Thirty Years Between Bites

From Freakshow to Fork: My San Francisco Return

A few weeks ago, I flew out to California — San Francisco, to be exact. I hadn’t been back in thirty years. I was a teenager then. Didn’t love it much. Too much freak show, not enough clothes.
San Francisco was the first place I ever really saw poverty. Real poverty. Tents on sidewalks. Human shit between parked cars. People strung out, checked out, broken down. It wasn’t just shocking — it was formative. This was the land of opportunity, and it looked like hell.
That, combined with the full-blown circus the city has always been, left an impression. I remember rollerblading nuns with full moustaches. Naked guys letting it all hang out like it was no big deal. Drugs were everywhere, sometimes hidden, sometimes right out in the open. It felt like the edge of the world, wired on acid and apathy.

Thirty years later? Not much has changed.

Sure, the moustachioed nuns are probably collecting pensions, but their spiritual successors are still skating by. The naked guys haven’t gone anywhere. And the city still feels like a mad experiment in chaos and counterculture. It’s weird. It’s wild. It’s still a freak show.

To be honest, I was more interested in getting around the drinking laws where you had to be 21, and I was just 19, which meant I had to spend more time in restaurants than bars — but that was a good thing, looking back.

Last time, I hit all the classics: Pier 39 (or maybe it was 36 — doesn’t matter, the food was shit then and, spoiler alert, still shit now). Bland chowder in sourdough boules, overpriced candy, the kind of culinary bait made for cruise-ship day passes.

Chinatown, on the other hand, was excellent — and still delivers. Peking duck with crisp skin and sweet fat. Tasty fish hot pots. Fresh, hand-pulled noodles eaten with a side of blistering chilli sauce that makes your eyebrows sweat. That’s where the city still cooks with soul.
Back then, I ate mostly at random. I wandered, followed my nose, and stumbled into whatever looked busy or smelled good. It was the first time I tried cornbread with jalapeños, tamales, duck, and exotic fish like grouper and tilapia.

And the wine—oh my God, the wine. Sure, there were the cheap-and-cheerful, sugar-fueled bottles, but there were also serious players. I tasted Ridge, Silver Oak, and Screaming Eagle — all liquids that seemed to bend the rules of flavour. I was a basic bitch back then, but that experience cracked something open. It made me curious. It made me evolve and get a WSET 4 qualification, only to be an alcoholic as well.

This time around, I had a mission. I wanted to know: Had San Francisco’s appetite changed? Had the soul of the city — at least the edible part — kept pace with its tech money and spiralling rents? Or was I just here for the memory?

The Food Now

First off, let me say this — the food in San Francisco is, generally speaking, really good. In some places, it’s really, reallygood.
The coffee scene is excellent too: plenty of options, great blends, and almost always paired with a flaky, buttery pastry that feels like it was made with actual care.

But more importantly, San Francisco — or more precisely, Berkeley — is the spiritual home of the farm-to-fork movement, and on this trip, I was going to visit ground zero: Chez Panisse.

Back in 1971, Alice Waters and her partner Paul Aratow opened the restaurant in Berkeley, just across the bay. What they built wasn’t just a place to eat — They didn’t just open a restaurant — they started a movement. Local food, seasonal menus, no bullshit. Not about hype. Just integrity.”

Berkeley has always been a place of activism — political, social, cultural — and Alice fit right in. She wasn’t just a chef. She was, and still is, a food activist. Her mission wasn’t just to serve meals but to change minds. To make people care about what they were putting in their mouths — and where it came from.
Names like Jeremiah Tower, Andy Baraghani, Dan Barber, Paul Bertolli, April Bloomfield, Suzanne Goin, David Lebovitz, and Samin Nosrat all worked there and still carry on the philosophy today.
Chez Panisse became a temple to that philosophy. And for me, visiting it wasn’t just ticking off a legendary name. It felt like a pilgrimage.

I wanted to eat at the legendary French Laundry — Thomas Keller’s cathedral of cuisine in Yountville. But getting a table there is like trying to catch a leprechaun and steal his pot of gold. Technically possible, but mostly the stuff of fairy tales and rich people’s group chats. I gave it a shot, but short of faking a medical emergency or marrying into Napa royalty, it wasn’t happening.

The Locations:

I was staying in Oakland, just across the bay, and having never been there before, it kind of reminded me of the East Coast — somewhere between the Hamptons and Nyack, kind of Waspy, neat collars and chinos. Everyone was friendly, thoughtful, open.
And I have to say, I really like American service. A lot of Europeans find it saccharine, but not me. I work hard for my money, and I appreciate when someone works just as hard to take it off me.
Honestly, I'd sooner punch a French waiter in the mouth than tip him — but in Oakland, if I didn’t leave one, I felt like I was stealing. That’s the difference: effort matched with generosity, not attitude.
The Yanks wear their hearts on their shelves, their cars, their lawns. You’re never in the dark with Americans — everything’s out in the open, from their politics to their protein powder.
Coming from Ireland, where people treat their opinions like national secrets, it’s kind of wild.
It honestly makes me nervous when people argue more about politics than food, but here we are.
Full disclosure: I’m not on the side of the communists… but I’m not entirely on the other side either.
The breakfast joints are great almost everywhere — plates piled high with maple bacon, pancakes, and eggs done any way you want them. And my favourite thing? The continuous coffee. The magic of the refill. Hot, steaming, dark, and delicious.
And there’s a backnote of Alice Waters everywhere. Even the humblest breakfast spot lists the name of at least one farmer or producer. It’s a quiet nod to a bigger philosophy — proof that when someone is truly committed, they can shift the culture. They can make a difference.

