Los Dedos (The Fingers) photographed by Tom Bergin

FIRST PERSON | Tom Bergin

Life flies by so fast. It has been almost 10 years since I sold Tom Bergin Goldsmith on Fillmore Street to Eric Trabert. I miss the customers — many of whom became friends. I miss the neighbors who popped in to say hello as they passed by on their daily routines — especially people like Rose, who shared her family recipe for Italian gravy, and Bruce, who often brought his latest baked goods for us to try. And of course I miss the ones who came by to keep me informed about the ups and downs of the neighborhood.

I feel honored to have shared in many happy moments as a jewelry designer on Fillmore Street for nine years, and for eight years before that at Union Street Goldsmith, whether it was working with customers to design a wedding ring, resetting a sentimental gemstone or finding a special keepsake. I miss the jewelry business and have fond memories of being involved with the Fillmore Merchants Association — which involved, among other things, climbing up the trees along Fillmore Street like a monkey to wrap them with Christmas lights.

After working hard for so many years, I thought I would just kick back. But life has brought me new adventures. Now I live between San Francisco and Montevideo, Uruguay. I’m in Uruguay because it is the childhood home of my partner of five years, who I met right in front of my house in San Francisco.

Going back and forth to Uruguay the last few years has turned into something of an endless summer. The shortest day of the year in the U.S., December 21, is the longest day of the year in Uruguay and the first day of summer. So while I sometimes miss being in retail at Christmas time, it is fun to spend Christmas near the beach and watch the water drain down the sink in the opposite direction.

In Uruguay, life is quiet. I enjoy doing travel and portrait photography and posting the photos on my Facebook page, Thomas Bergin Photography. The photograph above is part of a series I took in Punta del Este.

I don’t know what is around the next bend, but for now I’ll keep my seat belt fastened and enjoy the ride. My wish is that we all have a new year filled with good health and a happy journey.

Nos vemos amigos. I’ll be seeing you around.

When we started telling friends that we were moving from San Francisco to Boston, we could count on getting one of two responses: an incredulous “Why?” or “Boston’s great. It’s a lot like San Francisco.”

My partner Nanette Bisher and I were moving because I had just landed a dream job. We’d always sworn we’d never leave San Francisco. After years of hopscotching across the country for work, we’d found our way to the Bay Area in 1999 and for 12 years we were happy — Nanette as the art director first of the Examiner and then the Chronicle, me as an editor at several business magazines. But the new job — as editor of the Harvard Business Review, where I’d get the opportunity to build on the success of a storied publication — was too good to turn down. And it was in Boston.

So we reluctantly agreed to give ourselves three years. In that time, we figure, we’ll either fall in love with Boston or we’ll come back home.

And by home, we mean our place at Bush and Fillmore, because nowhere we’ve ever lived has felt so much like home. We love our apartment in the Amelia. But home is much more than our condo. It’s our daily visit with Gary at Barry for Pets, where he’d ply our Corgis, Harry and Sadie, with treats and sit for a few minutes to discuss our beloved Giants. Home is our daily visit to the Fillmore Bakeshop, where I’d take way too long deciding which cookie to buy, mostly so I could spend a little more time with Elena and Doug, the daughter-father owners. Home is Alta Plaza and Mollie Stone’s, Osaka and Woodhouse Fish Co. The great people and frames at Invision. And home is the neighbors who became dear friends — our family, really.

Leaving was not easy. “Why?” indeed.

I got to Boston first; Nanette drove across the country with Harry and Sadie. During my first months in Boston, I kept looking for the qualities that would make people compare it to San Francisco. It’s small but cosmopolitan, like San Francisco. There are great restaurants, like San Francisco. And there are beautiful residential areas, which we discover as we look for a neighborhood that feels comfortable.

The truth is that Boston’s magic has yet to reveal itself fully to us, but we’ve gotten glimpses of it here and there: in the most delicious lobster sandwich ever, from a hole-in-the-wall where you eat in a more or less converted carport. At Regina’s Pizzeria, a 90-year-old mainstay of Boston’s North End, where the waiters are rude but the pies are delicious. At an arts and crafts sale in the South End, where the beautiful bronze pears were cast from fruit the artist had taken from Paul Revere’s yard. On the Cambridge street where a friend lives next to Julia Child’s house and across from e.e. cummings’ home.

That’s pretty great.

We’re starting to warm up to the place. I’m not sure when we’ll stop checking the weather in San Francisco, noting that when it’s 35 here, it’s 53 back there — a cruel numeric trick. But I do know that we’ll never find San Francisco in Boston. And that’s okay. I think we’ll learn to like Boston when we understand it better and can enjoy it on its own terms — lobster rolls, traditional pizza, historic sites around every corner.

