Me: That's unreasonable.
Stefan: I know it is. But it makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.Saturday, after a month and half of being Bay Area residents, Stefan and I finally headed into San Francisco to do some site-seeing. He was finally feeling well-enough to be out of the house for a day, and he was craving Fisherman's Wharf clam chowder. I jumped on the opportunity to spend the day with him outside of our apartment.
We took the half-hour BART trip into the city and got off at Embarcadero. We decided to forgo the opportunity for the trolley ride up to Fisherman's Wharf, and instead walked along the bay all the way to Pier 47, enjoyed the view for awhile of the Bay Bridge, Treasure Island, cruise ships, Alcatraz, and old-warehouses-turned-office-suites.
Then we made it to the touristy area, and we remembered that it was a terrible idea to come to a tourist attraction on a Saturday afternoon in July. We are always so sure before arriving that we'll handle it just fine, but we're much too cynical to enjoy an afternoon wading through crowds of slow, fat, white Americans who have no idea where they are, who are just searching for a beacon of American comfort in the form of a McDonald's burger or a Starbucks coffee. They were packing four-deep in the pedi-cabs with bags full of gourmet chocolates and cotton candy and postcards and snow-globes and plush crabs and tiny ships in tiny bottles piled onto their laps.
We made it to the seafood stand that Stefan remembered from his November trip and waited behind the fat Americans who ordered their fish-and-chips and stood at the counter to consume them before walking away.
"Are you guys in line?" Stefan asked to the groups in front of us. No one replied.
We eventually made it to the counter, placed our order for two of the day's special: a sourdough bread bowl of clam chowder and a Bud Light. We were handed our bottles of beer in brown bags, and one of the guys behind us asked, "Is it legal here to just carry those on the street?"
"We're going to find out, I guess," Stefan answered.
We grabbed our bagged beers and our bread bowls and peeked into the adjoining restaurant for an open table. We walked into the entrance and were met by the same host who had seated Stefan in this same arrangement last November.
"Any tables available?" Stefan asked.
"Walk away," the host replied rudely. We paused, bewildered. "Those are for walk-away," the host repeated. "Not the restaurant."
"But it's the same restaurant, right?" Stefan replied. "We're just going to sit down and eat them here quickly."
I followed him to a nearby table for two.
"Sir, those tables are for restaurant service only!" the host said from behind us.
"We'll be quick," Stefan replied as we sat down, and we began eating our chowders.
After a bite or two, another man came to our table, stood behind me and addressed Stefan. I continued to eat.
"Sir, you cannot sit at this table with that food."
"We're only going to be about ten minutes. We purchased food from your restaurant, so we're going to eat it here."
"No," the man replied. "You must order off of this menu." He held up the menu in his hand. "That is walk-away food. You cannot bring it in here."
I turned around to face the man. "It's the same restaurant, right?"
The man answered, still addressing Stefan, "Yes, but that stand is for walk-away, not the restaurant. You have to leave."
“We'll be quick,” Stefan repeated. “We gave money to your business; we're going to eat at this table.”
“Sir,” the man said, without any of the respect that the title implied, “these tables are for people who order off of this menu. You cannot sit here.”
“Do you have people waiting for a table?” Stefan asked.
“Yes, we do, sir.”
"Fine," Stefan said, glancing at the empty entrance. “I don't believe you, but fine. Thanks for the hospitality. Asshole."
And we grabbed our unfinished bread bowls and our bagged beers and walked away. Two stands down, the man caught up with us from behind, clearly fuming, menu still in his hand.
He tapped Stefan on the back angrily, "Hey, watch your language next time. I'm serious."
Without turning around, Stefan answered, "Alright, man. Sure."
"Hey!" the man replied as we continued to walk. "I'm serious."
We sat on a bench in the sun to finish our clam chowder, surrounded by the tourists and the pigeons. A sleeping homeless man occupied the other half of the bench. He didn't move the entire time we were there.
"If you hadn't been there, that probably would have been a fight," Stefan told me. "I considered throwing my clam chowder in his face. Then you would have had to watch me get beat up by a man in a collared shirt and a tie with clam chowder on his face."
"He would have beat you?"
"I've had e-coli for a month."
"You probably shouldn't have called him an asshole."
"You're right. But I had to think on my feet."
"And, he was a total asshole."
"Yeah," he shook his head. "They were so nice to me in November. There was no one else here then."
When we finished our clam chowders and nibbled away all of the bread bowls that we could, we tore off pieces of bread and tossed them at the groups of pigeons, but they were largely ignored. Across the sidewalk, a teenage boy dumped his remaining seasoned fries onto the ground, and the pigeons flocked to him and devoured the pile before he had even jumped out of the way. His friends laughed and cheered. Fat American pigeons, visiting the Wharf for McDonald's and Starbucks.
"Ready to head back?" I asked, trying not to cringe at my surroundings.
"Soon," Stefan answered. He held up his beer-in-a-bag. "I want to finish my beer. I don't know if we're allowed to have them out here."
"Good point." We finished our beers, then started the trek back to Embarcadero.
"I'm glad you didn't get into a fight," I told him.
"Me too," he replied. "I almost broke Hunter's one rule."
"What rule?"
"Don't burn the locals."
"Well," I replied, "that was Las Vegas."
