Caffe Trieste

Caffé Trieste is reported to be the first cappuccino house in San Francisco, and they still know how to make a good one. I didn’t dare ask for a soy latte here. It is still owned and operated by the original Italian-American family, a place where some family members still work as baristas and others are said to perform in the weekly Saturday afternoon Italian music concerts (A sign over the espresso machine reads “the Saturday concert is 1 to 5 pm. Minimum charge 6.50/drink”). Known as a favorite of the beat generation when Alan Ginsberg and his crowd hung out here in the 50’s and 60’s, it remains a lively neighborhood café where artists, musicians, intellectuals, and area residents hang out.

After my recent visit to SF, I will add something to its considerable reputation. Caffe Trieste may be a place to meet worldly men. I base this upon 2 unexpected encounters there.

A quiet Tuesday afternoon

At almost 4 pm on a Tuesday afternoon, things are pretty slow here, with only about 6 o 7 of us in the caffe. I choose to sit with the crowd, on the bench along the window at one the round tables. The furniture is simple and worn: wooden chairs andformica tables, coffee served in clay-brown ceramic cups. A customer enters speaking Italian to the 2 young male baristas who respond in kind. They’re not much for small talk these guys, but did respond with a quick raise of the eyebrows when I gave high marks
to my cappuccino. An Italian music soundtrack is fired up for about 5 minutes, then stops. Before long I’m in conversation with a neighborhood resident in his late 60’s, BJ Papa, jazz musician and composer, according to his card, who has just returned from a gig in the Netherlands and is suffering from jet lag and a stomach ache. I ask
where he goes in SF to listen to music, and soon I am invited to accompany him to some night spots. I demur, citing other plans, but express sincere appreciation for his offer. He says if I change my mind, he’ll be at Café Trieste that evening between 8 and 9, and to stop by. It may have simply been a friendly invitation but my very rusty antennae told me it had the markings of a rendezvous, a ménage a deux, a date, for God's sake. T’was offered in a gracious and gentlemanly manner, but the lingering over the handshake, the “from the moment you walked in you had such a nice smile…” line, indicated to this old gal that his intentions might be less than honorable, or at least more than platonic. I rarely get such propositions, so I owe BJ a debt of
gratitude for making my day; but because I am very married and considerably chicken, I did not, dear readers, show up at the appointed hour. Sorry BJ ; truly I am. As I lay in my funky $80/night North Beach hotel bed at midnight inadvertently listening to the loud repetitive beat of mediocre Italian music playing in the restaurant downstairs, I did find myself wondering about the path not taken.

A busy Wednesday morning

The next morning, after watching a hundred or so Chinese elders practicing morning tai chi in Washington Square, I returned to Caffe Trieste, not for another chance at a date, but for a morning cappuccino. The caffe is crowded now, a long amiable line at the counter. A San Francisco police officer and a US postal carrier stop by, and people in business attire sit or order to go. Folks sit along a bench, their backs to the window, a few round formica tables in front, moving their newspaper aside to let others into this crowded prime seating area. I question the young woman barista about a round table next to the front door. “Is it ok to sit at the regulars table?” I ask. “Oh, yeah, sure”, she yells over the din of conversation and coffee-making in a tough good-natured Italian-American accent, “...if you don’t mind the regulars...hey, you might meet someone interesting!”. It’s an old table, covered withmulti-colored one inch tile, situated underneath the noisy espresso machine, but its strategic location allows occupants to see anyone who walks in the door, everyone who lines up to order, and most of those sitting outside at the street side tables. I watch the Asian gay male barrista take his cigarette and cell phone break at one of the outdoor tables while being greeted by a succession of regulars. A bit later, I also notice 2 men in expensive business suits sitting at a sunny outdoor table on the opposite side of the window from me. Rose, the postal carrier, is telling “sister” behind the coffee bar that she’s afraid to ask but really wants to have a photo taken with the tall, handsome,fashionably dressed man sitting at that table. After some encouragement, she says, “Ok, I’ll tell him sister said...”, marching out with cell phone in hand. I watch this African-Amercian woman in her 50’s, excited like a little kid with this big grin on her face as she
poses for the photo. When she walks triumphantly back inside, I ask her “Excuse me, mam, who is that man?” “Why, that’s our Mayor Gavin Newsom!” she replies, leaning over my round table as we figure out how to save her precious cell phone photo as wallpaper. Newly attuned to local politics, I spy an article in The San Francisco Examiner about the upcoming mayoral race in which a florist by the name of Harold Hoogasian running for Mayor is given 500-1 odds. On my way out, I ask the Mayor’s
dark-suited bodyguards loitering on the corner if they’d mind me taking a photo of the boss from a distance, but they encourage me to go have a photo taken with him. "What-the-heck", I think, "if Rose can do it, so can I":

“Our Mayor is even taller than you are” I say, graciously, introducing myself as a tourist visiting from Honolulu. “Oh, yeah, he was in town just last week”, he replies. The Mayor's aide assents to take a photo of us, noting with deep resignation that this is his lot in life. I say I’m sorry for that, as he leans back in his seat and snaps a shot. It turns out as a peculiar sort of dog’s eye view of Monsieur le Mayor & moi. Still, it's not bad for government work.