It will take time.

[Show as slideshow]

TAKING THE SCENIC ROUTE | Nanette Bisher

Driving cross-country with two Corgis and a pal was great. Here are some west to east highlights should you ever have to leave San Francisco:

The Groveland Hotel in Groveland, California, is a quirky Victorian beauty — and could be a weekend trip from San Francisco. Friendly people. Dogs are welcome in some rooms, in the outdoor eating areas and in the bar. A great stopping place enroute to Yosemite. Do not miss eating in the hotel restaurant. Had the best salmon dish. Ever. Price-wise? Higher end, but certainly not nosebleed.

In Utah: Drive I-75 from the I-15 east to the exit for Moab, Utah. Arches is the northernmost of the national parks that drops south into Bryce Canyon and then the Grand Canyon. The views along just about every minute of this drive are breathtaking.

Moab, Utah: Bucks Grill House and Vista Lounge. Amazing comfort food, if that includes Pheasant Pot Pie, the daily special when we were there. Culinary graduate takes on some great kitchens and then decides to open his own place back home in Moab. Yipee! Dress code seems to include pants that zip off at the knees. Starters include tasty treats like Mixed Game Sliders and Smoked Catfish Cake. Entrees are steaks to Turkey Pot Pie to Sweet Potato Vegetable Lasagna. Full bar. Nice wine list.

Reliance, Nebraska: Totally worth the detour to visit Carhenge — an homage to Stonehenge using classic cars instead of stone slabs. Built by James Reinders in 1987 during a family reunion. Makes every family reunion I have been to pale in comparison. Free and open 24/7 — except you need to get there during daylight to see it. It seems that this popular tourist site is for sale. So you could own it for $300,000.

Myers Grill and Catering, Williamsberg, Indiana: Recommended by the owner of the Crest Motel. Otherwise there wouldn’t be a chance of finding this place. Just two miles on the other side of the freeway, in the garage behind their home, Tracy and Michael Myers helm this not-to-be-missed treat. Great friendly group of locals. Food is simply delicious. A white board lists the 10 or so fresh salads for the day, including sauerkraut salad from Tracy’s grandma’s recipe when we were there — delicious, as was the pea salad and bean soup. We also had the most delicous and huge amounts of broasted chicken. Gallons of ice tea (we didn’t know it was byob.) Check for dinner for two was about $18. A one-of-a-kind experience not to be missed. Call 319-668-2321.

FIRST PERSON | James DeKoven

On a recent moonlit night in the neighborhood, darkness having descended much earlier than only a few weeks before, some friends were at my place sipping cocktails and examining life’s more contentious issues: individualism versus conformity, true love, the meaning of life. It was all rather intense.

When I tried to lighten the mood by asking who’s better — Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding or Smokey Robinson — I kind of killed the energy of the conversation. So I changed the subject again and suggested we continue the party at Fat Angel.

You might know Fat Angel, an off the beaten path cafe in the Fillmore Jazz District tucked away around the corner at 1740 O’Farrell Street. If you’ve spent any time in Paris, you’ll be familiar with the Fat Angel aesthetic: dim lighting by candles and chandeliers, a marble bar, worn hardwood floors, a space filled with people and lively discussion yet somehow retaining an intimate ambiance. As with those Parisian cafes, most newcomers don’t necessarily seek out Fat Angel. They discover it by chance.

All of us — Cathleen, Tamara, Erin, Clayton, Andre, David and I — snuggled into a corner table and ordered drinks and food to share: wild mushroom and white truffle oil flatbread, gruyere and aged cheddar mac and cheese, garlic chili butter with country bread, duck salami, plus something we had to try called Cy’s salty sweet nuts.
With everyone grazing away, I figured now was the time to revisit the Marvin-Otis-Smokey question. But I kept getting interrupted.

First someone brought up the earthquake a few days before and we spent considerable time trading “Where were you during the ’89 quake?” stories. (Four of us were waiting to watch the first game of the Giants-A’s World Series.) “It’s funny how native Californians just stand there like nothing’s happening,” Erin noted, “but people from the Midwest think it’s the end of the world.”

Then Clayton wondered, “Hey, what’s the deal with the guy who does the walking ghost tours of Pacific Heights?” No one knew.

