No Hand-Holding Naked Dudes at this San Francisco Dive

7 Mile House
2800 Bayshore Blvd.
Brisbane, CA





Sometimes I like a little history with my burgers and beer.

Especially if that history involves gangsters, hookers, gamblers and other shady characters of ill repute.

I definitely came to the right place.

San Francisco was about the last place in America I was expecting to find a blue collar dive like this.

This is the city more famous for public parks full of hand-holding naked men, taxpayer funded sex changes and roving gangs of tofu-munching yoga instructors.

Certainly not traditional American values like cheap beer and towering greasy burgers.

But that’s exactly what you’ll find here at the 7 Mile House just a mile or so south of the city limits in Brisbane.

The bawdy history of this dive bar began in 1853, when it was established as part of a chain of “mile houses” along the old stagecoach road that ran from the San Francisco Ferry Building to San Jose.

Later, 7 Mile become a post office stop along the Pony Express.

These mile houses located every mile or so along the dusty, bumpy, hilly journey gave the poor stagecoach horses and their drivers a spot to rest and take a drink.

You know. That whole “whiskey for my men, beer for my horses” thing Toby Keith and Willie Nelson sang about so eloquently.

The owners of 7 Mile (seven miles south of the San Francisco Ferry Building), discovered that meeting the needs of these rugged travelers could be a lucrative business.

Fresh water and horses.

Beer and whiskey.

Rooms for rent and female companionship.

That’s early American entrepreneurship.

But like many brothels and gambling halls, 7 Mile attracted a shady crowd of robbers, thieves and gangsters such as the infamous Hayes Valley Gang who cut a path of murderous destruction through San Francisco in the 1870s.

As recently as the 1980s, 7 Mile was a scary biker bar harboring the largest illegal gambling ring in the West until the Feds arrested everyone involved and spoiled all the fun.

Now days, 7 Mile still maintains some of that shady mystique without the fear of being stabbed.

An ethnically diverse clientele of local blue collar guys populated the bar by the time I strolled through the front door at 6pm on a Tuesday.

The smoking hot bartender knew every one of them by name -- except me of course.

As usual, I stood out like a tourist at a Hells Angels convention.

Everyone else was drinking PBR and Budweiser long necks.

I ordered the local 21st Amendment Brew Free or Die IPA on draft.

Nobody else at the bar was eating.

I ordered the infamous Cow Palace Burger and garlic fries.

The guy sitting next to me moved over a stool. I think he knew something I didn’t.

You don’t want to be too close to a stranger gorging on a pound and a half of greasy cow, pig and garlic fries.

The Cow Palace is epic. It’s even been featured on national television.

Two half pound beef patties topped with melted cheese, sautéed onions, barbeque sauce, onion rings, tomato and a quarter pound of bacon. All held together by a foot long tooth pick.

Whoa!

When the cook brought this monstrosity out of the kitchen and plunked it on the bar in front of me, a jolt of panic flashed through his eyes as the tower of meat tilted precariously to one side.

I grabbed it before catastrophe struck and then pondered a very profound question.

How in the hell am I supposed to eat this damn thing?

At seven inches tall, I quickly realized that the human anatomy was not designed for such challenges. There is no mouth known to the human race big enough to wrap around that much meat.

Not even Joy Behar’s big mouth.

So I opted for the squeeze and nibble strategy.

No. This has nothing to do with the nefarious activities in the 7 Mile’s upstairs room back in the 19th Century.

I just squooshed as hard as I could with my hands, opened my jaws as far as they would go and plunged my face into meat heaven.

My strategy worked pretty well. At first.

Then all the drippy grease, cheese and onions conspired to disintegrate the bun.

Why can’t a place that sells an epic, nationally famous burger contain its creation in sturdier, higher quality buns?

It was a minor criticism considering how outstanding the rest of the components tasted.

The beef was perfectly cooked to a nice pink medium as evidenced by the waterfall of grease spilling onto the 150 year old bar top.

The multi-layered bacon was thick, greasy and perfectly cooked, providing a nice porky flavor in every beefy, cheesy bite.

Much like the buns, the breading around the onion rings disintegrated robbing the burger of the expected fried crunch I craved.

