At the new meters — which accept both coins and credit cards and have no time limits — compared with older meters used elsewhere in the city:
• Citations decreased by 35 percent.
• Net revenue increased by 20 percent.
• Length of stay increased slightly.

“The new meters [resulted in] greater income from payment at the meter and less from citations,” the report states. “In 2010, at the old meters, 55 percent of revenue came from payment, with 45 percent from citations. In 2011, after the new meters were installed, 70 percent of revenue was from meter payment, with 30 percent from citations.”

On Fillmore, some drivers complained they found the new meters complicated to use, but many merchants gave them positive reviews.

“I think it’s good,” said Vasilios Kiniris, owner of Zinc Details. “From a sales standpoint, people don’t say, ‘I’ve got to run out and feed my meter.’ It’s much more convenient to be able to pay with a credit card for as long as you want to park.”

At Design Within Reach, staffer Tony Sison said he rarely has to reach into his stash of quarters for customers anymore. “It’s been a positive thing,” Sison said. “People aren’t just coming to one store. With more time, they can have lunch and visit three or four shops.”

By Carina Woudenberg

Continuing the influx of new businesses into the Fillmore Jazz District, The Social Study is now serving beverages, snacks and a cool vibe in the stylish brick-lined space at 1795 Geary, just off Fillmore. Along with creatively concocted drinks and locally roasted coffee, owner Harmony Fraga says she hopes to add to the mix rotating art exhibitions, performances by local bands and caffeine-fueled community conversation.

“The lower Fillmore is going through a renaissance,” said Fraga. “We wanted to bridge the gap between upper and lower Fillmore — and create an awareness that lower Fillmore is really cool.”

Citing examples such as the new and wildly successful State Bird Provisions at 1529 Fillmore and the soon-to-arrive Hapa Ramen next door, Fraga says she sees an exciting sea change in the neighborhood. “Upper Fillmore has seen a lot of success,” she says. “Now it’s our turn.”

In preparation, the concrete floors and bare walls have been transformed into a stimulating yet cozy environment that features off-the-wall padded seating, free wi-fi and plenty of table space.

Naming the new spot was a construction project of its own. After considering what seemed like hundreds of possibilities, Fraga says she finally landed on The Social Study, a play on words that reflects her interest in people and her love of learning. Books in neat stacks are not just decoration. Mostly made up of Fraga’s thrift store finds and gifts from friends, bookworms can find such varied titles as The Martha Rules by Martha Stewart and textbooks such as Abnormal Behavior and Personality alongside self-help staples such as Who Moved My Cheese? by Spencer Johnson.

Fraga knew she wanted to serve Four Barrel Coffee after savoring it regularly when she worked at Farmerbrown near Union Square. In its early stages, it was the owners of Farmerbrown who envisioned what became The Social Study. Fraga said they had to let the idea go because they were already too busy maintaining the restaurant. But she was committed to the idea, so she spent months with a silent partner refining the concept and identifying a space.

Along with coffee drinks and beer and wine, The Social Study — currently open from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. — offers house-made pastries and “study snacks.” Fraga dubs these menu items, such as marinated olives and a hot potato medley, “rustic bites” to convey their simplicity and homemade appeal. She also serves a “SanFrangria” featuring a house red wine, which she hopes to change with the seasons.

A music lover, Fraga cherishes “Betty,” a vintage record player she picked up at a thrift store for $25. Betty spins vinyl of different genres throughout the day while “Sophia,” the coffee maker, churns out the hot beverages. “I name everything,” Fraga says.

Fridays are music night at The Social Study and while this currently consists of a disc jockey spinning vinyl, in the future Fraga says she’d like to get bands up and playing in the loft, and use a projector to show movies.

Fraga says the feedback she’s received on the new business has been positive. People are especially happy to have a hang-out spot that opens before 5 p.m. And she’s open to other suggestions. “That’s the most exciting part of the business,” she says, “the endless possibilities of what you can do here.”

Fraga’s assistant, Michael Lopez, also hints at upcoming surprises. “Fun and new things are going to happen that a lot of people won’t expect,” he says. “And they’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Citizen Cake closed in December after little more than a year on Fillmore Street.

Troya, a Turkish restaurant on Clement Street, will open Troya Fillmore in the space at 2125 Fillmore recently vacated by Citizen Cake. The second location on Fillmore will be “more modern and hipper than the Richmond version,” Inside Scoop reports.

