Chinatown is gone; the Barbary Coast is gone; the
haunts of crime have been swept by the devouring flames,
and if the citizens can prevent they will never be
restored. The old San Francisco is dead.
The gayest, lightest-hearted, most pleasure-loving
city of this continent, and in many ways the most
interesting and romantic, is a horde of huddled refugees
living among ruins. It may rebuild; it probably
will; but those who have known that peculiar city
by the Golden Gate and have caught its flavor of the
Arabian Nights feel that it can never be the same.
When it rises out of its ashes it will probably doubtless
resemble other modern cities and have lost its old
strange flavor.
Life in the Metropolis of the Pacific
Brought up in a bountiful country, where no one really
has to work very hard to live, nurtured on adventure,
scion of a free and merry stock, the real, native
Californian is a distinctive type; as far from the
Easterner in psychology as the extreme Southern is
from the Yankee. He is easy going, witty, hospitable,
lovable, inclined to be unmoral rather than immoral
in his personal habits, and above all easy to meet
and to know.
Above all there is an art sense all through the populace
which sets it off from any other part of the country.
This sense is almost Latin in its strength, and the
Californian owes it to the leaven of Latin blood.
With such a people life was always gay. If they
did not show it on the streets, as do the people of
Paris, it was because the winds made open cafes disagreeable
at all seasons of the year. The gayety went on
indoors or out on the hundreds of estates that fringed
the city. It was noted for its restaurants.
Perhaps people who cared not how they spent their
money could get the best they wished, but for a dollar
down to as low as fifteen cents the restaurants furnished
the best fare to be had anywhere at the price.
The country all about produced everything that a cook
needs, and that in abundance—the bay was
an almost untapped fish-pond, the fruit farms came
up to the very edge of the town, and the surrounding
country produced in abundance fine meats, all cereals
and all vegetables.
But the chefs who came from France in the early days
and liked this land of plenty were the head and front
of it. They passed their art to other Frenchmen
or to the clever Chinese. Most of the French chefs
at the biggest restaurants were born in Canton, China.
Later the Italians, learning of this country where
good food is appreciated, came and brought their own
style. Householders always dined out one or two
nights of the week, and boarding houses were scarce,
for the unattached preferred the restaurants.
The eating was usually better than the surroundings.
