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Rexroth’s San Francisco
1973-1974
Old Chinatown
Bohemian San Francisco Between the Wars
Organized Vice, Then and Now
It’s amazing how much San Francisco has changed since I came here in 1927.
Legendary old San Francisco is usually thought of as, to quote that immortal
epic The Girl with the Blue Velvet Band, “that city of wealth, beauty and
fashion, dear old Frisco where I first saw the light” — the wild and glamorous
town of the years before the Fire (Earthquake). But it’s extraordinary how
legendary and far away the San Francisco of pre-Depression days has become.
To start, as the tourist does, with Chinatown: a majority of the men still
wore black sateen suits and little caps and smoked tobacco in the iron and
bamboo pipes that all the honkies thought contained opium. Real hip white people
called it a yen hock, which in fact is corrupt Cantonese for the needle
on which opium is roasted. There were lots of women with Golden Lilies or Golden
Lotuses, bound dwarfed feet, teetering along Grant Avenue where some of the
signs still said Dupont Street. Big black limousines full of singsong girls
shepherded by a solemn fat mama came and went from Chinese banquets, at which
all sorts of depraved capers were imagined to go on. Walking along Grant Avenue
of an evening you were never out of the sound of rattling mahjong tiles.
The stores all had small paned windows, closed at night with wooden or
sheet-iron shutters. I remember the first modern storefront in Chinatown, a
restaurant on Washington Street below Grant, long since vanished. Crowds of
curious Chinese watched the place being rebuilt, utterly fascinated. The next,
the first on Grant Avenue, was the Fong Fong Bakery and Ice Cream Parlor, still
there. In the little basement and alley restaurants with their menus only in
Chinese, chalked on a blackboard, you could get a good meal for 25¢.
The Chinese community policed itself. It had the highest tuberculosis rate,
but the lowest delinquency and crime rate in the City. One thing the tourists
were always looking for were Chinese girls, but the days of hundreds of little
cribs with the girls calling out “Two bittie looky! Four bittie feely! Six
bittie doeey!” were long gone. There were still brothels on Bush Street but the
girls were Caucasian and the prices were high. The famous Gentleman’s Agreement
had given over the policing of Chinatown to the Chinese community and all
interracial “vice” was very effectively banned, except for Chinese lottery
tickets which were sold by the thousands every morning all over the City. There
was a Chinatown Detail of Caucasian plainclothes police, a bunch of Keystone
Cops, whose duties seemed to consist of loitering together on street corners,
spitting on the sidewalk, and collecting the clout. The best restaurants were
Hang Far Low, Tao Yeuan, and the Moon Café of happy memory. An acupuncturist
used to operate on the street, and it was common to see somebody sitting quietly
against the wall, stuck full of needles. One of the most fascinating characters
was a little old man with a sublimely happy face surrounded with, for a Chinese,
quite bushy white hair and beard. He was a trapper in the marshes near the head
of the Bay, and each week he brought in a raccoon or a possum or a wildcat or a
gray fox, two animals at a time, rolled alive in chicken wire and suspended from
a yoke over his shoulder. These he sold to customers, who had them killed and
skinned (the skin cured and saved for a health vest — for this purpose the
wildcat was considered the best). The meat, and especially the organs, and most
especially the bile duct and testicles, was cooked and eaten — guaranteed to put
lead in your pencil, even if you didn’t have anybody to write to. Usually he
also had a sack of snakes, including defanged rattlers, which he sold for the
same purposes. In his old, old age he was arrested by the police of the
California Fish and Game Commission, and died in prison.
There were three, sometimes four, Chinese theaters, where the entire
repertoire of Chinese opera could be seen night after night, and after ten
o’clock admission was only 25¢. Since Chinese plays never really get going until
halfway through, it was possible to spend every night watching one of the
world’s greatest theatrical traditions for little more than the price of a
package of cigarettes. Those were the great days of the Cantonese theater,
before the old traditional costumes gave way to gaudy things covered with huge
glittering sequins, and when Chinese actors were still trained from childbirth
not only in flawlessly perfect acting technique but in the most fantastic
acrobatics, and the actresses in equally agile dancing. It was also before the
years when the Chinese theater became overwhelmed with male impersonators, women
in heroes’ roles.
Today such theatrical performances would be prohibitively expensive. There is
no longer a full-time Chinese theater in the City (shockingly enough, there
isn’t one in Taipei either), and even the heavily subsidized festival
performances nowadays cannot compare with what you got for 25¢ admission a
generation ago.
