Taxi drivers are a good gauge of a City. If I jump in a cab and get from A to B with no chatter then I often think I should just head for the airport. Based on the ride to Haight Street, San Francisco is my kind of town. Our cabbie slips into a London accent and tales of growing up in Lambeth. At first we aren’t sure whether he’s just a jobbing actor or certified nutjob but as we drive we get a part life story, filled in with his pointers on San Francisco, and some survival tips for our short journey: “this is dodgy round ‘ere… if the shooting starts, duck… and don’t worry, i’ve got a gun in the glove box”. As far as I’m aware The Knowledge does not yet include small arms training.
As we approach, Toronado makes itself known. From the open door heavy Rock can be heard from the dimly lit interior. Silvio has a grin across his face. This is his kind of music, his head tells us, as it starts to bang ever slightly. Meister as with myself is straight down to the important business of beer. I now have a smile across my face as I squint upward at the chalkboard. I hone in on localish Bear Republic (Healdssburg), Racer 5. At 7% it’s a punchy IPA start to the evening. Mark Dredge (at Camden Town Brewery / Pencil and Spoon) and San Franophile Sid Boggle both recommended Toronado for obvious reasons and on first impressions i’m not disappointed.
Sat at the bar I’m taking it all in. The guy sat next to me has a biker jacket and shaved head, next to him a middle aged couple who look like they’ve come straight from the office and on the tables down the wall, groups of young hipsters. Beer truly is the great leveller. In hindsight it would have paid to take more note of where my beer was going than my barside anthropology. As I place my glass on a raised lip running the length of the bar my Racer 5 is off the grid. A slow motion moment as I grasp at the glass, saving a smash but only to empty the contents down the bar, over Silvio’s lap and create a sad little IPA puddle on the floor. The bartenders throw me some towels for my side as they mop at theirs. Meister can be seen heading to the back. As he’s walking he no doubt hears the barman announce “f***** Brits… Can’t hold their beer”… As an Aussie he’d probably agree. My deserved shaming wouldn’t be complete without the Dick Van Dyke accent… “ere I’ll have 6 pints ‘o Lager and some crisps pleeese”. He places a refilled glass in front of me and waves away payment as I reach for my wallet.
As I try to laugh it off I’m getting some looks from the office couple. I apologise but get no response. I ask “did it get you”. Again no response. Normally I’d buy someone a beer but it’s difficult if they’re seemingly mute. Silvio tells me the beer didn’t go anywhere near the guy and I head to the back where Meister is stood shaking his head. 5 minutes pass and I’m tapped on the shoulder. As I turn, “hey buddy you wanna fight“. Now i’ve not had a fight since I was at school and the prospect of a bar fight, arrest and possible deportation isn’t on the itinerary. I stand slightly stunned for a few moments trying to work out whether this is the Mute before the guy grins and the voice morphs into something closer to home. Then I realise it’s the cabbie. He’s found a phone in his cab and on the chance its ours he’s driven back. Relieved that i’m not about to take a dive, I recount, somewhat incoherently, our last twenty minutes. He laughs, shakes my hand and heads out, scowling at the Mute on his way out.
We sink a few more beers before heading on. Toronado is the kind of bar i could easily find myself working through the chalkboard in, if I could just get the hang of the damn tricky glass on bar manoeuver. Well worth a visit I’ll return on my next visit, but ensure i’ve put a bit more practice in beforehand.
Toronado, 547 Haight Street, San Francisco, CA