We needed another round by then, so I ambled up to the bar. Fat Angel doesn’t make it easy to choose — there are all sorts of interesting, unconventional draft beers, even draft wines, plus by-the-glass and by-the-bottle options on an ever-changing list. I don’t know much about wine, but I imagine connoisseurs appreciate how the selections are grouped into categories like Crisp & Refreshing, Aromatic & Lush, Chubby & Satisfying and Bright & Juicy.

As for beer, I got some recommendations from Jason Kirmse, who owns and runs Fat Angel along with Cyrick Hia. They’re both constantly greeting customers, taking orders, pouring drinks, seating a group, having a good time and making sure that everyone else is, too. Kirmse gladly took the time to tell me why I might prefer the Burton Baton to the Hop Riot, and explained the flavor differences between Kasteel Rouge and Bike Lane Brown. Then he gave me a taste of all four.

After living south of Geary for seven years, Kirmse and Hia were inspired to open Fat Angel because they found the area was underserved.

“Most neighborhoods take for granted the abundance of unique eating and drinking establishments they can walk to and enjoy,” says Kirmse. “We wanted to create something for the residents south of Geary that was real: real food, real drink, real environment, real community. From the 100-year-old wood floors to my grandmother’s chicken pot pie recipe, from honest, locally brewed beer to wine served fresh out of a keg from a vintner 60 miles north, everything at Fat Angel is real.”

The realness shines through especially in the building materials, which were salvaged from a defunct 1901 church south of Napa. From the remains of the church they created the flooring, bar, back bar and wainscoting. Even more genuine, in some ways, is the fact that neither Kirmse nor Hia has any formal restaurant training. 

“Everything we know we’ve gleaned from eating and drinking around town and just being curious about food, drink and hospitality,” says Kirmse. “We believe in hearty portions, uncomplicated food and a commitment to making everything from scratch using real ingredients. Plenty of people living here are eager and willing to support quality, local businesses. We just need more like-minded people who are willing to take the leap of faith that we did and have the vision that this part of Fillmore can be a contender, too.”

Walking home from Fat Angel, I considered the merits of each soul legend. Marvin Gaye had the musical and topical sophistication of “What’s Going On,” but people forget about his breathtaking duets with Tammi Terrell. Otis Redding could prevail based solely on his raw emotion and gritty delivery. But for my money, Smokey Robinson’s the guy. You can’t beat that sweet falsetto. “Baby, Baby, Don’t Cry” is possibly the most sublime song ever conceived.

As I came to my own conclusion, I remembered what Kirmse had told me earlier about the meaning of the Fat Angel moniker. “Philosophically,” he said, “it alludes to a being who falls short of its intended, perfect nature.” I think Smokey wrote one about that, too.

Fat Angel website: “Born out of a passion for the Fillmore”

The dining room at Jitlada is welcoming to singles, as well as couples and groups.

FIRST PERSON | Alicia Utter

I stumbled into the Fillmore by accident six years ago, enticed by an ad for an apartment on Craigslist. Strolling out on the patio with the building manager, I looked down to see my dog’s tail touch his back as he ran around pots of jasmine. Looking up at the quiet apartments surrounding the space, I knew we were at home. And one additional canine later, we are still here, enjoying our neighborhood more each day.

I cherish the friendliness among the locals. Neighbors know your dogs’ names, what building you live in, even when you had a bad day. I’ve come to feel a part of this place: mourning when the Fillmore Hardware store closed, searching out the best noodle place in Japantown, spending an afternoon in the park with the dogs and a novel, relishing the trees and fashions at the bus stops as they change with the seasons.

Like many other city dwellers, I live alone. And one of the luxuries of being a solitary creature is dining out alone: catching snippets of conversations in a restaurant, ordering just what I feel like, taking my time to enjoy it, feeling the rhythm of the room.

Jitlada, at 1826 Buchanan, right across from Hotel Tomo and within view of the Japantown Peace Pagoda, is a simple, clean Thai restaurant — not advertised, but nearly always full of locals. The decor is a simple two-tone paint job with small, vibrant paintings of dragons and lotuses hanging on one wall. In the corner is a small dedication for Buddha, tended lovingly and adorned with new incense and fresh fruit and flowers. The tables are simple, easy to combine for larger parties or to separate for romantic dates.

The waitresses have been there for years and they know me and other regulars by our orders, if not by our names. We comment on new haircuts or chat about the week’s events.

On a recent visit, I take out my companion for the evening — a thick novel — and head toward the back of the restaurant. From this vantage point, I can hear the hubbub of the kitchen but stay out of the way of the crowded tables, ordering takeout with the least hassle. The waitress gives a familiar smile and drops off two menus: one regular and the other listing the specials. The specials rarely change. I order a favorite noodle dish, Evil Princess: chicken and spicy red curry sauce with coconut milk, cabbage and spinach. Some nights it’s the steak, very tender and infused with lemongrass; other nights, one of the delicious soups or pad thai.

