Echopraxia

Reading about Sho's journey through San Francisco is a major nostalgia trip for me, as he has obligingly hit some of my favorite spots - places like the Pork Store, Hobson's Choice, and most of all the Black Horse London Pub & Deli in Cow Hollow.

I happened upon the place in the summer of 1999. It's not easy to happen upon, but at the time they had a big Union Jack protruding out into Union Street, and that was unusual enough for me to stop in. (Admittedly, it doesn't take a huge amount to make me curious enough to stop in at a new bar.) The bartender - also the proprietor - stood to attention and said "Welcome home." And home was what it felt like, for the next six hours, after which time it felt more like a fuzzy, soft-focussed, gently yawing and pitching version of home. Then I fell over.

The Black Horse is the kind of place where, if you don't know anyone, the bartender will introduce you to the rest of the patrons. This is not a process that takes very long. There's seating room for about seven, and standing room for about zero. There's a keg behind the bar in a bathtub, a couple of bottled ale options, a totally impractical dartboard. You can order a cheese plate, and you used to be able to buy cigars. You can leave a conversation and pick it back up six months later the next time you're in the city. The last time I was there I had, through a series of logistical mistakes, no place to stay, and ended up with more offers of a place to crash than I knew what to do with. I'm not sure if they even need the business - I'm not exaggerating; the entire establishment could fit behind the bar of my current local - but, for what it's worth, if you're ever in the neighborhood, this is as close as I've seen to the Platonic ideal of a bar. And they don't even serve spirits.