The Tonga Room, Updated

There’s nothing better to focus your direction than sitting in traffic on that boring stretch of northbound 101 near Olompali State Park well after dark being interviewed by your Grandmother. From our conversation, it seems that she has been under the impression I spend most of my days (and most nights) walking up and down Market Street with a sign, but in explaining the details of the things I’ve been finding around my beat, I actually worked out exactly what I was aiming for.

A huge issue in the Russian Hill neighborhood is housing. Given that most homes are already paid for and there are relatively few vacancies, the city’s planning department has begun motions to put in a few mid-rise housing units. I dug around some and found an environmental impact report for this which included more detailed information on locations for these new buildings, one of which is slated to go up in place of the Fairmont Hotel’s auxiliary buildings which house a number of rooms, parking, and most notably The Tonga Room, a tiki bar that holds its own within San Francisco’s history.

Naturally, I had to check this place out. It’s true; their Mai Tais will knock you flat.

So after poking around, I discovered groups to save the Tonga Room, as well as the actual historical significance report commissioned by the city. With all the documented information I need, I started to poke around more—especially to better hammer out the ‘character’ of the place. I talked to a lot of people when I visited the Tonga Room, but I’ve discovered that alcohol can make journalism very difficult—from both perspectives.

There’s that lady that always grabs your arm when she talks to you, which seems common lately. She was a great conversation because she slurred out a bunch of stories about the Gold Rush era in San Francisco (she’s an historian and museum docent in the city), which were fascinating despite the fact that it really wasn’t getting at exactly what I was trying to.

I’ve found that these conversations that happen without notebooks or recorders are really useful, though. The information about how the neighborhood came into its own during the latter 19th century was not only interesting but it shed some light onto the character of the neighborhood, which otherwise comes off as “oooh la-la”.

“Opulent” I guess would be the word.

The goal now is to talk to more substantive sources such as real estate agents, more Tonga Room bartenders and patrons (maybe the doorman; the concierges haven't been terribly helpful), and tourists. As much as the San Francisco native historian can gush about a place because it’s their own, I love talking to people who come from many thousands, or even hundreds, of miles away because that perspective is always unique.

The Tonga Room holds their happy hour nightly from 5-7 p.m. with a menu that is surprisingly affordable given how exclusive the hotel is, it's well worth the hike to Nob Hill's summit.

In the past, there have been sit-in protests during this time to save the Tonga Room, and petitions have easily amassed the proper number of signatures. The only thing left now for supporters is to convince the city.

I, of course love the place too, and therein lies the ethical issue because I could very easily become involved with this story. I just like their Mai-Tais too much.

Cougars & Blues at The Union Room

Last night, I was invited to see my old friend Paul Steward and his dad Rich play a fill-in gig at The Union Room in what I also learned is sometimes referred to as the "Tendernob"-an area of Nob Hill on its border with the Tenderloin. Paul and Rich have played together in their band Twice as Good all over the country, maintaining standing gigs in Lake and Mendocino Counties, and my old stomping grounds, Santa Rosa.

The Union room is this tiny lounge above Biscuits & Blues and next to Jack in the Box at the corner of Geary and Mason. I got upstairs and ordered a drink just as Paul and Rich were starting their first set. Excluding the bartenders and doorman, I counted 6 people in attendance. I felt guilty, so I paid the cover, even though nobody was enforcing it.



It really wasn't long before the tiny lounge began to fill. I tucked my camera bag and jacket behind the bar and moved into the growing crowd of people. With the people came the dinners. They looked amazingly good, and the prices weren't bad, but Jack in the Box took care of me.

True to form, Paul and Rich entertained. Paul, the ever-consummate musician moved between various guitars, a keyboard, saxophone, and a harmonica while Rich held a steady rhythm, swaying slightly as he played. The set was eclectic too, especially given their relative lack of equipment and personnel.

"I'm gonna play a little keys now," said Paul moving to his keyboard. Stopping himself mid-sit to adjust his mic and address the audience, he added, "and by little, I mean it has half the keys of a normal one."



The show was great, and it was nice to see Paul and Rich again. They ran through three sets of chugging 12-bar blues progressions and all the wining and wailing that makes blues guitar what it is.



While this was a really fun outing, I felt that it gave me a lot of insight into the practice of journalism, particularly interviewing.

Somewhere around the second set, the cougars began to stalk around the outer perimeter of the lounge. Actually, it was really more like a gaggle of saber-tooths. I talked to a lot, but one in particular, a very intoxicated 'Miss Margaret' of Noe Valley provided the best conversation. I started with the basics, 'what's your name?', 'do you live here in town?', that kind of thing. Then, I had the unmitigated pleasure of meeting her daughter, who unfortunately lives in Vermont. She said to me, "journalism is about specifics, you're asking way to broad-a questions!"

That really was my intention, though. Especially given what I got out of it. Margaret started getting very friendly, and then a little too friendly. She is absolutely one of those people that grabs your arm when they talk to you.

Margaret told me all about the Southern Pacific Railroad and how she used to be a conductor until they made her a trainer. She lived in San Francisco in '68 and apparently knew Janis Joplin and the guys in Starship. She's now an community activist doing outreach for victims of domestic violence. She's fantastic, and I hope to talk more with her, but I'm going to do it when she's sober. She leans in a little to far.



After the night wound down, I headed back for Powell Station. I talked to some more homeless people then got on the train.

This neighborhood is definitely more fun at night.