The waitress smiles again as she pours the glass of pinot noir I habitually order while waiting. There are several full tables tonight. The South American guitar music on the speakers is lovely. A dish of prawns comes out arranged like a sculpture, the tails creating an open bowl filled with sauces. Diners all around ooh and aah at the spectacular presentation. A group behind me discusses Steve Jobs.

My food arrives in a plastic bag, ready to take home and eat, but I sip my wine and continue reading. They never rush me out of this place, even after my takeout is ready. I love that.

As I finish the last of the wine, a woman comes in and picks up her takeout order. She is businesslike — just walking in and naming her food. I say good night to my favorite waitress, glad to see the place is busy so she will have a good night.

I pull on my sweatshirt and wrap my scarf on my neck. It is one cold night. Following the stern walker out, I adjust my purse at the door. She looks at me and asks, “What’s your favorite?”

My head jerks over, surprised. Her voice is much softer than I expected.

“Ah, the red curries,” I say without hesitation. “Normally the soup, or the Evil Princess. You?” It feels surreal to talk to someone after being so solitary in that crowded room. So many of us, craving Thai food on a Tuesday night. That openness among locals — never discussed, but a familiarity, a knowledge of the underpulse here.

“I like the mild stuff, usually the pumpkin curry,” she says, admitting that she needs to step outside her comfort zone.

I know it well — sweet, not spicy. As for me, I crave heat and spice at all times.

“I recommend the steak,” I offer. “It’s delicious when you want some red meat. Good night and enjoy.”

I turn toward Sutter as she turns toward Bush. Not so alone after all.

Local cyclist Doug Rappaport is a big fan of Bespoke, a new neighborhood bike shop.

FIRST PERSON | Doug Rappaport

Offering handmade bicycles and promising precision maintenance services, Bespoke Cycles is now open at 2843 Clay Street, near Scott, the storefront previously occupied for many years by Tony Kitz Oriental Rugs. As a nearby neighbor and an avid cyclist, I’m excited — because in addition to selling custom bicycles and top-end equipment, Bespoke is quickly becoming a hub for local cycling with bicycle-related events and rides.

I met the three owners of the shop about a decade ago when they worked together at City Cycle at the corner of Steiner and Union. Back then, City Cycle was owned by Clay Mankin, a charismatic character who loved cycling and life. His shop was known as a great place to work and became a gathering point for local cyclists, especially on Saturdays for the weekly 9 a.m. ride.

We’d meet in front of City Cycle and, even though the shop didn’t officially open until 10, Clay would always be there just in case someone needed a quick fix — which was most often on the house. He rarely rode with us because someone had to mind the store, but his easy ability to get along with everyone went with us on the ride. We had as much fun talking as we did challenging each other up Mt. Tamalpais, and I’m fortunate to have made some lasting friendships from that group.

Sadly, while riding his bike from San Francisco to Santa Barbara in celebration of his 50th birthday in 2005, Clay suffered a fatal heart attack in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Clay’s “memorial and celebration” filled the Great American Music Hall. I was amazed by how many lives he touched and I left that evening reminded of the personal mantra Clay and I shared: Enjoy each and every day.

The weekly rides dwindled and came to an end after that. And ultimately, Clay’s influence on City Cycle faded and the core employees left as new management turned it into a more traditional bike shop. Not only did I sorely miss Clay and our talks about life, but I knew of no other bike shop that sold only products it believed in, had perfectionists as mechanics and employees such as Ari Bronsztein, who — like a mad scientist with a tape measure, plumb line and computer imaging — spent an hour adjusting my position and alleviated the knee pain that had plagued me for years.

Eventually rumor spread that Ari and two of Clay’s other former employees, Aaron Allen and Stefan Paszke, were contemplating opening their own shop to carry on where Clay left off. Fate first brought those two together in 1999, when Aaron broke his ankle during a mountain bike race and Stefan stopped to help.

None of the three friends had any retail experience, but with the help of a number of Clay’s former customers, who pitched in to help draft business plans, negotiate leases and secure funding, they got Bespoke Cycles up and running.

Bespoke — offering bicycles and accessories — is located at 2843 Clay Street.

The new neighbors have been supportive, too. “All we’ve received is warmth,” Aaron said recently, noting that many locals have stopped by to offer welcoming good wishes — and even homemade meals — since they made the move to Clay Street.