Photograph of Etta James by Anthony Montes de Oca

EXCERPT | By Etta James

Uncle Frank showed up in his car and whisked us up to San Francisco when I was 12. We dropped [my mother] Dorothy off in the Fillmore District, which looked like a hell-hole to me. L.A. was a vine-covered cottage compared to these slums. After the sunny skies of southern California, the Bay Area looked seedy and sad — the fog-covered sky, the bums on the street. Maybe it was my mood or just the neighborhood where Dorothy lived, but my first impression was grime and crime.

I wound up in a couple of gangs — one in the Fillmore, where my mother lived, and one in the projects by Uncle Frank. We wore baggy jeans, just like today, with the legs dragging on the ground. A white shirt was also part of our uniform — an oversize man’s shirt worn tails-out to cover your ass. Then you had your white socks rolled all the way down below your ankles and beat-up tennis shoes. I let my hair grow long and put it in a ponytail. I thought I was bad. I guess I was the classic case of a kid who, lacking a real family, was looking for a family feeling in gangs.

I started bouncing from school to school. I’d been going to Girls High School in the Fillmore, but they threw me out of there. I was a wiseguy and a clown, always cutting up, never minding no one. So they put me in Continuation School, which is your last stop before they kick your ass out of the system altogether.

This was when Dorothy had moved into a rooming house in the Fillmore owned by Reverend Wilson, a gay preacher. I liked the man. He was an animal lover, always feeding his cats — and me. He was especially kind and gave Dorothy the front apartment with lots of light. He reminded me of the “secret angels” I had known. Dorothy, on the other hand, hated him. She was convinced he was a child molester and warned me to stay away from him. My own instincts, though, told me the man was good-hearted and God-fearing, and I did as I pleased. When I got home from school he’d always have food waiting for me. He made me feel safe. In my crazy new world, Reverend Wilson was an island of sanity.

Around the corner from Reverend Wilson’s rooming house in the Fillmore lived Sugar Pie DeSanto, whose real name was Umpeylia Balinton. She was my age, a gorgeous four-feet-eleven dynamo with a Filipino father, a black Philadelphia mother with a Puerto Rican temper, and 10 brothers and sisters. This was one crazy family. I liked hanging around them. You never knew what would happen next. When the old man got mad at the kids, he’d put them in these big overalls and hang them on the door from a nail. Leave them hanging all day. Sugar Pie and I ran in a gang together — later we’d wind up recording together — and she was so fine that every dude in the neighborhood was looking to get next to her. Quite a few succeeded.

Our girl gang was bold — in the Fillmore, we called ourselves the Lucky 20’s — and I pulled off some cold-blooded stunts. I’m not proud of what I did, but I did it all the same. I’m thinking of those times when we’d chase after white girls. Sometimes we beat up on gals from foreign countries, anyone different from us. That’s how I wound up in the school for juvenile delinquents. It was all about jealousy.

I no longer wanted anything to do with my mother, Uncle Frank, Aunt Mary or any other family member. This is when I started getting close to the Mitchells — two sisters and their superfine brother. It’s also the start of the musical story that led me away from home.

I met Jean Mitchell at the recreation center at Army and Third in the projects by Uncle Frank’s apartment. That’s where we’d have dances. Jean stayed in another group of projects built by the navy up in South Basin. She, her sister Abysinia, and their brother Alfonso all lived together. There was no mother or father. They came from New Orleans and were light-skinned Creole-looking people. Jean was my age; Alfonso — known as Fons — and Abysinia — known as Abye — were eight or nine years older.

Jean and I started singing together at the rec center. Soon Abye joined in and, just like that, we became the Creolettes. We were project girls imitating the young rhythm and blues of the time, but we were also deep into jazz. West Coast jazz was all the rage, and we dug Gerry Mulligan and Dave Brubeck and Shorty Rogers. To me, Chet Baker looked like James Dean and was the coolest thing this side of Miles Davis. Naturally we knew about Miles and, being from Los Angeles, I had heard Dexter Gordon and Charles Mingus. Modern jazz was in my blood. Mainly, though, we were intrigued with vocal harmony. We developed a tight three-way blend, imitating groups like the Spaniels, the Swallows, the Chords, who had “Sh-Boom” before the Crew Cuts, and the Spiders, who had “Beside You.” We studied the Moonglows, Soony Til and the Orioles, all the hippest doo-woppers. We also listened to the McGuire Sisters — white girls who copied black songs — and white boys like the Hi-Lo’s and Four Freshmen. The Freshmen were especially slick — they sang like instruments — and soon we learned to do the same, even down to the trumpet trills and shakes.