With the change in taste, Chinese theatrical costumes and the traditional
clothing of the Chinese upper classes were thrown on the second-hand market and
“Mandarin coats” and suchlike could be bought for a few dollars from high-piled
tables in the two largest Chinese art goods stores. Chinatown was full of
bargains of this sort, and it was hard to figure out how the merchandise, food,
clothing, hardware, art objects, could be delivered to the customer at such
prices. Along the line, nobody could have made more than a few pennies on each
transaction, from the Canton pawn shop to the final clubwoman from Des Moines.
There was another side of the coin. When I came to San Francisco I expected
to meet all sorts of people with whom I could discuss the great poets,
philosophers and painters of China. But classical Chinese culture was a closed
book to all but a few old men who could not communicate with a Caucasian, and a
Chinese woman doctor and her brother. When C.H. Kwock arrived from Hong Kong and
Honolulu to work on the Chinese World, with an enthusiastic knowledge and
love of the classical culture, he was the first person of his kind in the
community.
Concomitantly, the hidden, deep-rooted prejudice against the Chinese, which
prevailed in all circles of the white community, dumbfounded me. I had been
friends during his stay in America with the great Chinese poet Wen I-to, later
assassinated by the Kuo Min Tang, and had many other Chinese friends. I
discovered that even among radical bohemians here, if I said “At the University
of Chicago where I went, an oriental student is a preferred date,” it was as
though I had made a mess on the floor.
[September 1973]
Having spoken my little piece about the election, I can get back to the short
series of columns I hope to do on San Francisco between the wars, and in this
one, to North Beach and Telegraph Hill — The Last Bohemia. Now that almost a
generation has passed since the first Abstract Expressionists and Morris Graves
lived here and the San Francisco Renaissance and the Beats started writing and
the Tape Music Center began and San Francisco became for ten years the liveliest
culture capital in the world and its artists and writers famous from Asunción to
Reykjavik and from Irkutsk to Mexico City and the place every young intellectual
wanted to go as soon as possible, it is hard to believe how provincial the City
was between the First War and the Depression.
I hadn’t been here very long before I got a visit from the leading artist,
who looked around the walls and said, “Waall I see you’re experimentin’ with
abstract form like Matissey and Picassio.” Folks were nothing if not loyal to
local talent. Everybody, but everybody, believed the greatest living poet was
George Sterling, the greatest living novelist Kathleen Norris, and that Papa
Hertz was an orchestral conductor and the rubbery sounds emitted by his Symphony
were music. My wife and I had to admit it was a change of pace after Paris, New
York and Chicago.
There were advantages, as there always are to provincialism and cultural lag.
The marketplace was far away. It was quite impossible to make a living as an
artist, writer or composer in San Francisco, so the practitioners of the arts
were in it for love, and they were mostly very poor indeed. This economic
situation produced a Bohemia very like that of New York or Chicago from the
1880s to the First War.
Another important factor was that Prohibition simply didn’t exist. There were
several bars on Market Street alone where a perfect stranger could walk in and
get a full whiskey glass of respectable moonshine or grappa for 25¢, and it was
easy to find red wine for $2 a gallon or less. A studio in the Montgomery Block
cost $12. Over on Washington and Sansome were even bigger rooms, gaslit, for
$8-10 a month. If you had practically no money at all you could get free
buttermilk at the Golden State Dairy nearby and in the produce district as the
markets closed all the free vegetables you could carry away, and free fish at
the wholesale fish market. There was another place where you could get free
dried fruit. There was no problem, if you knew your way around, in maintaining a
very healthful diet. None of the cheap hotels in North Beach cost more than a
dollar a day. The cheapest Italian restaurants served a full dinner and a glass
of red ink for 25¢, and you could put together a Chinese dinner at Yee Jun’s for
25¢ a person — or less.
The hangouts were: the Casa Begine, a wonderful restaurant then entering its
decline — Mama and Papa Begine were growing old, and their customers were
deserting Bohemia for the Establishment; the Telegraph Hill Tavern, run by a
great cook and great lover and bad poet, a lady who called herself Myrtokleia,
after a character in The Songs of Bilitis; and Izzy Gomez’s, at first on
Pacific, across from the firehouse, immortalized in William Saroyan’s The
Time of Your Life. The Casa Begine in its best days was a genuine artists’
and writers’ restaurant where people lingered long after splendid dinners in
passionate discussions or intense chess games, and after many glasses of wine
ended up singing until after midnight. It must have been something like the
Closerie des Lilas in Paris in the 1900s, when the evenings were presided over
by Paul Fort, the “Prince of Poets.”