Bespoke continues to focus on custom and semi-custom bicycles and other top-end equipment and clothing. It also offers a host of bicycle-related services including routine maintenance and repairs, custom-made orthotics and computer-assisted bicycle fittings. Future plans include group rides, community cycling events and even yoga classes for bicyclists — all activities Clay Mankin would have been proud to support.

Doug Rappaport, a criminal defense lawyer in San Francisco, lives in the neighborhood.

Photograph of Julian Guthrie on Fillmore Street by Chris Hardy

FIRST PERSON | Julian Guthrie

Having lived in San Francisco for nearly 20 years and worked as a reporter first for the Examiner and now for the Chronicle, I have come to see the different ways neighborhoods in the city are defined. For many, the center of a neighborhood is a coffee house, or a park, or a commercial strip to stroll. For me, it’s all those things.

The area around Fillmore Street has long been my home. I jog the steps of Alta Plaza and spend countless hours at the playground with my son. We love the yogurt at Fraiche, the pastries at the Boulangerie and the Fillmore Bakeshop — and we adored its predecessor, Patisserie Delanghe. We’re regulars at Delfina and Dino’s and Florio and SPQR.

This neighborhood works, with its mix of young and old and in between, its families and dogs, its parks and shops. And while countless amazing stores and restaurants have come and gone (Fillamento, the Brown Bag and Bittersweet, to name a few), the relaxed character of the neighborhood remains the same. It’s what drew me here, and what keeps me here.

In recent years, I’ve learned of yet another way people define their neighborhoods: by a house of worship. My new book, The Grace of Everyday Saints — published August 18 — is about a group of people who found a strong sense of community through their spiritual home, St. Brigid, the muscular stone church at the corner of Broadway and Van Ness Avenue.

The parish, established in 1863, has always drawn people from Russian Hill, Nob Hill, the Marina and Pacific Heights. The Catholics of St. Brigid marked certain indelible moments of their lives there: baptisms, confirmations, confessions, weddings and funerals. They found comfort in the routine of sitting in those solid oak pews for Sunday Mass. Many told me they had moved into the neighborhood because of St. Brigid. Some had come from across the globe — from Mexico, Burma, the Philippines, Ireland, Italy — and settled into this corner of San Francisco, attaching themselves to the neighborhood because of the church.

St. Brigid Church at Broadway and Van Ness Avenue

Then, in late 1993, the San Francisco Archdiocese made an announcement that brought shock and sadness: St. Brigid, along with Sacred Heart on Fillmore and a dozen other Catholic churches across San Francisco, would close. There were fewer Catholics in the city. Fewer men were entering the priesthood. Buildings damaged by the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake needed costly repairs.

St. Brigid parishioners reacted with anger, grief and — ultimately — resistance. The Grace of Everyday Saints, which began as a series of stories I wrote for the Chronicle, is about their struggle. I’ve spent nearly six years with this band from St. Brigid, struck by their devotion to this place they called home.

I also fell for the people — some great San Franciscans who embody the best of the city. There’s Robert Bryan, an appellate attorney who lives with his wife, Nicole, near the church in Pacific Heights. Bryan was just becoming a Catholic, but vowed to fight for the church as tenaciously as he would for a client on death row. There’s Father Cyril O’Sullivan, a young anti-establishment priest from Ireland who had to decide whether to follow the will of his superiors or the wish of his people. And there’s Joe Dignan, a reluctant Catholic who found answers to his inner turmoil at the same time he became a leader of the St. Brigid pack.

There are many other great characters: Carmen Esteva, a Filipina who moved a half-block from St. Brigid so she could attend Mass daily, believing it was the only way to save her soul. There is a humble housepainter, David Hansell, who took it upon himself to care for the church for years after it was closed, repairing the doors, removing graffiti, plucking weeds from its surroundings, treating it as a comatose loved one who would eventually awake. There is Siu-Mei Wong, who converted to Catholicism from Buddhism and forged a family from strangers.

And there is an image that still haunts: a solitary candle burning on the front steps of St. Brigid that its parishioners managed to keep aflame for 10 years as they took the battle from their sunlit sanctuary all the way to the steps of the Vatican in Rome. While these parishioners without a parish didn’t get everything they set out for, they found faith, joy and family redefined — and won unimagined victories along the way.

The altar at St. Brigid Church, which served the neighborhood for more than a century.

The end of the cable car line was at Fillmore and Washington.

FIRST PERSON | Charlie Greene

The corner of Jackson and Fillmore was the center of the universe when I was growing up at 2449 Jackson Street in the 1950s and 60s. You could get anywhere in the city on four Muni bus lines — the 22-Fillmore, 80-Leavenworth, 3-Jackson and 24-Divisadero — plus the Washington-Jackson cable car.