Me and the Mitchells had so much in common that I wound up moving in with them. It was during one of those times when Dorothy was in jail and I was on the outs with Aunt Mary. Beyond singing together, I also ran in their gang. The Lucky 20’s from the Fillmore were considered a more citified gang. Jean and her bunch were a bit tamer. But the Mitchell who interested me most was Fons. He was my main motive for moving there. I was dying to get next to him.

The boy was extra cool. He controlled a gang called the Good Rockers that operated on the outskirts of town. He was also a piano player who fashioned himself after Horace Silver or Hampton Hawes. He wanted to be like Thelonious Monk, an out-there-on-the-edge player, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. When it came to looks, though, he was even better. He had these long eyelashes that laid down over almond-shaped eyes, sleek wavy hair, and a tall slim frame. He looked a little like Billy Dee Williams, only more rugged.

Meanwhile, music was still happening hot and heavy. The Creolettes were getting to be a pretty popular girl group around town. We were winning amateur shows and drawing good crowds. We’d tightened up our harmony, figured out a few stage moves, and put on a halfway-decent 20-minute set. Gaining confidence.

Around that time, Hank Ballard and the Midnighters had a smash with “Work With Me, Annie.” What Louis Jordan was to the 40s, Hank was to the 50s. He had the clever words and the funky grooves. Hank got you dancing. His “Work With Me, Annie” was a little lewd and a lot of fun. Work, of course, was a code word for screw. All the kids were crazy for that tune, a nasty jam for grinding. Some of the parents wouldn’t even let us play the record at home, which naturally made us play it even more.

Well, one afternoon the Creolettes were singing at a record hop when who should show up but Hank and all his superfine Midnighters. We were thrilled. When they heard us sing, they said something encouraging and, man, that’s all we needed to hear. When they sang “Work With Me, Annie,” the place went wild.

Next day the song was still on my mind. Answer songs were big back then, and it occurred to me — why not answer Hank’s hit? So I wrote “Roll With Me, Henry,” a pushy little jiveass reply to Hank. The girls and I worked it up and put it in our repertoire. Didn’t think nothing about it till the next week, when Hank and his Midnighters showed up at our sock hop for the second time. We couldn’t wait to sing our spicy song right in their faces.

“What do you think?” we wanted to know.

“Cool,” said Hank.

Abye was a groupie, and the Midnighters were legendary ladies’ men. So you can see how anxious she was to hook up with Hank’s boys. Jean and I were wannabe groupies. At 23, Abye was sure-enough ready to rock while, at 14, we were girls wanting to look like ladies. Abye was on the prowl. That’s why she slipped into the Primaline Ballroom [at 1223 Fillmore] a few weeks later to catch the Johnny Otis show. Didn’t know it then, but that was the night that changed my life.

Jean and I were back in the projects when the phone rang.

Abye was all aflutter.

“Y’all got to come down here to the Primaline Ballroom and meet Johnny,” she said.

“Johnny who?” I wanted to know.

“Johnny Otis.”

Johnny Otis was an L.A. bandleader who put together jazz and R&B revues. He played vibes and piano and featured different singers. He was also a songwriter and promoter.

“I’ve been telling Johnny all about us,” Abye went on. “He wants to hear the Creolettes.”

I knew Abye went to the dance because she wanted to meet Johnny Otis and his sexy stacked drummer, Kansas City Bell. But I didn’t know she was going to promote us.

“They’ll never let us in there,” I said. “We’re underage.”

“I’ll tell Johnny. He’ll take care of it.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically as I hung up the phone and went to sleep.

An hour later the phone woke me up. Abye again.

“What now?” I wanted to know.

“I’m at the Manor Plaza Hotel. Johnny Otis wants you and Jean to come down here and sing for him,” Abye was insisting.

“If he wants us down at the hotel,” I said, “it sure as hell isn’t to hear us sing.” I figured Johnny and the boys in his band were thinking, “Yeah, let’s get a couple of young chicks.”