But the sautéed onions, cheese and BBQ sauce added plenty of condiment flavor to my messy mountain of meat.

Somehow I managed to eat almost the whole thing. By the time I surrendered, there was nothing left but a few random bits of beef here, soggy bun there.

Of course I made sure not to leave any bacon remainders. That really would be a federal crime.

I even polished off my mound of garlic fries that came on the side.

Garlic fries are something of a San Francisco Bay specialty, as Gilroy, the self-proclaimed “Garlic Capital of the World”, is just a short drive south of here.

But most Northern California inspired garlic fries I’ve tried in the past were nothing more than boring fries sprinkled with some garlic salt.

Not these.

7 Mile leaves no doubt about its garlicky condiment -- or the need for a breath mint.

Whole cloves of fresh-from-the-fields garlic are crushed and scattered across the oily fries. Every bite yields a pungent sweet flavor to bring the otherwise uninspiring fries to life.

Best of all was my Brew Free of Die! IPA from the brewmasters just down the street at 21st Amendment Brewery.

You know any brewery that names itself after the liberty-celebrating Constitutional Amendment that restored our rights as Americans to drink beer is going to take its task seriously.

I wonder if the folks at 21st Amendment have ever considered the irony that they located their brewery in a city that is considering banning everything from Happy Meals to circumcision to the sale of gold fish.

To crazed San Francisco leftists, no aspect of your life is too mundane or personal not to regulate.

You want to see men buggering in a public park? You’ve come to the right place.

You want to buy your kid a gold fish or a Happy Meal? You’re a heartless corporatist oppressor who must be stopped by government force.

21st Amendment celebrates one of the few freedoms remaining in this city with a wide range of kick-ass brews.

But Brew Free or Die! IPA is the best of the best, providing a hoppy kick of liberty in every patriotic sip.

Even if all the locals were drinking PBR and looking at me suspiciously.

It just seemed such an appropriate beer to down in a century old former speakeasy where illegal booze was probably the least objectionable activity going down within its confines.

But I can understand the suspicions of the locals.

7 Mile is a historic treasure in more ways than one.

If you are an all-American, God-fearing, hard working PBR man, there aren’t too many places to hang out in San Francisco.

7 mile just might be the only down-to-earth, blue collar refuge for men who actually still dress like men to down long necks for under a five spot in the entire Bay area.

They’re not going to take too kindly to some fancy beer sipping suit ruining the place.

Not to worry.

Trust me. I appreciate a hand-holding-naked-dudes-FREE zone as much as anyone.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

The Guinness Float: San Francisco’s Best Idea Ever

St. Francis Fountain
2801 24th St.
San Francisco, CA




This innovative city on the cutting edge that first introduced the world to taxpayer funded sex changes and “needle exchange programs” is now considering handing out free crack pipes to its drug addicted welfare dependents.

Since, in the minds of Left Coast leftists, shooting heroine and smoking crack are not character flaws but rather agnostic lifestyle choices, you and I have an obligation to pay for our neighbors’ vices.

But they will ship you off to San Quinten if you so much as light up a cigarette or utter a disparaging word about Ellen DeGeneres.

The day California slides into the Pacific Ocean can’t come soon enough for me.

But even I have to admit these liberal creative types can concoct a good idea every once in a while.

Like the Guinness float. Served here at the venerable St. Francis Fountain in the Mission District of San Francisco.

Holy guacamole! Where has this idea been my entire life?

I’ve always likened Guinness to drinking alcoholic chocolate milk.

Since Guinness is nitrogenated rather than carbonated, the Irish beverage of choice lends a silky, creamy mouthfeel that goes down as smooth as milk.

The roasted dark malt and low alcohol content lends a touch of sweetness.

So pouring a freshly opened nitrogenated can of Guinness over some homemade vanilla ice cream might just be the best idea Californians have come up with since they decided to recall Governor Gray Davis.

Witnessing the chemical reaction as the nitrogen interacted with the ice cream was more entertaining than a Tenderloin District sex show.

A swirl of twirling ice cream, frothing black liquid, hissing nitrogen and foaming tan head tantalized my senses.

Impatiently I waited for the show to settle before dipping my straw into the cauldron.

