Most weekends, we go out for breakfast, usually on Saturday, and usually we end up at this place, even though we walk past at least half a dozen other places that would sell us coffee and a sweet roll in order to get to this one. We also walk up a fairly challenging hill and down the other side.
We ask ourselves why. For one thing, there is a commanding view of S. F. Bay from the top of that hill. For another, most of the places we walk by are crowded and noisy.
But this place has charms all its own. They serve your latte in those big, heavy, ceramic cups. The staff is cheerful toward customers and each other; I wonder if they own the place. And the clientele are neighborly in a low-key sort of way. They speak when spoken to, which means usually you can concentrate on reading the Chronicle.
Such is the art of breakfast.
We ask ourselves why. For one thing, there is a commanding view of S. F. Bay from the top of that hill. For another, most of the places we walk by are crowded and noisy.
But this place has charms all its own. They serve your latte in those big, heavy, ceramic cups. The staff is cheerful toward customers and each other; I wonder if they own the place. And the clientele are neighborly in a low-key sort of way. They speak when spoken to, which means usually you can concentrate on reading the Chronicle.
Such is the art of breakfast.
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