By Alexis Coe
When I first moved to San Francisco from Brooklyn, Noe Valley felt like home. It wasn’t the babies, although they were certainly an initial indicator of likeness. And it wasn’t the single-story, somewhat aged specialty-goods shops or the limited public transportation.
It was probably 24th Street, which, through admittedly squinty eyes, can look an awful lot like the West Coast version of Carroll Gardens’ Court Street in Brooklyn. In the end, I enjoyed the casual ease and comfort that a village offers, the kind one needs in a (then) unknown city.
Over a year later, I readily admit that this comparison was quite a stretch, but I couldn’t care less.
All of you Noe Valley haters, let’s get the obvious out of the way: yes, there are a lot of children crowding the sidewalks, sadly excited about a overpriced yogurt shop, and it’s the kind of place where a loud blast at the farmers’ market on Saturday sends everyone to the ground to check the tire levels of their strollers. With that being said, there are lots of perfectly decent, childless adults here, including myself, and we live peacefully, albeit carefully, among the rampant procreators. (Only order to go at Patxi’s. Eating there is an unmitigated disaster — a lesson I learned when a rogue, shirtless child threw a small bowl of cheese in my face.) And I can always take a quick walk down to the Mission, although there’s nothing more sobering after a night of indulgence than the arduous climb home.
There are a few sad-looking gyms in Noe Valley, but I don’t see the point. When I was (supposedly) training to climb Machu Picchu, I looked no further than 24th Street, taking on the 30-percent grade between Grand View Avenue and Fountain Street every single day. When my dog, Rosie, and I would finally reach the last block, the steepest of them all, she would inevitably give up, plopping down on the sidewalk as if it were her new home. At that point, my influence over her being far beyond the power of treats, I would have no choice but to gather her in my arms, adding 10 pounds to my own weight, and huff and puff as I carried her all the way up. And if that gets boring, there are plenty of more comically steep hills in Noe Valley with killer views for a convenient, midday urban hike.
By now I’ve cemented a walking tour for out-of-town guests, and it begins at Chocolate Covered. Owner Jack Epstein is happy to help customers survey 300 bars and countless new offerings from obscure chocolatiers. Epstein’s suggestions are never based on price or exotic ingredients, but rather on an ardent desire to please his customers by getting to know their palates. He pushes just enough samples across the counter to ensure that the purchase actually makes it home, although the chocolate won’t last much longer there, either.
There’s far more to buy at 24th Street Cheese Co. than its name suggests. I’m particularly fond of its wine selections from the Pic Saint-Loup region in Languedoc-Roussillon in southern France, along with a variety of fresh breads, jars upon jars of olives, charcuterie for the carnivores and, of course, cheese. The staff is helpful and only half joking when they ask if you prefer “artisan or small and old.” And more often than not, they’ll point you toward something totally unknown that promptly becomes your new obsession.
For someone who cooks a great deal, Celia Sack’s Omnivore Books supplies a constant source of new, challenging recipes to conquer. But I also go for inspiration and linger over the beautiful covers and substantial research contained behind them. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch Celia after she’s returned from her weekend house in Tomales Bay, carting back her neighbor’s eggs to San Francisco.
I would take a small number of excellent restaurants over a plethora of mediocre ones any day, so I’m quite happy with what some would call a limited selection. When parental types are in town and treating, we head to La Ciccia, a cozy Sardinian restaurant where the chef and waiters help guide you through what is nothing short of a culinary revelation. I’m not one to order a pasta dish lacking cheese, but I cannot resist the Sea Urchin Fusilli and spend most of the time trying to wrap my head around the surprisingly complex taste of the cured tuna heart.
When friends deign to meet me in Noe Valley, rather than make plans to “meet in the middle, in the Mission,” which is almost never “in the middle,” we start at the Caskhouse. I wish we could end there, but they close at 10:00 p.m. You can order a craft beer at the reclaimed black walnut bar, but what I appreciate most are their wine options.
This isn’t everyone’s Noe Valley. Some may prefer the upscale, home-décor boutiques, and there seems to be an actual trail guiding exhausted TRX enthusiasts from Cardio Tone to Pressed Juicery. But my Noe Valley is one that feels slightly remote, a village neatly tucked into a bustling city, with just enough so that, on a daily basis, I can get what I need, but my vision isn’t crowded by what I don’t.