Next thing I knew Johnny Otis was on the line. Now no one talks like Johnny Otis. He’s got this deep molasses honey-dripping deejay voice. It’s a jivetime jazzman’s voice, but it’s also sincere and filled with wisdom.

“I understand you girls can sing,” he said. “I’d love to hear you.”

“Man, it’s two in the morning,” I shot back. “How we supposed to get down there? The buses aren’t even running.”

“Catch a cab,” suggested Johnny.

“We don’t have money for a cab.”

“I’ll meet you at the curb and pay for it myself.”

That’s what happened. I was leery, but I was also excited. When we arrived, Johnny Otis was right there, smiling.

Now Johnny Otis is a very tall handsome Greek man with black wavy hair, a big moustache and trimmed beard. He looked like a slick cat, but he also exhibited good manners from the get-go. From his phone voice, I had figured he was black. For years many people believed Johnny was black, not only because of his swarthy skin tone but because he talked, walked, acted, played and pushed black music so hard. Plus, he married a black woman, moved into the black community, and eventually became a gospel preacher of his own black church. When I first met Johnny, though, he was still into his sporting days.

In his hotel room, the vibe was still nervous. Abye was there with Kansas City Bell. Johnny had his manager with him, Bardu Ali, who looked to be 75. He made me feel a little bit better. One of the musicians, though, was running around in his boxer shorts. “Hey man,” Johnny told him, “go put some pants on.”

I don’t like singing on demand, and this was no exception. I clammed up. I felt self-conscious and stupid. And maybe a little scared. Anyway, I wouldn’t sing.

“Come on, Jamesetta,” said Abye. “You’re acting like a baby.”

“Well, I just don’t wanna sing,” I said.

After a lot more coaxing, I compromised. I said I’d sing, but only in the bathroom. I know that sounds stupid, but everyone sounds good singing in the bathroom. Tile makes for great acoustics. So I went in there and sat on the edge of the tub while Abye and Jean stayed in the bedroom, standing close to the bathroom door. We decided to do our jazz harmony numbers, the ones that really showed off our voices. We sang “How Deep Is the Ocean,” “Street of Dreams” and “For All We Know.” When we were through, total silence. Finally, Johnny Otis said, “Wow! Did you hear that little girl sing?”

I came out of the bathroom smiling.

“That’s terrific,” he said. “I want you to ride back to L.A. with us tomorrow. I want to put you on my show and make some records with you.”

Without a doubt, this was the most exciting thing anyone had ever said to me in my life. But Johnny’s next question nearly threw me.

“How old are you?”

I looked at the girls. Jean gave me the eye. “Eighteen,” I lied.

Johnny knew damn well I was lying. “Can you get your mother to give you permission to travel with us?” he asked.

The next morning, Jean, Abye and I arrived at 11 sharp. In my hand was a neatly written note from Dorothy giving me the okay. I had forged it. I was happy to quit school and say bye-bye to the ninth grade. Hell, school was about to quit me anyway. I was on my way back to L.A., heady with anticipation.

At 14, my childhood had ended.

Excerpted from Rage to Survive, © 1995 by Etta James and David Ritz.

Maurice Kanbar is back with a new vodka.

SPIRITS | Chris Barnett

Maurice Kanbar is sitting in the cluttered, comfortable living room of his Pacific Heights apartment clipping Safeway coupons.

That seems rather odd for an 80-year-old entrepreneur, property investor and filmmaker-philanthropist who’s no doubt a billionaire plus. But then he also zips around town on a Vespa lookalike motor scooter because he hates to waste time trolling for parking places. And he eats lunch at the same restaurant practically every day when he’s in town: Perry’s on Union Street.

Kanbar is a man in motion — an obsessive, compulsive inventor with a near Midas touch who dreams up many of his ideas in his own kitchen. Then he gives his brainstorms a clever name, an eye-grabbing package and pitches them like a carny barker. No MBA marketing mumbo-jumbo or Silicon Valley techno-babble. Just plain English. A prime example is D-Fuzz-It, a gadget expressly designed to remove fuzz balls from sweaters.

But many San Franciscans who enjoy elbow-bending know that Kanbar’s greatest triumph by far among his 35 or so patented creations is Skyy vodka, the first of its breed born, bred and branded in the city. A lifelong martini lover, Kanbar made his bones in the booze business in 1992 when he debuted the smooth vodka he developed by distilling alcohol, grain and water four times and filtering it through charcoal and cardboard three times to remove the particulates that give vodka its bite, burn or headache.

