The Red Door Beckons

Visiting one of San Francisco’s most colorful and quirky restaurants!

One scarlet red entryway, intriguingly locked to all passerby …

Until bright, boyish and buoyantly cheerful owner A.D. sweeps through the door, beckoning you in with a flip of his hair, a wink and a joyous smile.

The Red Door has been on my San Francisco list since the first time I moved to the city, more than two years ago. I read about the tiny place, the limited hours, the fact you could only go in parties of two and that every customer enjoyed personal service from the owner. I decided then and there it had to be a place for a special day — an out-of-town visit from my best friend or the perfect weekend in the city.

What I didn’t think about was that it would make a random Saturday morning just as remarkable.

Memorial Day weekend dawned windy, grey and gloriously free of plans. A friend and I had been making vague noises about a Pacific Heights adventure for awhile, and Saturday morning she sent me a list of best brunch spots in the city — with Red Door listed as the only place in Pacific Heights.

I was initially reluctant. This was my special place! This was on my list for the perfect day!

But fate — or more accurately, a lazy reluctance to do any more research into other places to eat — decided it for both of us. We met on the 24 and took the windy halting ride up Divisadero.

And that, really, is one of the best parts of the Red Door. It takes whatever kind of day you’re having and amps it up — thanks in part to surprisingly strong fruit cocktails that you only order by color (we had a red, a red-white, and without any persuasion needed at all stayed for a green)!

The ambience and the vibe was perfect. I felt like I was sitting in someone’s large, plush living room … I mean, if the Marquis de Sade was still alive and had a living room. A.D. was as welcoming and happy and chatty as promised — he genuinely seems to delight in his job, his cooking creations, and a rapt audience for his salacious stories. He pointed out dishes as other people’s orders came out of the small kitchen in the back of the room — stacked, towering concoctions with delectable steam rising off of sunny-side up eggs (or “nipples” in Red Door parlance) and different medleys of sautéed veggies, thick toast and smoked salmon. Almost unbelievably, the dishes lived up to their names — the most creative names I’ve ever seen on a menu, all taking off a spectacular San Francisco theme.

The Red Door was perfect for a long, boozy Saturday brunch. We chatted, we eavesdropped on the fascinating conversations happening at the tables next to us, and when passers-by stopped by our window to peer in or check out the rules posted on the window, we would smile, wave and raise our dildo centerpiece to say cheers. (In hindsight, I’m not sure if it came across as “cheers to you strolling around this great city on a lazy long weekend” or “hey look at this dildo in my hand!” But either way, it got a smile, which is the best surprise from a stranger.)

Almost three hours later we had closed down the place, chatting at length with the other diners, A.D. and the only other staff — the waitress and the chef. Finally, we got up on slightly unsteady legs, patted satisfied bellies and went on our way — exiting out that red door as A.D. kissed us both on the cheek, waved and locked the door behind us.

It turns out that the Red Door is a perfect start for most adventures — including our planned stroll through a new neighborhood. We ambled up and down Fillmore, stopping for boxes of free books on the sidewalk (Score of the day: a Julia Childs cookbook and a lengthy novel from Gore Vidal). We poked our heads into San Francisco’s version of a local thrift store — Crossroads Trading — before going on the hunt for a Saturday happy hour nearby. The restaurants were busy even in mid-afternoon, and we were definitely those undecided window shoppers poking thirsty heads into almost every place we passed. Where was the perfect spot that was the right mix of welcoming, not too busy, not too fancy, and — of course — cheap?

Pac Heights was pac-ed on a weekend (I know, that one hurt even me!), but I think next time, it deserves a bit more consideration on where and what to check out. Fillmore is a long stretch and it’s hard to find all the highlights on a Saturday stroll. It’s still an intriguing ‘hood to me, and I definitely want to find those spots that aren’t as homogenous as the rest. We ended up at the Wine Jar for a few beers — and it was like we brought the party there. A few people came in after and soon it was a hub of sports, lively conversation and free-flowing drinks. It was a good start to a long weekend — and a great city mini-adventure.