Let them drink beer
By M. T. Eley
Let us give thanks for the weekday pint, a sacrament of which San Francisco has no shortage, nor places in which to have it. Some streets are more blessed than others, but even the humblest alley usually has bars to spare and compare.
Considering the bars by street, rather than by neighborhood, has another advantage too: seeing how swiftly the city turns colors from one neighborhood to the next, sometimes in the same block. You miss most of that hanging out in one neighborhood. And I won’t beat around the Bush: I’m starting here because I live on it.
Tunnel Top at 601 Bush Street
Prohibition Amber Ale (Speakeasy Ales & Lagers)
The city’s past is sometimes beneath it, but usually this just means down the hill from the Ritz Carlton. Such is the case with Tunnel Top, the first bar of note once you begin walking uphill from downtown or upstairs from Union Square.
One of those delightful truths about San Francisco is that a beer-perfumed, scuffed-floor hangout can and will squat on commanding views that its rarefied wine bar neighbor would kill for. Perched above the Stockton Street tunnel and with a wall of bottles that lights up with headlights, Tunnel Top seems to always welcome you with that reassuring smell of Bar Keeper’s Friend, which gives way to beer in the midst of the place and finally the restorative spritz of a lemon over gin in towards the back.
For folks who drink past ten, a DJ’s perch overlooks the main space from the narrow second floor balconies. If you sit just right, one of the doors, when open, perfectly frames the “BUSH 600” block sign, and the doors are frequently thrown open to help the place breathe like the fine wine it is. You know it’s a locals bar when folks are talking about something other than work.
I requested Speakeasy’s Prohibition Amber Ale, made a little under four miles away in Dogpatch. At first sniff and sip, caramel and malt balls mix with baking spices on top of a rich head that lasts most of the pint. Second and third sips open up more into a sweeter pumpernickel bread and dried apricots.
Another sniff before the fourth sip: Bar Keeper’s Friend and sautéed mussels. The wine bar next door is amusing some bouches.
Chelsea Place at 601 Bush Street
Pale Ale (Sierra Nevada)
It is astonishing that Chelsea Place has not been forced out of its current location by a newer, more expensive bar trying to imitate it. But you couldn't: the accumulation of stuff in a place like this is a slow process, akin to geological formations.
It's more than the hundreds of banknotes plastering the back wall. Sit in the middle, look up and you'll see what appears to be a scientific paper presentation from someone's college days; look behind you and see hundreds of pharmacy-developed prints kept in glass shelves like celebrity snapshots. It takes many happy returns to get all that.
It's the sort of place where the bartender pours the rest of your PBR for you, and, if you're lucky, pours you a fries basket of some of the microwave popcorn being enjoyed by the regulars. Bartenders do shots with the patrons from time to time, and you should too, if invited.
In this most local of dives, I went far afield for a local-ish beer that was also on draft: Sierra Nevada's Pale Ale. It's one of the most widely available NorCal beers outside of Lagunitas, and I'm no fan of hating on things merely for their success. I remember trying it long ago back east with its distinctive green cans, and knowing even then what I know now: Sierra Nevada loves its hops. The Pale Ale's a hop-forward beer with a pine-y bouquet that melts into flavor alongside light-toasted malt and a hint of sweetness that rounds out an exemplary mouthfeel. And it goes great with microwave popcorn.
While sipping, I met a long-time patron who’d enjoyed a few and was feeling friendly enough to talk to my wife and me, obvious newcomers. This was his last time there; he was moving to China. "Don't speak the language, I don't write it. So when I watch the news, I won't get stressed." Perhaps sensing we were there to consider the bar for our own future use, he handed it to us affectionately. "It's the best bar on the street. There are better ones, but I keep on coming back to this one."
Every street needs a bar like that, a River Lethe with boilermakers and swirling disco lights.
Key Klub at 850 Bush Street
Dreadfully Boring (Olfactory Brewing)
Worlds away from Chelsea Place is Key Klub — what a difference two blocks make in San Francisco. Here, work is frequently on the lips; it is very much the hip sort of place young San Francisco likes to spend easy-earned money. I counted two Brex cards and one Mercury card during a slow, early evening half-hour.
I consider a bar a place where you ideally can’t order anything approaching dinner, and Key Klub offers appetizers of increasing size and cost until you reach steak at the bottom of the menu. But during my pint I saw many people come in just for a drink, which is a stronger definition of a bar than mine. Besides, it’s hard to find newly-opened bars that let the drinking do the talking, at least without some other strong theme to stiffen it up a bit. Case in point: the rum-fever dream tiki bar, Pagan Idol, down on 375 Bush.
Key Klub has that other odd feature of modern bars and taprooms, where the beer tabs emerge in a line from the wall like industrial teats for tech workers. Whenever did draft handles become kitsch? Folks getting off their jobs at Anthropic and OpenAI and Waymo’ing far north of Hayes Valley seemed content, and thus so was I at this bar-cum-restaurant. For us non-AI startup workers, blissful beats help you forget you do not have a product.
Here the bartenders will drink with you, too, but you must buy the shots as per the menu. Not so inclined, I chose the Dreadfully Boring brown ale from Olfactory, also in Dogpatch. It’s a gloriously proper pint head that hangs around to the finish, the rich chocolate body clinging to the glass like legs on lusty wine. Nose: sweetbreads, pin aux raisin, musty mushrooms; body is rich, root beer candy and lightly burned popcorn. Olfactory does an old staple proud.
Stookey’s Club Moderne at 895 Bush Street
Anchor Steam
Oh, this is it. In the author’s humble opinion, this is what a corner bar can and should be. And not any corner, either — fans of The Maltese Falcon know it as the pharmacy where private dick Sam Spade stepped in to phone home the death of his partner, Miles Archer.
Old posters, perhaps a vintage film projected on the wall, greet you alongside a brass relief of FDR under a chrome, blue neon-rimmed clock. Stookey’s is grand and intimate all at once, like a bar aboard an ocean liner. The rest of the place is done up in dark blue accents and white stucco, which helps at night when the only light comes from the art deco sconces, table candles and cigarettes. Alas! No cigarettes, but you’ll enjoy them secondhand as big band flows through the ceiling.
Stookey’s has live jazz on Thursday nights, comedy every third Wednesday and is, I am told, expanding to the place next door, though I hope they’ll keep the snug feeling of the current setup. Sit at the soda fountain stools or the sweptback chrome-leather chairs and read through the cocktail menu once for delight and again to find what you want to order — or do as I did and get a beer on draft in their frosted mugs.
I had to; the sign which drew me into Stookey’s in the first place was a chalkboard advertising Anchor Steam while their kegs lasted, and while it’s likely you won’t be able to order some on draft, it seemed appropriate to pay a tribute to a passing age in the setting of a past one. It’s worth mentioning: as of September 16th, there’s a Go Fund Me for the co-op of employees attempting to buy back the brand and facilities. Maybe the old ship will live yet.
What’s to be said about Anchor Steam that hasn’t already been said in the better epitaphs written this summer? That toasty, sourdough head melts into a flavorful grainy ale with hints of hot pinewood brakes on a cable car, then finishes with a lovely, lingering, malty mouthfeel as cool as an afternoon fog. You won’t get that anywhere else, even if you replicate the recipe with scientific precision. The magic is in the air, and so is the yeast. Take that, Sapporo.
M. T. Eley is a San Francisco-based writer.
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