When seasoned distillers launch a new spirit, they usually deploy an army of market researchers, hire a pricey “naming” company, a platoon of ad staffers, publicists and fetching young things to give away cocktails at trendy bars. Then the distillers — indeed any company selling something new to consumers — stage focus groups to capture consumer feedback, sift the data and roll the dice, hoping to come up with a distinctive brand.

Not Kanbar. He found quizzing strangers in a sterile room with a tape recorder running more “hocus pocus” than focus; he went with his gut.

When he was considering launching his spirit, Russian-sounding Smirnoff was the top selling American-made vodka and had been for decades. It sold for $9 to $10 but its cachet had waned. Imports like Absolut (Swedish) and Stolichnaya (authentically Russian) were invading the U.S. and bombarding the younger vodka fans, who longed for hipness with clever ads and a $15 price tag. In the vodka derby then, it was Plymouth vs. BMW.

Kanbar says he got in the race with his uber smooth vodka priced at $12.99, halfway between old reliable Smirnoff and the rising tide of foreign-made vodkas. But price alone wasn’t going to grab attention. And while he had taste going for him, his entry had no style.

“Originally, Maurice wanted go with a clear, see-through bottle — like every vodka brand — but he knew it would be lost in the emerging clutter of vodkas in better bars,” recalls Eli Bishop, a brand manager who has worked for Kanbar since the early 90s. “Then he found a package designer in Wales who perfected a cobalt blue bottle and solved that problem.”

Says Kanbar: “With a blue bottle, I wanted to call it Sky but, no surprise, someone already had the name. So I just added another Y.”

Skyy’s success — today, it’s the second best selling American-made vodka — is another story for another time. In 2004, Kanbar sold the company in two chunks to Italy’s Groupo Campari for somewhere between $450 million to $500 million and a multi-year noncompete clause.

“I made a mistake in pricing Skyy a little less than Absolut and a little more than Smirnoff,” he says. “I should have priced it above Absolut. I would have made a lot more money. But then I make mistakes.”

Kanbar hasn’t spent the last seven years just clipping coupons. He’s been in his kitchen tinkering, tasting and tracking the explosive growth of the global vodka market. As it happens, he could choose from eight kitchens; he not only owns his full-floor apartment, he bought the entire eight-story building at 2100 Jackson, using it as a combination private residence, lab and think tank for his company and occasionally as a bunkhouse to keep an assortment of film friends and others nearby.

Kanbar operates from the eight-story compound he owns at Jackson and Laguna.

Today, with his noncompete clause expired, Kanbar is back in the vodka game full force. His newest libational venture is called Blue Angel, a new entry in the “ultra premium” category where his competitors are fetching upwards of $75 for vodka in bottles that look like pieces of art. However, entering 2012, the arena is filled with hundreds of brawny gladiators and boutique brands from around the world, including a half-dozen or so other “made in San Francisco” vodkas.

Despite the competition, Anthony Dias Blue, who runs the annual San Francisco World Spirits Competition and is editor-in-chief of The Tasting Panel magazine, is betting on Kanbar’s distilling artistry and marketing savvy to give Blue Angel liftoff. “Maurice is one of the most interesting, inventive people I’ve ever met,” he says. “The first time I met him for lunch, he arrived on his scooter wearing some cockamamie vest he invented that had a million pockets,” recalls Blue.

Kanbar admits he isn’t really launching Blue Angel; it’s a relaunch. The brand’s first promotional ascent a year ago didn’t attain any real altitude and he shoulders the blame. “People didn’t like the original bottle or the price: $28,” he says. “If someone was going to plunk down 28 bucks, they’d buy Grey Goose or something they knew.”

He recalls the first Blue Angel bottle was frosted (like Goose, Belvedere and Chopin) and festooned with clouds, a halo and equipped with a short neck. Another blunder. “We had production problems with that bottle so we changed to a clear, thinner version that has sort of a retro feel,” Kanbar says. He also plays the nostalgia card. “We show it on a stage, in the spotlight, playing on its San Francisco heritage.”

What’s more, as part of the relaunch he dropped the price from $28 to $19.95 and offers a $3 coupon downloadable from blueangelvodka.com that cuts the cost even more. Spirits expert Andy Blue contends that if Kanbar “maintains the quality Blue Angel had when it was much more expensive, it will do very well.”

