My Favorite Corner of SF: Larkin and Geary, the Outsider’s Kingdom
By: Ariana Bindman
Tags: Cities, San Francisco, Culture, Favoritesfcorner, Bay Area

If there’s anything that shutdown has taught me, it’s that when there’s little to look forward to, there’s much you can reflect on. That’s why I’ve been digging up memories of Larkin and Geary: the streets of the Tenderloin where I spent most of my time as a confused, optimistic young adult living on the outskirts of Little Saigon.

Thursday nights were dark and routine: On my long, dreary commute home from night classes, I’d order takeout from Zen Yai, a cavernous Thai restaurant across from my apartment. After trudging up the Polk Street Wind Tunnel from Civic Center BART, I’d pick up fresh spring rolls and pad see ew, black tea, and tom kha soup. Oftentimes, the bag was so heavy I thought it would break. Eventually, I called in so often that the cashier working weeknights knew my order by heart.

I was living in a century-old SRO with no kitchen at the time and probably owed it to that restaurant for keeping me alive. Somehow, I never got tired of it and still crave it to this day.

On Saturday mornings, after silencing my alarm clock multiple times, I’d drag myself to Moulin’s. It was originally “Moulin Rouge,” but the owner said they were forced to drop the “Rouge” part — apparently the one in Paris called and said, “there can be only one Moulin Rouge in the world!” Open since 1978, it’s a delightfully kitschy, Dutch-themed breakfast joint run by an elderly Korean couple. It took roughly 45 minutes for their monstrous Garden Omelettes to arrive, but it was well worth it, especially paired with acidic diner coffee.

Afterward, I’d rummage through the racks at Vacation or dig through the bins at The Magazine, a treasure trove of vintage gay porn and nudie mags, VHS tapes, and out-of-print newspapers. If you were feeling adventurous, you could ask the clerk, a slim, sharply dressed older man with a perfectly trimmed mustache, to let you behind the velvet rope and browse the good stuff. At checkout, there would be a ginger cat perched on the counter; looking back, I wish I learned his name.

When night fell, I’d walk to RS94109, a record store and venue that specializes in “extreme” music. By default, it hosted equally intimidating live acts. Over the years, I saw everything from atonal noise sets to black metal shows, corpse paint and all. One time, I think I paid five dollars to watch a brawny, dog-faced gentleman run around shirtless and scream into a microphone against harsh static. RS catered to the whole spectrum of weird and did so with pride.

Outside, kids dressed in expensive black rags would huddle up, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking out of petite glass bottles. They’d watch each other warily from the street corner, like crows. Inside, the bass was so loud, you could feel it throbbing in your sternum. It was always humid in there, too. But RS had an air of tension and mystique, and that’s precisely why it drew people in, myself included.

Because the record store is situated directly beneath the Hartland Hotel, sets would end at 10 p.m. sharp. When the lights turned on, everyone would deliberate about how to keep the night going. Usually, that meant winding down with a PBR at Edinburgh or Hemlock, but occasionally, we’d venture out to the fringes of Bayview or Candlestick Park for an after-hours DJ set. There, I’d see pretty girls in workwear peddling psilocybin and MDMA. They’d greet me with a hug and a kiss, but not without making an offer first. As water gently lapped at the shore and lights from the Oakland Port flickered in the distance, it felt like we were all in our own little world. It was a place that we had forged and created ourselves, and all our friends and boyfriends and their girlfriends were invited.

Ultimately, these spaces taught me that it’s okay to be alone in a crowd. While I didn’t make many deep connections with the people around me, we were all in the same orbit. What brought us together was the desire to experience something special. We were all chasing the light. And like a glittering mirage across seawater, it was always off in the distance, and just out of reach.