Myrto’s was different. The customers were mostly pure Bohemians — people with
artistic personalities but little or no artistic talent, who enjoyed many of the
pleasures of the rich while sacrificing many of the necessities of even the
poor. The atmosphere was one of muted orgy, liable to break loose at any late
hour into gay, bedraggled abandon. Myrto and her friends were always getting
busted at the annual arts ball for appearing in the altogether or as they say in
French, à poil. Myrto’s was more like the Café Dôme in Montparnasse’s
craziest days or the even crazier “bohemian tea rooms” of Greenwich Village or
Chicago’s Near North Side — Grace’s Garret, the Purple Pup, the Green Mask, the
Gray Cottage, all of them dead long before the Telegraph Hill Tavern was born.
Izzy Gomez’s was something else. Unique. Sui generis. It really was as
portrayed in The Time of Your Life, except that it was also a favorite
hangout for hardboiled, sophisticated newspapermen of the kind that flourished
in the good old days when no self-respecting newspaperman, including even the
editorial writers, believed a word of the Social Lie, but knew all the real
answers. They gave the place a rowdy, slightly underworld character of
half-suppressed brawl. Now they’re all dead. The last to go was handsome Pat
O’Niall who died, fat and alcoholic, on the Pittsburgh Press, a legend of
awe and wonder to his colleagues in what has come to be called “the profession
of journalism.” Izzy’s grappa, the best liquor in town, was 25 cents a shot. He
served nothing else but home brew. Bootleg big brewery beer was made only by the
Organization and not allowed in San Francisco. For meals Izzy served thick,
luscious steaks, French fries and salads — a considerable number of meals and
liquor free, not just to starving artists, but to people he liked. I was always
a little embarrassed to patronize the place because he would never take any
money from me. If I brought guests for dinner I had to give them the money and
have them pretend to be hosting me. Even so, Izzy would not usually take the
money. [...]
San Francisco’s Bohemia, between the two world wars, may have been
provincial, but in those days there was no question whatever that the laissez
faire and dolce far niente of la vie méditerranée was stronger
and lasted longer here than anywhere on that tideless inland sea itself.
San Tropez wasn’t in it with Telegraph Hill. Most of the hill was still
unpaved. There weren’t even real streets on the north side and only rickety
wooden staircases on the east. Two different old ladies herded goats in the
vacant lots and kept them at night in barns that were part of their own homes.
The Italians were almost all from North Italy, the largest contingent from
Lucca. To this day the Lucchese have the largest town club in the Bay Area, and
whenever I have visited Lucca all sorts of people greet me by name and invite me
for a drink.
At harvest time the gutters were purple with overflowing refuse from the vine
presses, and an atmosphere of wholesome orgy borne on the strains of mandolins,
guitars and accordions enveloped the whole hill. This Latin virtú
communicated itself most infectiously to the scattered bohemians who still
constituted a very small minority. San Francisco must have been the only city in
the United States where intellectuals drank wine rather than hard liquor or
cocktails at their parties.
Even the sex was wholesome, though promiscuous. You seldom felt the
frustration, tensions and combativeness so characteristic of Greenwich Village.
Most parties or even just nightly get-togethers ended with singing. Six months
going about on Telegraph Hill would have provided anyone with an immense
repertoire of authentic folk songs, old English ballads and the highest quality
of classic bawdy songs. Myrtokleia, and after her day the painter Richard Ayer,
father of the young woman poet Hilary Ayer, had absolutely unlimited repertoires
and could sing all night. So could a man I believe is still alive down in Big
Sur, Harry Dick Ross, who had a bellow like the late movie actor Joe E. Brown —
which covered the fact he couldn’t sing a note. All Telegraph Hill needed to be
the Land of Cockayne come true were those roast pigeons flying around with a
knife and fork sticking in them.
There wasn’t much other music in those days. King Oliver had played San
Francisco in the early ’20s and so had “Frisco, the American Apache Dancer,” who
was the first man to take a jazz band into Palace Time vaudeville.