But first Kanbar has to get the Angel off the shelf and in a glass, no small feat today when buzz is the holy grail in the spirits world. As part of the relaunch, the inventor himself says he is “pounding the pavement, educating bartenders to our ultra pure vodka, holding happy hours in San Francisco’s top bars. Gotta do it. No one calls you up and says, ‘Your vodka’s wonderful. Tell us everywhere we can buy it.’ Just getting in the door is tough enough when you’re unknown.”

On Fillmore, Blue Angel is on the backbar at the Elite Cafe and Florio.

Kanbar and his team are taking a page out of a politician’s playbook to generate word of mouth and, hopefully, sales. Instead of hyping his new vodka with a ‘try it, you’ll like it’ message, he’s pushing the classic cocktail – the martini — with a twist, calling it the BAM. When he and his marketers swoop into a saloon or a high volume liquor store, they pass out BAM buttons to promote the Blue Angel Martini. In bars, he freely gives away samples. He’s also invented another version of the martini called the Blue BAM, replacing vermouth with Blue Curaco. Then there’s the Cran BAM using cranberry juice. Kanbar’s goal is to make it as popular as the Cosmopolitan.

“My favorite drink is a martini, but I never liked gin,” he says, “If I had one and got back to the office, I smelled like a gin mill. Or, you promise your wife you’re not going to drink, then you come home after two Scotch and sodas and she knows. With a BAM vodka martini, no one knows.”

Describing the difference between Skyy, a premium vodka, and Blue Angel, an ultra premium, Kanbar becomes uncharacteristically reluctant to talk. “We’ve developed a process where we can age Blue Angel for 10 years to give it its smooth taste, but do it in two weeks,” he says. “It’s a proprietary process. I won’t even patent it because then everyone will know.”

Martini friends: Kanbar with Gov. Jerry Brown and former mayor Willie Brown

A HALF CENTURY OF IDEAS AND GENEROSITY

Among the inventions, investments and substantial gifts of Maurice Kanbar over the years:

At 21, he dreamed up D-Fuzz-It, a “comb” to remove fuzzballs from sweaters. At 26, he created a nylon fiber to compete with giant DuPont Corporation, sold his company 14 months later and could have retired for life but didn’t. Then there’s Soo-Foo, a pound of natural brown rice, grains and lentils with 5 grams of protein per serving available today in health food stores. His Vermeer Dutch chocolate cream liqueur competes against Godiva liqueur. Other products include Tangoes puzzle game, the Safetyglide hypodermic needle protector, a cryogenic cataract remover and ZIP Notes, which are sticky notes on a roll.

He has written hefty checks to benefit a number of major institutions in the neighborhood, including the Kanbar Cardiac Center at California Pacific Medical Center, the Kanbar Hall theater at the Jewish Community Center and a headquarters for the San Francisco Girls Chorus.

A lifelong movie buff, he is a major supporter of the San Francisco International Film Festival and Film Society, along with KQED’s ImageMakers series of indie films. The Brooklyn-born Kanbar funded the Kanbar Institute of Film, Television and New Media at New York University. He is credited with creating New York’s first multiplex theatre and established Kanbar Entertainment, which produced an animated film called Hoodwink that topped $100 million in global sales. He has other films in the pipeline.

Kanbar has stumbled, too. He and longtime New York investment banker pal Henry Kaufman bought a slew of vintage buildings in downtown Tulsa and were planning to convert them to live-work lofts, galleries and shops and turn the city into a “magnet for the arts,” says okctalk.com, which reported that Kanbar pumped $100 million into Tulsa real estate. The partnership and friendship soured and they ended up suing each other.

Meantime, Kanbar has penned his memoir, Secrets From an Inventor’s Notebook, which, no surprise, was produced by his own publishing company, Council Oaks Books. But his life and times are taking a backseat to his current passion: introducing the Bay Area Martini to the Bay Area and eventually to the world. ”Barkeep, I’d like mine very dry, straight up with two Dirty Sue olives.” Yep, Maurice Kanbar is now getting into the garnish game.

Photographs of Solstice by Daniel Bahmani

FAVORITE SPOT | Kevin Blum

Like many residents and the great Tony Bennett, I left my heart in San Francisco. But I think it’s fair to say I left my liver at Solstice lounge.

