Of the Moment

Very few things scare the shit out of me. And virtually all of them hang out in Mid-Market.

I pop out of a cab on 7th Street, a block from SF's city-splitting artery. Walking toward me is one of those shit-scaring things: a 50-ish, spastically flailing dude who's screaming, alternatingly, "Kill! Fuck! Kill! Fuck! Kill! Fuck!" Luckily, he does neither of these to me as I slide past him and across Market to the flatiron-shaped Renoir Hotel.

Built in 1909, the 130-room Renoir is seven stories of historical awesome. It has brick exteriors, ornate columns, and gilded elevator doors that belie what has, for almost two years, been a mostly-vacant, entirely-scary ground floor filled with boarded-up storefronts, a sorta strip club, and – a 50-ish, spastically flailing dude who screams, alternatingly, "Kill! Fuck!"

But not this week. This week is grand opening week for A Temporary Offering.

I begin with Trailhead. This mini-retail spot on the triangular-shaped building's tip is, if you can believe it, an artisan coffee shop-cum-denim boutique-cum-altruistic plant exchange.

The space is imagined entirely by the not-actually-suitcase-sellers of The Luggage Store Gallery, and paid for entirely by Kor.

“We don't want this boarded up,” says Brian De Lowe. He’s one of three partners behind Kor – which is like a Flip This House operation, except they tackle historic hotels. Their purchases to date have included Campton Place and Canterbury, plus they created the now-global Viceroy brand. Brian, who lives above Trailhead inside a kitchen-less Renoir room, grew up in San Ramon, lived in LA for 15 years, and has been back in SF for three months.

"We want to activate the space," Brian starts to explain. "Especially because we have this whole block."

A guy with a Santa Claus–style beard steps into the doorway and interrupts Brian with this gem: "BRUTALITY, MOTHERFUCKER." Then leaves.

Trailhead's interior is almost as raw (half-tiled floors, crumbling concrete walls, exposed wiring) as the street corner it sits on. It's anchored by Roast Co., a coffee bar that takes up more than a third of the Chevy Suburban–sized space. On the opposite side: a high-end menswear pop-up from Holy Stitch!, a local denim boutique on Market run by 26-year-old Julian Dash. Most of his gear (which runs from $15 tees to $950 jeans) is huddled, hung, and draped around a mobile sewing station he’s used to get his business off the ground.

"I've had people drop their pants on Market to have them stitched," he says.

Another (different) Santa Claus–bearded dude leans against the doorway. He's clearly drunk, and probably one of Julian's former Market Street pants-droppers.

"You did a greeeeat job with the sssspace," he slurs. "Hella cool. Keeeeep it up."

As it turns out, the hella coolest part of Trailhead is actually in front of the space: five massive planter boxes in the middle of the Market Street sidewalk, filled with 3-4 ft. tall pine trees and blooming marigolds. It's part of Luggage Store Gallery's Tenderloin National Forest project. Its mission statement: to "transform a place emblazed in a health-hazardous cesspool of bodily fluids, non-supervised open-air chemical experiments, and illicit, criminal activities into a vibrant community commons." They do so with soothing bits of green space like this one, which, even despite a brown-bagged tall boy on the backside of one of the boxes, is still somehow a comforting presence.

It's also one you can support: The mix of succulents, cacti, and forest-y trees are for sale and benefit the project. They give the space a decidedly woodsy smell, which I take in, then take off for ATO's bar, two doors down.

Southern BBQ is permeating the air outside FoodLab, a sort of permanent pop-up where chefs and concepts cycle through almost daily.

Vendors have included: Sobo Ramen (Oakland restaurant), Lima Peruvian (Off the Grid food tent), Sol Food (San Rafael restaurant), and Southern Sandwich Co. (food truck). That last one is tonight's featured comestibles-slinger.

FoodLab looks like a hipster cafeteria. The obligatory reclaimed wood wall from Kelly Malone, chalkboards that change with each incoming food vendor, and a tableside BBQ buffet.

I remember coming here when it was still Cafe do Brasil. Suffice to say, it now smells much better.

I scoop out a little of everything (smoked-overnight succulent pig, house slaw, scratch hush puppies, pepper jack mac and cheese) and sit down. I am joined by Nathan and Brett Niebergall, the two bros behind Southern Sandwich Co. They're both in their early 30s – one spent time in San Antonio, the other in Raleigh.

Both owned a restaurant prior to launching Southern Sandwich in the height of the recession. FoodLab offers them an opportunity to return to their roots, without the permanent overhead. Nathan has to get back to the food. Brett sticks around so I ask him about setting up shop in Mid-Market.

"This is nothing for me," he says. "I live in West Oakland."

There are almost as many boarded-up stores across the street as there are recently opened ones on this side.

Market Street Cinema, though, is one of the few still in business. The theater bill is impossible to miss: "See the beauty. Touch the magic."

"That's where Nathan's girlfriend works," Brett says.

We share a laugh. Brett's wearing a bandana and shorts. He's aloof, but in an entirely endearing way.

"He hates when I say that,” he adds. “She doesn't work there."

I finish up, say good-bye to the Niebergall brothers, and make my way back into the Mid-Market fold. I step out of the door, look left, look right – my "Kill! Fuck!” friend is nowhere to be found.

I don't know if it's his absence, or the lingering effects of the Rio Grande’s Old Fashioned, but everything feels slightly less scary than earlier – however temporary that may be.