9 November Wednesday

OK, everyone can breathe. The election is over, and as with everything else, it’s not as bad as we thought. What better night to remember the ancient practice of meeting someone at the corner? This time has become so encumbered with specificity which no real person needs to/wants to be wedded to. In the great cities and neighborhoods our country, telling someone to meet at a street corner around a certain time is an exhilarating prospect. Let’s meet around this time, maybe or maybe not, let’s see how the bus is getting down Mission St. Where and what shall we eat? It’s an impromptu, pizza, pub, pasta, dim sum, tex-mex, real mex, thai, sushi, curry, curried sushi pizza burrito? I waited at the corner for a friend, looking at the bright, full moon on a cold, windy November night. He arrived, we walked, chose an eatery. It was great, old school as they say; wonderful and magical.

We are so spoiled for choice, and all the restaurants that line the streets serve our needs morning, noon, and well into the night. Why cook at all? Well, that’s a topic for another time, or maybe never, as the reasons for creating our own food are well known, and basically, the whole point of this blog. I mean, right?

So who can explain the phenomena of the diner? They make pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, the usual American breakfast fare, slung into our faces for ease, convenience, and price. So, I will tell you of one of the greatest diners ever tasted on these shores or others, and I offer it as a Requiem, because the place is no more.

If you are familiar with the great city of San Francisco, you know that the best places to eat are not always in the best places for other qualities of life. Such was the case of Moulin Rouge Restaurant, which stands at the corner of Geary and Leavenworth in the Tenderloin. The joint was run by the an older Japanese couple, who I imagine were married the day after they purchased this diner, no later than the early part of 1970, when they must have agreed on the decor, which never changed henceforth. I wonder how I can find and interview them? Magnificent omelettes, bacon, toast, pancakes, those little boxes of cereal. And the hash browns from another dimension. All made by one person to order. Mr. took the orders and refilled the coffee, Mrs. cooked the food. Crappy coffee, cheap tea bags. Everything wonderful, the creak of the floors, the old plush carpet that kept the place warm and smelling of smoky bacon fat. Now, the diner is closed forever, and I hope its proprietors are enjoying a wonderful retirement.