It was late afternoon last Saturday, and we were in the Richmond. I was doing some historical research for a novel, with my husband and a writer friend in tow. On weekends, when in San Francisco with brunch intentions, it pays to wait and go late - helps you avoid the sidewalk crush of pert and early birds clamoring for avocado toast.
Eats was still semi-populous around noon-thirty (they close around two, I believe), but not overrun - and they have a pretty great kindergarten-tested method for wrangling the unruly masses: you write your own name and party number on a chalkboard posted on a pillar outside, and the house staff works off that.
It's something of an honor system with intermittent oversight. Knowing human nature, I had some doubts - otherwise upstanding people can get pretty sociopathic about brunch, and one could see where some Unconscionable could attempt to game the system; obviously as people are seated, names get erased, leaving tempting blank space above those still waiting.
Theoretically, an unscrupulous would-be diner could attempt to exploit such a loophole while feigning ignorance. And indeed, some sketchy late-comers did attempt to write their names above, instead of below, visibly worrying two foreign tourist girls with the same party number, who had been politely waiting for at least a half-hour.
Would America prove to be a land of chicanery and vice and brunch deferred?
Resoundingly, no.
The guy playing the part of host/waitron/houseman/line monitor that day was a seasoned do-no-harm-but-take-no-shit professional hospitality maven - firm and directed, but never once crossing the line into brusque or rude, which is frankly a tough line to walk. With an iron command of both chalk and board, he took one glance at the rogue names, re-wrote them below, erased them with a definitive flourish, and slapped the eraser back onto the board like it had personally insulted his mother.
I didn't catch his name, but he was super cute, Asian, and had the stone-faced gravitas of a young Chuck Connors in dealing with the general shenanigans of the huddled and hungry denizens. As a former waitress, I swooned.
Despite his (admirable) chalkboard tough-love, as a server he proved to be charming and good-natured, with a sense of humor and general savoir-faire that is rare and valuable in someone who works with the public.
When I couldn't decide between the Mexican Scramble and the Divorce Eggs (come on, you want to eat them based on the name alone, don't you?), and asked his opinion, he said, "Tell you what - get the Mexican scramble, and I'll bring you the tomatillo salsa so you can have the best of both worlds."
A man of decisive generosity - who could ask for anything more?
My husband quite happily ensconced in his cowboy breakfast burrito, my friend was favorably impressed by her lox scramble with capers and cream cheese, and I have to say the bloody mary was just great - a perfect savory balance, well-seasoned and served in a wide-mouthed mason jar, apropos for the classy person we all are on a Saturday afternoon.
Eats is a nice space, too - a neighborhood joint with actual aesthetic, close and cozy tables, but a clientele you don't mind cozying up to, and with less customer competition to beat off, being slightly off the beaten path.
We shall certainly return forthwith on our next sojourn from Seattle! read more