The 22-Fillmore — the Double Deuce — was my favorite. It could take you north to the Marina or south through the Fillmore, the Mission and all the way to Potrero Hill. I used to ride my skateboard on Fillmore, holding on to the round wire holders on the back of the bus to get a running start. I will never forget the chug-a-chug sound the 3 and 22 made going up and down the hills of San Francisco.

The cable cars were really loud, but it was cool when they rang the bell letting everyone know they were taking off. My older sister would get dressed up with white gloves and patent leather shoes and ride the cable car with my mom to go shopping downtown at the City of Paris, I. Magnin’s and Blum’s. I was jealous she got to have the coffee crunch cake at Blum’s. It was the best.

The end of the cable car line was at Washington and Fillmore, also home to Joe’s Smoke Shop, which had great greasy burgers and Nehi orange sodas. There was a barber shop next door. Across the street was the Unique Market, where my mom had a charge account I used for soda, chips, candy — anything a kid could want.

I was back on Fillmore in early June for an alumni breakfast at Stuart Hall School for Boys on Broadway. I took the same sidewalk I took to school every day for eight years, walking along Fillmore from Jackson to Broadway. After breakfast I stopped to visit with Phil Kaplan at Bond Cleaners on Fillmore near Jackson. His shop is the only one left from when I was growing up. Bond Cleaners has been there since 1952, the year I was born. Tom’s drugstore was next door and had every magazine a kid could want — and some I wasn’t supposed to look at.

The really cool thing about growing up here was Alta Plaza Park. My first memory of the park was when I was four years old. I ran away from my babysitter and crossed Steiner Street for the first time alone. She quit on the spot after calling my mother to come and get me. Poor mom hurt her back walking up the hill into the park to find me. Of course I blamed it all on my sister.

The views from Alta Plaza were amazing, especially for a boy. You could see the bay with the Golden Gate Bridge on the north and a huge swath of the city on the south. You could see Twin Peaks, where rumor had it the 50-foot woman was buried. You could also see the new St. Mary’s Cathedral. Around 4 in the afternoon, the shadow on the church made a perfect shape of a woman’s breast. My friend’s father was the architect and called it “mother church.”

These days, kids communicate by texting and cell phones. But back then, my neighborhood friends and I used the fences in our backyards. We all lived on the square block of Jackson, Steiner, Washington and Fillmore. If we wanted to get hold of each other, we would climb the fences to get to our buddy’s house, then use our secret whistle to call him outside.

When I was around 14 or 15, I used to walk down Fillmore with a friend to the Fillmore Auditorium on Geary. On Sunday afternoons, Bill Graham let kids in for the concert. I will never forget the first time I saw him. He was screaming at someone, saw us and invited us upstairs for free apples and the concert. Country Joe & the Fish opened for the Yardbirds, with Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page. The light show was surreal.

I was a white kid growing up near a black neighborhood in the 1960s, and anything south of Pine Street was considered a little scary. I remember walking down Fillmore past Pine during the Watts riots. An elderly black man told me point blank that this was neither the time nor the place for a white kid to be out for a walk. “Just get on home,” he instructed me.

There were a lot more bars on Fillmore Street when I was growing up. There was the Hillcrest on the northwest corner of Sacramento and Fillmore, the Hideaway a few doors north and Minnie’s Can Do Club farther south. Then there was Lee’s Liquors on the southeast corner of Fillmore and Sutter. Lee’s and the corner store a block south at Post and Fillmore would (hush-hush) sneak us white boys in to buy liquor after hours.

I live in Marin County now and walking back on Fillmore is a real treat. It used to drive my kids crazy when I made them go on the tour of my old neighborhood. But to this day I remember the cable cars rumbling by my house on Jackson Street and I miss the foghorns early in the morning.

Fillmore will always be the ’hood I loved and cherished growing up.

Photograph of Browser Books by Kathi O'Leary

FIRST PERSON | Ken Samuels

The other day, while selling some books to a couple of young men, I realized I’d known them since they were little kids pleading with their mothers to buy them Berenstain Bears books.

That sums up my decade and a half at Browser Books on Fillmore and Sacramento selling books to the families of this neighborhood. I get to know them as they return again and again. Some kids are shy, nudging their parents to the counter to ask a question, while others march up and confidently fire away with their requests. Hands down, these are the most rewarding moments of my workday.