The first few gulps yielded a bracing alcohol kick. Like the kind of jolt you get when your mind is expecting one thing -- but gets something very different.

I think my eyes were fully expecting the sweetness of a milk shake but my taste buds got a beer instead.

The bitterness of the beer flavored ice cream morphed as it melted into ice cream flavored beer.

I thoroughly enjoyed the transformation from bitter ice cream to sweet creamy beer.

With a buzz.

There’s not much alcohol in a 14 ounce can of Guinness, but my brain was so mixed up I think the confusion heightened the buzz.

Of course slurping all that deliciousness through a thick straw in six minutes flat might have been a contributing factor also.

Fortunately, St. Francis Fountain offers real sustenance in addition to ice cream and Guinness floats.

I definitely needed it considering my beverage/dessert of choice.

The Baltimore BLT offered a Left Coast twist on the lunch counter standby -- fresh avocado squeezed between the thick bacon and lettuce and tomato.

The avocado quickly morphed into a messy slippery guacamole condiment after a few bites.

I have absolutely no clue why a BLT with avocado served in San Francisco would be named after a city in Maryland.

The homemade macaroni and cheese on the side was much more interesting. Big goops of gooey cheese were sweetened by onion.

This stuff puts mom’s Kraft-from-the-box mac and cheese to shame.

Sorry mom.

Good simple comfort food is what you would expect -- and what you get -- at this nearly century old neighborhood sofa fountain where local Mission District hipsters wander in for a taste of home or of nostalgia -- or of reality -- something in desperately short supply in this city.

They don’t sell clean needles or crack pipes at St. Francis Fountain. But they do sell the collector’s cards of your childhood by the front door.

A pack of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” cards, anyone?

How about some of those rare “Welcome Back, Kotter” cards?

St. Francis Fountain is all the pleasures of childhood in one tiny shop.

Plus Guinness floats.

Sometimes you have to grow up to discover the best pleasures of all.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt

Annoying Overly Sensitive Leftists Since 1934

Al the Wop’s
13943 Main St.
Locke, CA




I’m a sucker for any place with a colorful history and scruffy charm.

Even more so if the name of the place includes an ethnic slur.

Apparently “wop” is a politically incorrect term for someone from Southern Italy.

I had no idea.

Can I be accused of insensitivity for reviewing a place with “wop” in the title, even if I didn’t know what “wop” meant?

Just wondering.

In California, the answer is probably “yes”.

That’s one good reason right there to buy the shirt, I guess.

Locke, California is a forgotten Chinese ghost town of ramshackle wooden buildings lined up either side of a dusty little street deep in the heart of the Sacramento River Delta.

Chinese immigrants came into the delta originally to help build the levees that contain the Sacramento River in its banks.

Later, more Chinese came here to work on the farmland that spills out across the fertile plains of the Delta.

Wanting a place of their own, in 1915, several Chinese workers laid out and built this one block town.

In its heyday, as many as 600 Chinese lived in the wooden shacks lining Main Street and patronized Locke’s infamous brothels and gambling dens.

Famous as the only town in America built by Chinese for Chinese, there’s not much left of Locke to look at.

Only ten of the remaining 70 residents are Chinese.

Strolling by the dilapidated buildings, a lady painting pictures on the hood of her car put down her paint brush and just stared at me.

Don’t worry. I’m used to this.

I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re alwul overdressed for Locke! Nobody around here dresses like that,” she said.

Mistaking me for some big city lawyer or consultant, she began a ten minute description of how she has been victimized by the local corrupt town counsel.

“I paid $22,000 for one of these run down shacks and then three days after the deal closed the city told me I couldn’t buy because the original Chinese landowners must be given first right of refusal.

“So I can’t buy a building in America because I’m not Chinese?!?”

I sympathized as she told me the tiny town had spent $50,000 of its $60,000 budget suing her for “breach of contract” simply because she tried to purchase one of its run-down buildings.

While I felt sorry for her, immersing myself into the politics of a 70 person Chinese ghost town was a bit above my pay grade, so I excused myself as I strolled into Locke’s most famous establishment, Al the Wop’s.

In 1934, an Italian named Al Adami opened his saloon with money he earned from taking the rap and serving jail time for a bootlegging family member.