I first discovered the restaurant and bar eight years ago when I moved to the neighborhood. Solstice had just opened at 2801 California, at the corner of Divisadero, in the spot formerly home to Rasselas Jazz Club. We were both new kids on the block, and we liked each other immediately. I quickly became a fan of the friendly bar staff and their classic cocktails. And it was nice to have a neighborhood joint where I could hang out with old friends and meet new ones.

Best of all, it was stumbling distance from my apartment.

The culinary brainchild of owners Leslie Shirah and Matt Sturm — who also own Fly Bars at 762 Divisadero and 1085 Sutter — Solstice offers guests a Bohemian oasis on Upper Divisadero, or what residents like to call the Upper Diversion. The sultry interior boasts several cozy booths, palm trees and an inviting long dark wooden bar. Funky artwork adorns the walls and a lounge, sunken off the main room, that accommodates private parties of up to 40 people. Unlike most spots, there’s no room rental or reservation fee — just a food and beverage minimum.

On any given night, Solstice offers patrons a tantalizing array of stiff cocktails and small plates paired with people-watching and amusing conversational sound bytes. You’ll overhear everything from cheesy pick-up lines to girlfriends dishing about their lousy boyfriends.

The restaurant’s menu won’t necessarily give Gary Danko or Michael Mina a run for their money, but the compact kitchen serves reliable pub grub that always hits the spot. Menu favorites include the gorgonzola mac and cheese, Kobe beef sliders, ahi tuna tartar and tempura battered fish tacos. I’m personally partial to the prosciutto-wrapped chicken medallions and prosciutto pizzetta. The food, all priced under $20, is great for sharing with friends or perfect for the hungry bachelor too lazy to cook for himself.

Solstice was one of the first places to offer half price bottles of wine on Mondays before every restaurant and its mother copied the idea. The wine promo is still a hit, attracting a number of young singles on their first dates. In fact, sometimes the bar looks a lot like an ad for match.com.

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It would be easy to dismiss this place as just another Pacific Heights hang-out — and, in fact, it does attract its share of investment banker types in button-down shirts and aspiring Stepford wives in tube tops. However, unlike the Marina, these patrons drink and dine harmoniously next to Mission hipsters sporting colorful tattoos and facial piercings.

Solstice is also a haven for members of the restaurant and bar industry. When the clock ticks past 10 p.m., bartenders and servers from Tataki to Spruce arrive for a nightcap and to dish about their customer experiences. The go-to drink tends to be a shot or more of Fernet Branca — a bitter Italian liqueur and digestif that’s like a bastard cousin of Jaegermeister. Chances are if you order a shot of Fernet, the bartender will join you.

Over the years, Solstice has continued to be the epicenter of my social universe. It’s where my friends and I still choose to meet and catch up. Having grown up in Marin, it never ceases to amaze me how many of my childhood mates live within a six-block radius. Sure, we love to try others bars and restaurants around town, but as we get older and our jobs and lives expend more of our time and energy, we have a greater appreciation for convenience and comfort — and Solstice fits the bill.

Solstice has been the setting for many seminal moments of my 20s and 30s. I have met new friends and old friends there. I’ve had first and last dates there. I’ve celebrated birthdays and New Year’s there. I’ve toasted my triumphs and I’ve drowned my sorrows there.

Sometimes Solstice feels like the set of the sitcom that is my life — similar to Al’s in Happy Days, the Central Perk in Friends or the bar in Cheers. Each episode features a colorful cast of characters: regular bar flies, kooky neighbors, potential love interests — and sometimes special guest stars.

On Solstice’s one-year anniversary, I presented the owners with a monkey lamp that looks like a Phantom of the Opera prop. The lamp was a white elephant gift I won at a holiday party. While I loved the idea of a monkey dressed in a suit and holding two candles with a lampshade on its head in my living room, my roommate wasn’t a big fan. So rather then toss this primate illuminary into the trash, I gave it to Solstice, where it still resides. One of the monkey’s hands is now missing, due to wear and tear, but he still stands tall at the end of the bar where he blends in well with the dark jungle-like interior.

When I was in my 20s, I wondered why people in their 30s or older were hanging out at this place. Shouldn’t these old fogies be at home working on crossword puzzles or watching Murder, She Wrote? Alas, I’m now in my mid-30s, and I wonder if the younger kids are thinking the same thing about me.

