A couple years back, Grant and I found ourselves in San Francisco in need of a place to drink. Grant was being stalked by a creepy little dude who really liked his jeans. I find the Bay Area’s pervasive middle class, white culture extremely depressing. Zeitgeist is over. Where to go? How about a bar where people knew our names and the moonshine was free?
San Francisco’s Ace Cafe had some sort of affiliation with the tourist trap in London, but make no mistake, this was a proper drinking man’s establishment. Well, drinking bikers anyways. Like any good bar, it was dark and musty inside, with more than a little air of an English pub to it. When you walked in, everyone at the bar turned around and looked at you.
During a night there, we heard and told plenty of two-wheeled tall tales, made some new friends and got properly shit faced.
Earlier this year, the landlord gave The Ace the boot, looking for a tenant prepared to pay higher rent. Word is, Rob, the proprietor, is looking for a new venue. Until he finds one, we have this video.