I never forget how booksellers shared their enthusiasm for literature with me when I was a child. Along with my family, they made me a lover of books — and in time a writer. I don’t know if I’m helping neighborhood kids become writers, but I hope I’m helping them become book and bookstore lovers.

Browser Books, like all independent bookshops, faces many challenges these days, but our relationship with the readers in this neighborhood is what sustains us. It begins with the young ones. One minute they’re reading Harold and the Purple Crayon and before you know it they’re on to War and Peace. After all these years, I still love to watch this development.

To me, that’s the definition of being a local, neighborhood bookseller.

Ken Samuels has worked at Browser Books since 1996.

EARLIER: “Thank God for Browser Books”

It was a Friday night in January 1990, exactly 20 years ago. We had been in our new home on Bush Street for five years. My wife Janice suggested we walk up Fillmore to the Clay Theatre to see a French film, “Claudine-Claudel,” about Rodin, his work and his mistress. We went to the 7 o’clock show with plans to have dinner afterward.

The movie was sold out, but we managed to excuse and pardon our way to the remaining two empty seats in the dead center of a front row. After half an hour, I said to Janice — quietly, I’m sure, despite the shushes from nearby theatergoers — “If something doesn’t develop soon, I’m going to leave.”

“You can’t leave,” she said.

An hour into the film, having endured enough, I decided to leave.

“You can’t leave,” Janice said again. “You’ll disturb all these people.”

“Watch me,” I responded, and I excused and pardoned my way down the row and out of the theater.

Across the street, a new restaurant called Via Veneto looked lively, full of people and all lit up. I decided to check it out while the movie dragged on.
As I opened the door and stepped inside, I was met with a celebratory crowd of fashionably dressed people in jackets and ties and dresses and heels. I noticed the restaurant had no chairs and its tables were up against the walls and filled with delectable looking antipasta.

Before I could think much about it, a waiter offered a glass of red wine. Wow, what a great new restaurant. I began to enjoy myself, while keeping
an eye on the Clay across the street. The clientele was jovial and friendly. A smartly dressed man approached me and asked, “And how do you
know Salvatore?”

“Salvatore? Well, you know…”

Before I could embarrass myself, he saved me by asking, “From North Beach?”

“Yes, of course, from North Beach,” I cheerfully agreed.

I was continuing to enjoy the wine, the food and the company when a statuesque brunette approached.

“Hi,” she said, “and how do you know Massimo?”

Now I knew Salvatore was from North Beach, but who in the world
was Massimo? Think fast.

“Well,” I responded, “you know, Salvatore is …”

“But of course,” she said, “Massimo and Salvatore both worked in…”

“ . . . North Beach,” I chimed in.

Again the conversation was interrupted by the jostling crowd. I noticed that “Claudine-Claudel” must have finally — mercifully — ended, since people were exiting the theatre. I made my way toward the door to tell Janice about this wonderfully friendly new restaurant. Just as I opened the door and was about to step outside, a fellow grabbed my arm.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked warmly.

“No,” I said, “I’m just going across the street to bring my wife back.”

“Wonderful!” he said.

Filled with wine and bravado by now, I turned and asked him confidently, “And how do you know Massimo?”

He looked at me and responded: “I am Massimo!”

Later I found out: That was Via Veneto’s opening night celebration, by invitation only. And we’ve been crashing this wonderful neighborhood restaurant ever since.

Consider me a sucker for commemorative plaques. One reason London is among my favorite cities is its many buildings with blue ceramic plaques noting the famous people who lived there. I find it impossible not to pause and read them.

So it was inevitable I would stop my car when I realized a bronze plaque had been installed on an Italianate Victorian I once owned at 2777 Pine Street. It didn’t mention that I had lived on the ground floor. Instead, it associated the building with a tenant who had rented the two floors upstairs.

c. 1878
Former home of
Eldridge Cleaver
Black Panther
and
Republican leader

The plaque at 2777 Pine Street.

Then I saw a young woman purposefully crossing the street. No wonder she’d mumbled her name when arranging the appointment.
“Here she comes now,” I told my friend. “It’s Kathleen Cleaver.”

There was no mistaking her Afro. It had been pictured often in newspaper and television coverage of the Black Panther Party, whose profile was then at its highest. Six months earlier she’d married the Panthers’ minister of education, the committed revolutionary Eldridge Cleaver, and become the party’s communications secretary and the first female member of its decision-making body. Their apartment door had recently been kicked in by the San Francisco Police Department’s tactical squad in an unsuccessful raid searching for guns and ammunition. Although Eldridge Cleaver at the time was the Peace and Freedom Party’s presidential candidate, he seemed to be a magnet for violence.