Al the Wop’s was the only non-Chinese place in town.

At 11:30am the bar stools were already filling up with a fun-loving crowd of local farmers and fishermen.

As usual, I was the only one in the place wearing a suit.

And the only one the bartender didn’t know.

And the only one not knocking back shots of Crown Royal on a Monday morning.

I ordered a water as I pulled up a rickety stool and tried unsuccessfully to position myself comfortably in the middle section of the bar that sloped downhill at a ten degree angle.

Apparently those Chinese in 1915 didn’t know how to use a level.

Farm paraphernalia and deer heads decorated the bar, along with a few hundred bucks worth of one dollar bills mysteriously stapled to the ceiling.

The juke box was blasting out one great cowboy tune after another as the lady behind the bar hummed along to “Tight Fittin’ Jeans.”

Conway Twitty. Dwight Yoakam. Townes Van Zant.

At least someone in the place had good taste in music I thought as I told my bartender I’d take the famous Al the Wop’s steak sandwich.

It is a sandwich only in the sense that the bartender served me meat and bread -- on two completely separate plates.

My steak came out cooked to a perfect pink, nice and juicy but devoid of any seasoning or smoky flavor.

A standard issue sirloin, Al’s isn’t going to threaten any of the top-notch steak houses further south in Santa Maria, that’s for sure.

On another plate came five thick-cut slices of Italian bread still warm and crisp from being griddled on the flat top.

To be honest, that bread was the highlight of the meal.

And a perfect delivery vehicle for Al the Wop’s other famous delicacy -- peanut butter.

Peanut butter?

Yeah, for decades, folks have been spreading peanut butter and marmalade on Al’s good Italian bread.

I was expecting some sort of homemade, hand-churned Al the Wop special peanut butter.

Nope.

Just opened jars of Jif with spoons planted into the standard grocery store peanut butter scattered along the bar top.

Well, that was a letdown.

Young Suit757 was a picky eater. I literally had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every single day of my life for lunch from first grade through junior high. And probably every other day during high school and college.

And you know what?

I haven’t had a one since.

I got my lifetime’s supply of peanut butter in my first 22 years.

But being a good sport, I played along and slathered some Jif and marmalade onto my bread and took a bite.

Not bad. I’m not saying I’m turning in my suitly credentials and going back to the diet of an eight year old, but I can kind of remember the appeal now.

Then again, maybe it’s just that good bread.

I bet California tofu would taste decent on freshly griddled Italian bread.

Don’t worry. I’m not trying that anytime soon.

As I polished off my last bite of steak to the sweet sound of John Fogerty crooning about being “stuck in Lodi again,” I wondered whether I liked this place or not.

This is something that we world famous restaurant reviewers have to contemplate. We can’t just pay our bill and hit the I-5.

Some sort of deep philosophical analysis of Al the Wop’s was in order.

But how do you rate a century-old dive bar with ordinary food and a good juke box?

I mean, Al the Wop’s can’t be famous for its stovetop steaks.

Or it’s jars of Safeway-bought Jif.

There has to be something more that draws folks to this remote Delta dive.

I think that something is authenticity.

Like the overall-wearing locals knocking back Monday morning whiskeys…

…like Townes Van Zant crying on the juke box “for the sake of the song”…

…like the weathered signs dangling from the dilapidated porches on Main Street…

…like the politically incorrect name of this joint that has graced the front window for 80 years…

Al the Wop’s is a unique slice of authentic America that is getting harder and harder to find in our homogenized franchised world.

That’s still worth a few points in Suit757’s book.

Besides, how cool would it be to walk around Berkley sporting an Al the Wop t-shirt?

Yeah, I’m a sucker ever time.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying Shirt (just to annoy some overly sensitive leftists).

Don’t Fruit My Beer, Bro

Lost Coast Brewing Company
617 4th St.
Eureka, CA






I pride myself on being an adventurous beer connoisseur.

That’s why I was excited to check out Lost Coast Brewing Company way, way up the California Coast in the marijuana capital of America, Eureka, California.

Not that I had much choice in the matter.

Lost Coast was the only non-fast food place open for dinner I could find in the entire city.

