I didn't pack any heat when I navigated my way to Dogpatch, an industrialized corner of San Francisco that is closer to its history than to its future.
Dogpatch is situated about halfway between AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants, your 2010 World Series champions, and Candlestick Park, home of the hapless 49ers. Which is symbolic: the yin of victorious fortune juxtaposed with the yang of past glory. This neighborhood's pedigree is rich, but not in the Pacific Heights kind of way. Here, you meet for drinks in bars with names like Retox. The city's Hell's Angels chapter is headquartered here.
I didn't really know what I was getting into...a friend of a friend knew a guy who had some kind of inventory business that sold wine at deep discounts. And I needed 168 bottles for a fundraiser party just four days away for a crowd of 250 people who live the next county over from Sonoma. After I made the appointment, I called back to see what kinds of payments they accepted, thinking I might need to bring a roll of cash and a beefy guy named Paulie. The response was "don't worry, we'll take care of you."
I brought my dog, just in case.
I'd been in the area before, buying raw materials from screamy Asian ladies who have seen God-knows-what in their lives for my apparel business, so I knew enough to know how to get to the warehouse without a map. Which was good, because no matter how many ways I typed the address into my navigation system, it was not recognized. Which made me wonder, if, in an emergency, the police could find me.
I was hardly comforted when I crossed over the tracks, off of Third Street, and saw a faded sign for the business firmly pointing down a very narrow alley lined with chain link fencing. The building alongside was a beautiful old brick warehouse, long condemned. Its facades had settled, hunched, like a tired old man.
The alley opened into an lot surrounded by more old warehouses, seemingly lifeless. A few cars were parked along the length of a truck that was backed up to the loading dock of what appeared to be the place I was looking for--indicated by the rows and rows of wine boxes stacked on palettes inside. One or two guys were milling around outside. I parked the Jeep, turned my hat to the rain, climbed onto the dock, and entered the warehouse. The place seemed abandoned, as if someone had just yelled "IRS AGENT!"
I had a feeling I was being watched, by something human or not. I poked around until a guy showed up, who escorted me to the office. This was a windowless, overstuffed room with two men sitting at an old desk under flourescent light. Think gray, white, and cold, and you've got the picture.
"I'm looking for a guy named Larry."
"He's Larry," said one guy.
"He's Larry," said the other guy about the one guy, who looked up at me and asked:
"Are you here to collect money?"
"No. I'm here to buy wine."
The second Larry excused himself, and left.
"Buy wine" were the magic words. Within about two minutes there were glasses, a basket of plump fresh strawberries, and seven bottles of wine to open and taste. I chose the rocks glass over the plastic wine glass, and turned over an open envelope to use as a white background.
The first bottle was a Tuscan white, perfect for sitting at a Florentine cafe table for two on a hot summer day. I bought a couple cases of that. The remaining bottles were red--mostly cab blends, some with merlot, some with other exotic grapes. I opted for a few cases of a 100% cabernet sauvignon, and a few cases of a cabernet/merlot blend.
After the transaction, the Jeep was loaded, and I drove away with a warm feeling about this tough, gray neighborhood. Partly due to a few sips of wine, but mostly to the discovery of a buried treasure in my own back yard.
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