For a few years now, since seeing the eatery profiled on television by Anthony Bourdain, I’ve been trying to eat at Swan Oyster Depot in San Francisco. I love seafood, and I respect Mr. Bourdain’s opinion and revere his smart and smart-alecky New Jersey attitude about food and its particulars while enjoying the company of newfound friends. Any attachment I can make to the Bourdain lifestyle, I take.

It shouldn’t be difficult to get into a public restaurant, but Swan has proved challenging. Their hours are limited, lines are long, they don’t take reservations, and although I’m in San Francisco two or three times a year, I’m not always in that end of town. Plus, the place seats only about 10 people.

But I have made efforts.

The first time I went to Swan, they were closed unexpectedly for maintenance. This was probably two years ago.

The next time I went to Swan, driving in from Burlingame (home to SF airport), they were closed. It was a Sunday and I hadn’t realized they are closed on Sunday.

The third time I went to Swan, the line was too long and I could see I’d never get in.

The fourth time I went to Swan, I actually got in line and was going to get in! A shiver ran through my being. Unfortunately, I had to use the restroom. I asked someone to hold my place and said I’d be right back, and dashed across the street to the Chase bank that I knew to have a public restroom in the lobby. When I returned, I discovered that someone had taken my place and that Swan had closed the line right behind that place. In other words, I would have gotten in. But now the line was definitively closed. I did speak with one of the proprietors about my predicament, and while he sounded sympathetic, he also sounded as though he’d heard variations of this excuse many times and wasn’t falling for it. I decided not to get irritated about this, because I wanted to preserve the charm of eating at Swan some day, and because having the grail has little value if you haven’t endured a grail quest in order to get it. So I went off and had middling pizza instead.

Then, yesterday, I found myself in San Francisco again, on business to see a client’s show and with a friend and colleague in tow, and said to him, “Hey… have you ever eaten at Swan Oyster Depot? Do you like oysters?” He hadn’t, and he does, so off we went, walking just over a mile of San Francisco’s extreme peaks and valleys, until arriving at the nondescript but legendary little diner that serves oysters and not much else. We got in line, and a mere 20 minutes later, we were encamped inside on shaky barstools that surely date back to the joint’s opening in 1912. I ordered a beer, clam chowder, a combination salad (lobster, crab, and I don’t know what, atop shredded lettuce), and of course a plate of mixed oysters drawn from both our majestic shores, topped off with San Franciscan sourdough bread and pats of butter straight from the frozen north. All was deeply good.

Later, checking out the LA Times online, I was astonished to note that that very day, the Times ran a story calling Swan Oyster Bar “The Best Place to Eat in America.” Not the best oyster place; not the best place in San Francisco; not the best place that week; just The Best Place to Eat in America. Now, while I certainly enjoyed Swan Oyster Bar, and the complete satisfaction that came from finally getting in and ordering any damn thing I wanted, and paying $145 for the pleasure of lunch for two, this was not the most spectacular meal I’d ever enjoyed. I recall fondly one evening in the Aria in Las Vegas where the waiter brought out sample round after sample round when he decided he’d just taken a shine to my business partner and me. (Mostly to her.) I also recall a splendid experience with my wife at a major seafood house in San Francisco where the $300 we plunked down for dinner was richly rewarded with serving after serving of truly divine finny treasures and drinks. But the offerings at Swan, much as I enjoyed them, reminded me of a line from one of my own plays:  “It’s like first sex. You finally got what you wanted, but now you’re a little disappointed.”

Plus, to be picky, the Best Place to Eat in America is not Swan Oyster Depot, or any other place that posts dollar signs next to food names. The Best Place to Eat in America is my mother’s house. As anyone who’s eaten there can attest.

This entry was posted on Friday, August 21st, 2015 at 8:43 am and is filed under Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.