Huh? I thought smoking pot made you hungry?

Apparently it must make you want to stay home.

I’ll have to check with Suit420 on that one.

If you are hungry in Eureka, California after 8pm you are either going through a drive-through or coming here.

The joint was packed with a diverse crowd of local beer drinkers.

I was already familiar with this obscure little brewery on the far edge of the continent because of Lost Coast’s famous winter beer, Winterbraun.

Winterbraun is supposed to be a rich, heavy, flavorful dark brew with a warming alcohol kick, perfect for riding out Northern California’s fierce winter storms by a roaring fire.

To be honest, I’ve always found Winterbraun to be kinda boring -- especially compared to kick ass winter beers like Sierra Nevada Celebration and Southern Tier Old Man Winter.

So I was looking forward checking out Lost Coast’s more interesting selections.

Damn. What a let-down.

It turns out that Lost Coast does brew up some unusual concoctions -- just none I would ever dream of ordering.

We’re talking fruit beers.

Tangerine. Raspberry. Strawberry.  Apricot.

Yuck. Don’t fruit my beer, bro!

I haven’t voluntarily eaten a piece of fruit since the Reagan Administration. Don’t start putting it in my beer!

The giant menu board of beers read like the produce section of Whole Foods.

I thought I came to a brewery -- not a farmers’ market.

Fortunately, Lost Coast does offer up the microbrewery standards.

The Eight Ball Stout was a basic stout.

The Indica IPA offered nothing memorable.

I wrapped up with Lost Coast’s Downtown Brown which was thin and bland.

Okay. I get it. Not every microbrewery is going to do imperial porters and double IPAs.

But I was still disappointed.

Unfortunately, the food wasn’t much better than the beer.

The clam chowder was mostly potatoes, far inferior to the chowders I’ve sampled further north up the Pacific Coast Highway in Oregon.

I have to give credit to the generous portion of pulled pork on the pork nachos, but the chips were an epic fail.

Half the chips were kind of soggy and limp. The other half were hardened like a piece of petrified bark -- like they had been microwaved, a cardinal sin of nachodom.

Look. I am a nacho connoisseur.

Sure, a generous portion of meat piled on top is vital, but the chips play an important role too. They are the offensive linemen of nachos -- you don’t give them much thought until they screw the whole thing up.

I ordered the Hot Brown Sandwich as my entre.

No, this has nothing whatsoever to do with the famous Kentucky Hot Brown originated at the Brown Hotel in Louisville.

I wish.

It was a sandwich featuring roast beef simmered in Lost Coast Downtown Brown Ale. Unfortunately, it was bland and boring just like the beer it was cooked in.

The cheap bacon, cheese and ranch dressing didn’t do much to revive this sandwich. The toasted sourdough bread was probably its best component.

Oh well. Not every microbrewery can offer up food and beer as exciting as Dogfish Head or Russian River Brewing.

That’s what makes finding those places so much fun.

It’s the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. That’s what this traveling life is all about.

I’m a big boy. I can handle the occasional defeat.

Just don’t fruit my beer.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if You Paid Me.

Eat like a Lumberjack

Samoa Cookhouse
908 Vance Ave.
Samoa, CA



Nobody would confuse me for a tree hugger.

But even jaded ole Suit757 can get just a bit awestruck staring up into the California coastal mist at a 500 year old, 350 foot tall redwood tree.

There’s something mysterious gazing upward at a grove of redwoods that have stood as silent witness to the centuries.
Just standing there quietly rising into the misty sky. Just doing their thing -- sprouting heavenward until one day they’ve become among the largest living things on the planet.

Equally amazing, hearty redwood is virtually immune to insects, termites, fire and rot. It’s among the most ideal building materials ever created by God.

So naturally, when modern man discovered these majestic giants clinging to the hillsides along the California coast, a new industry was born.

The stately historic mansions that dot the hillsides populated with wealthy San Francisco leftists were built from redwood trees.

Redwood lumber became a lucrative natural resource.

Burly men from across America came up into these remote mountains of Northern California to swing axes and work the sawmills that turned redwoods into hotels, hospitals and homes.

These manly men worked up quite an appetite, as you might imagine.