We head into Berkeley. We’ve been recommended a pizza spot.
“Oh, this place is really good — it’s a co-operative,” I’m told.
Now look, I’m not exactly a card-carrying red. And if I’m honest, when I hear the word co-operative, my gut reaction is: overpriced and underwhelming. These are the kinds of places that serve food meant to feed an ideology, not your appetite. And to add insult to capitalist injury, the prices usually make you gag.
No surprise here. The irony is palpable — folks cooking against the capitalist machine while overcharging for their underwhelming product.
I did enjoy the “Leninade” and all the other communist-themed soft drinks, and the wall of anti-this and anti-that slogans. It’s sweet. But it’s also shit.
Look, I just want to eat, not get a sermon on the sins of society. Is that really too much to ask?

Wine Country

For the next few days, we headed to wine country — Napa and the surrounding areas.
If you only take one drive in California, take this one. It’s surreal, especially for a European: the towering trees, the mountains, the sheer sense of vastness. As you move out of the crucible of political correctness, the world opens up. Flags flutter proudly, war memorials stand tall, and Ford F-500s roll by — not as status symbols, but as actual working machines.
You feel it: the shift from sit-on-your-ass tech guys to the get-your-ass-up-and-do-something guys.
To most of the world, wine is a luxury item. But here? It’s still farming. Growing something real and turning it into something beautiful.
I visited Mondavi, Stag’s Leap, and a few tasting rooms. I felt American — standing among the people who went full rodeo on the French in the '70s and won.
Last time I was here, I visited Fetzer, a big, volume-driven producer. I only went because I thought it was something you were supposed to do when you came to Napa.
This time, I had a purpose — and a wine degree. I wasn’t wasting the opportunity to get face-to-face with the region.
My main goal? To reach Ridge’s Geyserville vineyard, my all-time favourite red. Rich, sinuous, delicate, balanced.
It’s the exact wine you dream of when you imagine red wine done right.
We even made it to Geyserville — not the vineyard, but the town — and thankfully, it was the real deal. A true American small town, straight out of the celluloid pictures I watched as a kid.
It had a liquor store and a gun store in the same building — as if Hollywood and reality had finally shaken hands.
I spoke with the people there and felt completely at home. They were creators, grafters, blue-collar, hands-on labourers — like myself. No pretence. Just people who worked hard and made things with their hands. The kind of America you don’t see on Instagram, but one that still hums with quiet dignity.

Ground Zero

We’re back in Berkeley. I check out the campus — the birthplace of free speech.
It’s not lost on me that the lampposts and garden signs are now plastered with all the things you can’t say. To quote Dylan: “Times they are a-changin’.”
But I’m not here for some juvenile search for the self. I’m here for something greater: food — unadulterated, unpoliticised, and hopefully unapologetic. Just great, honest plates made with care and craft.

Chez Panisse Anticipation

My booking is for eight.
If I’m honest, I’m nervous.
I’ve met the Rolling Stones, Princess Diana, and more celebrities than I can count. Never fazed me. They’re just people, doing work that a lot of others happen to admire.
But this? This is different. This is my thing — the food thing. And here, I’m a fanboy.
I’ve read about places like this, watched them, dreamt about them. And now, I’m standing at the threshold of one.
In moments like this, I feel like a little boy again — eyes wide, mouth watering — just desperate to taste, to smell, to be near greatness.
But tonight, I’m not behind the scenes. I’m not on the clock.
I’m a guest — a paying guest, sure — but the moment I lift my fork and take that first bite, I’m part of history.

The Meal

Before I start waxing lyrical about the experience — and believe me, it is fantastic — let’s be clear: it comes at a price.
$175 per person. Before tip. Before drinks.
So yes, it turns out the socialist dream comes with a tasting menu and a service charge.
I took no pictures. I’m just not that guy.
I want to eat the plate, not perform for it. I want it to meld into memory — to sit alongside all the other great meals I’ve had and become part of that internal archive.
And this one absolutely earns its place.
It’s a four-course set menu — that’s $43.75 a plate. Not exactly a blue-collar special.
But is it worth it?
Yes. Absolutely.
The food is simple. Not overworked. No bells and whistles. Just clarity, balance, and restraint.
This place once had a Michelin star, then didn’t. And you get the feeling it doesn’t really care. That’s the confidence here — the quiet focus of a kitchen that knows exactly what it’s doing.
That takes balls.
The kind of balls I appreciate — unlike the moustachioed nuns or the naked cycling dude across the bay.
What do you want me to say? I love the States.
The service. The hustle. The dedication to doing things well.
The overabundance, the generosity, the pride in what’s grown just down the road.
I don’t care about the politics. Just give me a plate of honesty, and we’ll be just fine.