But this spirit did not last. Perhaps the reason was that the black community
in San Francisco was very small. It stretched from Ellis Street to Sutter and
from Webster to Laguna, sparsely sprinkled amongst the predominantly Japanese
population. Fillmore Street in those days was mostly Jewish. Still, one after
another there were wonderful gathering places of the kind that came to be known
as “after-hours joints.” The earliest I can remember was a speakeasy called, I
think, Timmes’. It was a house, west of Fillmore a few doors, probably on
O’Farrell, and it was like an ideal Harlem rent party that never stopped.
Timmes’ served excellent liquor, red wine and very good grappo, which I believe
he got from the same supplier as Izzy Gomez.
The place had a piano with a fine collection of ragtime rolls, but there was
usually somebody around who could play it in an ultra-funky Jelly Roll Morton
style. I don’t know where they came from since there was no market for their
talents, but all sorts of musicians with all sorts of instruments would wander
in and jam until dawn, while between the little tables the customers would roll
and bump. After Timmes’ there was a succession of wonderful places. Elsie’s,
Blackshears’, Jack Bryant’s in the tiny black district of seagoing folks at
Pacific and Embarcadero. Timmes’ and Elsie’s had the friendliest atmosphere of
any entertainment places I’ve ever been in. And Jack Bryant had the most
beautiful waitresses I’ve ever seen, girls who’d make the chorus line at the
Harlem Apollo Theatre look plain and dowdy.
There was, in those days, no hostility directed toward hip white people
whatever. Although there were very few of them at the tables, there were always
plenty of white musicians jamming, and welcome.
By the time Blackshears’ came along, a faint note of hostility had begun to
appear and by the time of Jimbo’s, the most famous of them all, black hostility
toward whites gradually became oppressive. When Wilma opened Soulsville a few
years ago, white musicians were quietly frozen off the stand — to her distress.
I must say that I never felt any discrimination or hostility whatsoever either
in the after-hours joints or in regular clubs like Jack’s or the Club Alabam.
The latter was pretty funky but Jack’s was very high-class, and although the
black community was small, functioned as a kind of black Hungry i. Jack’s
introduced a remarkable list of entertainers, even the great bass singer Kenneth
Spencer, who went on from Sutter and Fillmore to fame in Bach, Mozart and
Monteverdi in Europe.
Years later I came into a Chinese restaurant near the Sorbonne in Paris.
Behind me a powerful bass voice was speaking and my wine glass trembled in front
of me. “My God!” I said to my wife, “Kenneth Spencer’s in this room somewhere!”
So he was. He was with Alberta Hunter, an old friend of mine from Chicago, the
first woman to ever sing blues on the concert stage (though the surviving
records don’t sound very bluesy). We spent the night talking about the old days.
They were pretty good old days. There was probably less interracial tension
and less prejudice against blacks in San Francisco than anywhere else in the
world. Private parties, clubs, after-hours joints and big dances were places of
pure joy. Something that I have always thought very significant of interracial
naturalness, not just tolerance, is the incidence of white male-black female
interracial couples. In those days in a place like Jack’s or Timmes’ there were
almost as many as the other way around. Alas, today interracial tensions have
grown so severe that natural contacts have almost died out — first in
interracial organizations like CORE and at last, and finally, in jazz.
[November-December 1973]
Following my last column, people have inquired “How has San Francisco
changed? Wasn’t it always a wide-open town? You object to the scene today.
What’s the difference?”
Maybe I’m just a petty bourgeois. The difference is between big business and
small business, between domesticated “vice” and organized vice verging into high
crime. It must be borne in mind that so-called crimes without victims — gambling
and prostitution especially — were until recently what we might call civil
service occupations in most countries. The only highly organized business at
that time in San Francisco was the Chinese lottery. It was at least as common as
policy or numbers in the East, and it was played by all kinds of people, of
every race. Runners visited stores and offices and even many homes all over the
City. Obviously, such an enterprise is big business, but it was tightly
regulated both by the police and by the so-called fraternal associations that
ruled Chinatown. No hanky-panky was permitted — the control was so tight that
nobody was so foolish as to attempt any. Other forms of Chinese gambling were
strictly closed to Caucasians, although at night all of middle Grant Avenue
resounded with the rattle of mahjong pieces. Similarly, no Oriental-Caucasian
interracial prostitution was permitted by the rulers of the Chinese community
(following the well-known “Gentlemen’s Agreement”), although limousines with
sing-song girls herded by fat, drowsy Mamas came and went in Chinatown all
night. Oriental women who came from elsewhere and attempted to work as
interracial prostitutes were reputed to vanish. Very few tried. Dolly Fine had a
girl whom she could provide for big spenders and leading politicians, named
Lala. She was over six feet tall, with a vaguely Oriental caste of features — I
think she was Jewish. Her favors could be enjoyed for a minimum of fifty
dollars, later a hundred, in the days when an ordinary favor cost two dollars
and a half. If the customer objected, Dolly explained that Lala was North
Chinese, “They’re very tall you know, and almost as white as we are.” That was
it.