That’s where Samoa Cookhouse was born.

Samoa was a company town for the Vance Lumber Company, where Paul Bunyan types would live in company housing, shop at the company store and dine at the company cookhouse.

Each morning Samoa Cookhouse would fry up hearty breakfasts of all-you-can-eat stick-to-your-ribs cooking to line the stomachs of lumberjacks for their long day ahead out in the woods.

Believe it or not, that tradition has continued uninterrupted here at the Samoa Cookhouse, even though the Vance Lumber Company -- and the town it built and owned -- is now nothing but barbed wire and crumbling buildings.

Of course today nobody swings axes and grinds saws against 350 foot tall redwoods. The tree huggers have put an end to all that.

Besides, who wants to work in a sawmill when you can elect a Socialist like Barack Obama to the White House and then collect unemployment, food stamps, subsidized rent, free healthcare, Obama phones and 250 free minutes per month?

I mean, that’s progress, right?

Big burly men these days are more likely laying on an Army cot in their Section 8 housing collecting welfare than out working for a living.

Sure enough, the only folks chowing down at Samoa Cookhouse these days are tourists planning a long day navigating their SUVs through the paved scenic drives of Redwood National Park.

Oh, well. Tourists have to eat too, I suppose.

I guess that explains why Samoa Cookhouse has survived and thrived serving meals uninterrupted for 120 years.

At some point during the 1960s, after the ecofreaks told Paul Bunyan and his buddies to find another line of work, Samoa Cookhouse opened its doors to the general public.

Today this is the last remaining lumber camp cookhouse in North America. It says so right on the historic plaque outside the front door.

The set-up is still the same as during the glory days of the lumber camps.

Long communal tables draped in red checkered table cloths are arranged neatly through the cavernous dining hall.

Industrial sized pots and pans clang in the open kitchen.

Paintings and pictures of mustached lumbermen felling unimaginably gigantic redwoods line the walls interspersed with tools of the trade.

A 26 foot long hand saw is mounted above a picture of a dozen men proudly posing in front of the 25 foot diameter redwood log they just conquered.

Snapping pictures and toggling the cruise control on a Ford Explorer may not burn as many calories as working a 26 foot long hand saw all day, but that doesn’t stop those tourists from loading up on lumberjack breakfast food anyway.

Just like in the old days, you don’t get any say in what you’ll be eating.

Don’t like it? I’m pretty sure there’s a Denny’s somewhere across Arcata Bay in Eureka.

The food was better than I thought it would be.

I mean, let’s face it. The system here isn’t that far removed from your college “caf” dining hall. Or those god-awful banquet hall rubber chicken dinners you get at every political fundraiser and wedding reception.

Perhaps coming here for breakfast was a good call.

Breakfast food holds up better under mass production assembly lines than industrial chicken cordon bleu.

First out of the kitchen was a plate of biscuits and a bowl of cream sausage gravy.

Not the greatest biscuits and gravy, but a good way to kick off a stick-to-your-ribs kinda meal.

Next came communal bowls of scrambled eggs and good link sausage.

Best of all were the pancakes.

I’m not normally a big pancake guy.

Too often pancakes are boring bland soggy sponges for low quality syrup.

But not at Samoa Cookhouse.

These were some of the best pancakes in the history of breakfast.

Sweet, tasty and griddled to a perfect dark brown, they held up stoutly to the butter and maple syrup.

Rather than being simply soaked up by the pancakes, the good syrup actually complemented the doughy taste of the flap jacks.

The efficient waitresses at Samoa Cookhouse will keep on bringing out the bowls of food until you holler “Mercy.”

By the time I pushed back from the checkerboard dining table and explored the lumber camp museum and artifacts behind the dining hall, I was more than satisfied.

Stomach lined for a long day ahead I was ready to head up into the California forests.

Like everyone else at Samoa Cookhouse, Suit757 was acting like a tourist today, cruising through the redwood forests that the Vance Lumber Company never got to.

As I gazed up into the sky at trees taller than 30 story sky scrapers and wide enough to drive a truck through, I appreciated the fact that there are still plenty of redwood groves around for tourists like me to gawk at.

Just don’t call me a tree hugger.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying the Shirt.