As many a southern transplant knows, it’s damn near impossible to find a decent plate of rolled tacos in San Francisco. Primarily the provenance of SoCal surf shacks, those golden cylinders of high-octane awesome heaped high with cheese and guacamole are few and far between in The Mission’s culinary burritoscape.
For everyone who’s ever craved a clutch of fried taco glory, Taqueria el Buen Sabor has you covered. All of the essential components are there – crispy deep fried tacos inundated with a wanton mess of lechuga, crema, guacamole, and queso.
As a city cyclist, I count my blessings every time I go to mount up and my saddle hasn’t been stolen. Imagine my surprise today when I walked outside Atlas Cafe to unlock and found my seat had been upgraded with a snappy red rain cover! Of course, the altruistic act came with a pitch – Timbuk2‘s ninjas stealthily distributed the seat covers in support of a sale – but who can complain when a random act of kindness wards off a soggy bum? With this week’s dismal forecast we can all use an extra bit of shelter.
In case you wanted to know, Maxfield’s House of Caffeine at 17th/Dolores is now your go-to place for all “analog text message” cheesecake conventions. Commenter A should have done their homework, but we’ll forgive them because the analog message boards of yesteryear regrettably don’t come with Google built-in.
So how do you feel about digital cheesecake?
Carleigh just put together this handsome reference for dog owners. Doggie-friendly hotspots both authorized and not are mapped and annotated. Sample commentary:
Despite loathing to even walk by this place after nightfall (I hate catcalling and I hate daily drunks and on-the-sidewalk spitters even more), Poochie and I made a late night run and play through this playground once when the locks had been broken off so we could get it. However, there was too much trash/temptation for Poochie so we had to vamonos.
I’ve noticed the droves of young females who spend their nights at Beauty Bar. It’s mainly young undergrads who’ve recently migrated from Southern California to a three-bed share in the Tenderloin. Their version of the Mission is meeting friends at Puerto Allegre for uninteresting margaritas and enchiladas, then shaking their shoulders with some date-rape shirt to some sub-par DJ at Beauty Bar. A few months go by, and they’re standing in the cocaine line at Delirium wondering if the douchebag in the corner with the purple kerchief sitting pretty on his scruffy, smelly neck is checking out her American Apparel sangria-colored tights. Do these tourists make the Mission, or does the Mission make the tourist?
It’s been five years since the city knocked down the Fell Street Off-Ramp. The Octavia corridor is all vibrant and everything, and Market Street is prettier or whatever. But I still recall when, as a teenager in Sacramento, the only thing to do on the weekend was head to SF for 1.) an Amoeba run, and, often 2.) show at Bottom of the Hill. This translated to a fair amount of time on the Fell Street Off-Ramp. As soon as it broke from the freeway proper, it began snaking past buildings, tearing around corners, flying high over Market, thru the treetops, within *inches* of the First Baptist Church’s big dome. And then it set you down gently, kitty corner from Il Borgo. It made a Volvo station wagon feel like the Batwing.
Anyway, it was on one such trip that we really discovered the Mission for the first time. After Amoeba, we cruised up Stanyan to 17th Street, came down that great big hill into the Castro, and cruised through the Mission en route to a Fucking Champs show I think. Looking out the window up and down Dolores and then Valencia and then Mission was like finding a hidden prehistoric valley. We found an apartment here as soon as we could.