I’m not telling where this is from. I wouldn’t want you to come and make the line longer for me. San Francisco looks like a sleepy seaside town in many parts. It’s easy to forget how big it is. The light. What one pays for when dining here is the light at golden hour. The way it softens reality towards the ideal. But it isn’t bright or garish. It’s a grey-blue dying haze. If fog could be illuminated… It makes all the simple things beautiful: white lion head soup tureens, tubby bumblebee striped salt and pepper shakers, the veteran aluminum pitcher and all its icy condensation. Everything is crisp.