed tin ceilings, buffered only by the never-ending stream of customers - suits from the surrounding towers, or out-of-town fleece. Diners are ushered back into the tall-backed booths, where deals are struck and platters of oysters and pan-seared sandabs are devoured with abandon.
I've whiled away a rainy sunday afternoon sipping bloody marys at the counter, and have gnoshed with visitors back in the booths. This is NOT the air of posh dining that so many SF restaurants offer - this is a white-collar-but-gritty-with-newprint-ink kind of spot, where you have to use your 'outdoor voice' when ordering drinks, and they'd better be straight-up, or on the rocks, none of that fancy frou-frou stuff. That the Portland gals wound up here after a draining sales pitch, tossed back a few and exchanged war stories with the staff, is just downright appropos.
The Tadich. Embracing, yet surly. Old School.
And go ahead, try to call for reservations.
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I like the gritty\sexy.
Posted by: jay | October 23, 2006 at 05:13 AM