Most black people were unskilled working men and domestic servants. Although
as the Depression deepened there was a good deal of compensatory prostitution,
black and white, on the part of women who simply didn’t have enough money to
live on, these girls were strictly controlled by the cop on the beat — who shook
them down for whatever he could get, from two bits up, the theory being that “if
you clout them you control them.”
Brothels were a different matter. As the Atherton investigation revealed,
“The Organization” in San Francisco was the police department itself, ruled by a
small group that called themselves the Iron Ring. They permitted, with one
exception, no other organization whatever. If you paid off, you could run one
brothel, but not two. There were card rooms all over the City, but each was a
separate enterprise. Pimps, in the strict sense of the word, were not allowed to
exist. A girl could keep an “old man” but she had to keep him out of sight. Any
male who tried to hustle the streets for his old lady got short shrift from the
police. Although it’s supposed to be completely illegal nowadays, the Municipal
Court commonly ordered questionable characters to leave town within twenty-four
hours and the police were even more peremptory. A friend of mine from Chicago
who had handled some of Capone’s business with that city’s leading law firm
visited me unexpectedly one morning and we went over to the Star Dairy Lunch
next to the Hall of Justice at noon. A lieutenant of detectives, later Chief of
Police, called me over to his table. “Isn’t that so and so?” he said. “Yes.”
“Send him over.” My friend came back shaking. “What happened?” “He said ‘Hello
Terry? What are you doing in San Francisco?’ ‘Oh, just traveling through on my
way to see my sister in Los Angeles.’ ‘Ever been here before?’ ‘No.’ ‘That’s
nice. It’s a great place. Get Kenneth to show you around. Chinatown, Golden Gate
Park, Seal Rocks. Have dinner at Tait’s at the Beach. If you need a car, we can
lend you one. And then, Terry, you get on the Daylight to L.A. tomorrow morning.
That’s all, Terry.’ ”
“What in the hell kind of town is this?” my friend asked.
“They run it,” I said.
Yet at the same time San Francisco was a moderate sanctuary. It wasn’t
Toledo, Ohio, but still it was a hard place to get expedited from, unless you
were hotter than a two-dollar pistol. So, if you kept your nose clean, and
didn’t volunteer, the forces of law and order not only ignored you but left a
good deal of law and order up to you and your kind. As long as you didn’t try to
organize something.
Bookmaking is an activity which naturally proliferates. It’s hard to run just
one bookie joint, so the City’s principal bookmaker operated through a chain of
cigar stores. He was a very respected citizen, but he got too big for his
britches, and they broke him. I had a good friend who was a commission merchant.
He liked to think of his business as a cover. He dropped a lot of money at the
races, in poker games, and laid a lot of it on very expensive broads. He liked
to fancy himself a Big Time Hustler, but he was really just a businessman. One
day I was waiting to lunch with him at Tadich’s. In came two characters out of a
grade-B gangster picture with their right hands stiff in their coat pockets.
They kicked open the wicket and pushed the terrified receptionist out of their
way. In about a half hour they came out, and a little after them came my friend,
green and quivering like lime Jello. At lunch I got it out of him. “They were
from Chicago. They want me to take over the distribution for Capone’s sugar moon
business in Northern California.” (Capone had just organized all the big beet
sugar moonshine distilleries in Colorado, with a good deal of gun play — a
forgotten episode in his career.) “Nothing’s going to happen.” I counseled.
“What do you mean, nothing’s going to happen? They’ll dump me if I don’t play
ball.” “Don’t worry, you’ll never see them again. They will have them out of
town by night.” He never did see them again, but a week or so later their car
was found at the foot of the cliff below the narrow road out to Point Reyes
Light House. They were both dead, but showed no signs of violence.
[February 1974]
Rexroth’s
San Francisco (columns from the San Francisco Examiner and San Francisco
Magazine). Copyright 1960-1975
Kenneth Rexroth. Reproduced by permission of the Kenneth Rexroth Trust.
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