One thing I can say is that people of all ages are welcome at Solstice. The bartenders and servers — an eclectic mix of artists, musicians, actors and dreamers — never fail to greet you with a smile, remember your name or favorite drink and make you feel like your patronage is appreciated. At the end of the day, isn’t that why you go to your neighborhood bar? It’s not just for great drinks and food — it’s for a welcoming vibe and a sense of community.

It’s been eight years now since Solstice and I first met. And it’s a relationship I will continue to cherish for years to come — probably until the day I retire to the suburbs, where I’ll be sitting in my rocking chair rooting for Angela Lansbury in reruns on television.

Planning Commission President Christina Olague was sworn in this morning by Mayor Ed Lee as the new member of the Board of Supervisors from District 5, which includes much of the Fillmore.

Read more: “Ed Lee’s pick“

Le Labo has completely remade the storefront at 2238 Fillmore.

“FRESH PERFUME IS THE BEST,” proclaims Meg Christensen, manager of Le Labo, the scent emporium that opened during the holidays at 2238 Fillmore Street. The spare shop has no perfume in stock, but will mix one of its 12 fragrances on the spot while the customer waits.

Costs range from $58 for a 15-ml. portion — best for newcomers who want to try a scent on for size — to $700 for a 500-ml. grand size.

The most popular offering so far is Santal 33. The 33 signifies the number of ingredients that go into the mix, with the end result said to be conjure up the “sensual universality” of the Marlboro man — or rather the Marlboro person, given that all Le Labo scents are deemed to be unisex.

“Great fragrances don’t have a gender,” says Christensen, noting that some of the scents are also produced in lotions and long-lasting silicone-based balms.

The shop also carries a limited home collection of room sprays and candles. And a couple of scents of eco-friendly detergents are also offered, mostly for use on delicate handwashables. All products are vegan and, while synthetics are sometimes used, they are also derived from nature.

The founders of Le Labo — Frenchmen Fabrice Penot and Edouard Roschi — named their company of hand-mixed scents Le Labo, or “the lab,” as a rebellion against traditional perfumeries. They are striving to reinvent everything from the mode of manufacturing through the packaging that contains the final product.

“They’re not big on signage, branding or advertising,” explains Christensen. “There are no photos of beautiful people posing to sell the perfume. They want it to speak for itself.”

Indeed, beyond a small sign proclaiming “Perfume yourself responsibly,” there are few clues to what lies within in the gutted and refurnished storefront. The shop’s entrance has been reconfigured to open directly onto the street, eliminating the stairway. Unlike the former occupant, the gift shop Aumakua, which was stocked chock-a-block with jewelry, wall hangings, table ornaments, buddhas, toys, cards, statues and more — the new shop is spare. A few bottles are set on a few sparse shelves, with several eyedroppers and glass stir sticks nearby. Sinks, metal carts and a gleaming refrigerator are contained with the space refurbished with natural wood floors and walls made of brick and pressed tin. The centerpiece is a box called an olfactionary that holds small bottles of scents, numbered from 1 to 40.

“Most people have been drawn in by the store’s design,” Christensen says. “They walk around unsure at first. Then they start smelling and they fall in love.” Browsers and buyers are encouraged to spray the bottled offerings on paper wands, then sniff. She says the new neighbors are naturals.

“In San Francisco, people are more careful. They take the time to think about things,” she says. “People come in and spray, then walk around and really feel the scents. That would be our suggestion, but people do it here anyway.”

Christensen says Le Labo’s products are best used right away, rather than stored and saved. “Fresh perfume is the opposite of wine, which becomes more dynamic and more complex as it ages,” she says. “In perfume, the top notes or the lightest molecules start to falter with time. The oils start oxidizing with the alcohol.”

Unlike some other manufacturers, Le Labo cautions against wearing more than one scent at a time. “Our fragrances were designed by the best noses in the world,” says Christensen. “Layering is not recommended.”
Fillmore Street is the fifth boutique for Le Labo, which opened its flagship store in New York in 2006, followed by shops in Los Angeles, Tokyo and London. The line is also available at Barney’s.

Each of the cities with a Le Labo boutique has a scent exclusively offered there. L.A.’s Musc 25, for example, is described as “white, angelic, very musky and aldehyic.” San Francisco’s signature scent is not yet available. “Great scents are not on a schedule,” says Christensen.

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.

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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.