Sunk in Dran Francisco

Li Po was a Chinese poet who wrote verse about drinking alone. Li Po is also a Chinatown bar that immediately became a favorite of mine.

"Sometimes people call it Lie Po," said the bartender, a tall, presumably Chinese-American man who looked to be hovering around 60. "But it's Lee Po."

The bar is located on Grant, maybe three blocks past the Chinatown gate. We noticed it while traversing the neighborhood, burning off the steamed pork buns, duck and egg fooyung that we devoured at the fantastic Far East Cafe. We were heading homeward after a stop at City Lights and a few contemplative moments in front of North Beach (I think) adult shops.



We needed a breather, and by breather, I mean drink. Li Po attracted us with its over-the-top Chinese facade. We walked inside, where there were three guys sitting down on bar stools, sat down, grabbed a round of drinks and watched the end of the Republican convention. Kind of watched it, I suppose would be more accurate. I'm all burnt out on politics and the election is still two months away.

Soon enough, I had to use the facilities. I walked down a dimly lit staircase and entered the ladies room. The only light in there was above the sink. It was pitch black in the stalls. Kleenex served as a substitute for toilet paper and towels. This should have turned me against the establishment completely, but it didn't. Perhaps I have overcome my fear of public bathrooms.

We stayed in the bar for two or three hours, as I chugged four vodka tonics.

"Wow, you're pounding those back," Carlos observed.

It's easy to drink in a city where you don't have to drive. I was just making up for all those frightfully dry nights in L.A. clubs.

Then we started messing around with the jukebox. I thought I had programmed Everything But the Girl. Instead, I got some house song I vaguely recalled from college. To that we added Prince and Nena's classic "99 Luftballoons," as a sort of tribute to all the German we had been hearing out on the streets of San Francisco (seriously, did the whole country get this month off and head to California). Unfortunately, it was the English version of the song. (FYI, the jukebox also hosts tons of Cantonese pop CDs, which you can program alongside the soul hits of the '60s.)

We saw a flyer for a club called Sweater Funk that takes place on Sundays at Li Po. Since we had to leave on Saturday, we couldn't attend. If you're in San Francisco, check it out and tell me about it. Our bartender said that there are also parties on Fridays and Saturdays. He told us we should come on the weekend, which I hope meant that he didn't assume we were tourists. Cool.

We hit up a small handful of bars over the course of our stay. The Gallery Lounge, about one or two blocks away from the Caltrain station in Soma, was good enough for us to enter twice in one night. The bar features art on the walls and the bartenders are very nice. The Utah Hotel Saloon, which is down the street from the Gallery, is alright. We inadvertently entered through the wrong door and pissed off the bartender. Capitan, down the street from our hotel, was super yuppie and cramped. We went to the White Horse, below our hotel, for food, not drinks, but can say that the dinner was great and the service far above the mediocre b.s. you get at restaurants in L.A.