“What are you going to do?” my friend asked.

“Rent it to her if she likes it,” I said.

She did, we made the deal and she paid the deposit and arranged to move in. I had to wait to meet Eldridge. He was in jail, charged with attempted murder after a gunfight with the Oakland police in April 1968 that wounded him and killed fellow Black Panther Bobby Hutton. Hutton was shot 12 times while trying to surrender with his hands in the air after teargas flushed them from the basement where they were hiding.

Cleaver was released on bail June 6 and we met after he joined Kathleen as my upstairs neighbors. They had a steady and heavy flow of visitors, but it was mostly uneventful except a couple of times when it got noisy at night and I called to ask them to turn the music—usually good jazz—down a bit. They always did.

Otherwise there was little to indicate that anyone in the neighborhood was newsworthy. True, police cars cruised by far more frequently than before, and I often saw slow-moving cars carrying gawkers hoping to see the home of the high-profile Black Panther whose Soul on Ice, written after he’d served eight years in San Quentin for attempted murder, had just been published and quickly become a best seller.

And there were all those clicks and background sounds I would hear when using my phone. I just assumed it was an FBI wiretap—J. Edgar Hoover had described the Panthers as “the greatest threat to the internal security of the country” and ordered “hard-hitting counter-intelligence measures.” I sometimes asked, “Can you hear alright?” but never got a reply.

Herb Caen’s column occasionally mentioned seeing Eldridge’s white 1966 Mustang parked on Pine Street. I never told him it was actually mine.

Eldridge was scheduled to surrender in November on the assault charges, and things became noticeably more tense as the time approached. When the rent was late, I left a note and then a phone message. A reply was slipped through my mail slot. It was typed on the stationery of Ramparts, the locally based magazine that had published Eldridge’s writing since he was in San Quentin.

Mr. Johns:

Please excuse the delay but I have been so god damned busy with these pigs and courts and chaos that I completely forgot to pay the rent. You are so very sweet to be so unobtrusive and gentle with me. I think you are the perfect landlord and I would just like to warn you that you should prepare yourself for any day now some kind of assault on this house. I think it is beautiful, I love it, I won’t go away, but the local, federal, international, secret, and off duty pigs as well as reagon, rafferty, shelton, wallace, alioto, et. all. want to do us in, Eldridge first, then me.

Here’s the rent.

Peace, Mrs. Cleaver

It’s not surprising the Panthers were on alert, considering the number of raids made on various members during that period. But none came at 2777. Still, as November 27—the date Cleaver was to surrender to prison authorities—drew near, a vigil formed outside on the sidewalk along Pine Street. When I got home the night before, a milling crowd, mainly young whites, didn’t want to let a large white man—me—through the iron gate to the lower unit.

“If you really want to protect Eldridge, why don’t you go over to Paul Jacobs’ house in Pacific Heights? That’s where he is,” I told them. I’d heard that Jacobs and another noted Ramparts writer, Jessica Mitford—a friend of mine—had initiated the vigil.

The disruption outside got the attention of whoever was upstairs and the front door opened. A man with shotgun at the ready surveyed the scene. “He lives here and he’s all right,” the man announced. The crowd parted quietly, and I went in and retired for the night. The next day I learned Eldridge had skipped bail and slipped away to Cuba.

I saw Kathleen once more. She said she was leaving to join him, but would like to keep the rental a few more months.

Occasionally someone would be upstairs. Eventually I realized everything had been moved out without payment for the last month.

The Cleavers

A few days later two men came to my door, showed their FBI credentials and asked to see the upstairs flat. I went with them, the first time I’d been in since I showed it to “Mrs. Cleaver.”

I saw Eldridge once more after his return from exile to the U.S. in 1975. He had gone from Cuba to Algeria and was there, except for a period in North Korea, until he wore out his welcome and left secretly for France, which eventually granted him legal residency.

The return to the U.S. meant immediate imprisonment on the assault charges for his role in the 1968 shootout with the Oakland police. He was convicted and put on probation for five years by a lenient court and ordered to perform 2,000 hours of community service. By then a Republican, he endorsed Ronald Reagan in 1980 and 1984. He’d struggled with cocaine and undertaken a religious journey that included Mormonism and the Moonies and wound up born again. He’d even made an effort to be a fashion visionary by designing his codpiece pants.

The years clearly had left an impact on him, but he brightened when I identified myself. We spoke briefly, even joking about my failure to get him to sign my copy of Soul on Ice. Then, as I was leaving, he spoke almost wistfully.

“Man, we loved that house.”