Let me tell you, trying to wake up early for a brunch on Sunday after a long night on Saturday was nigh near impossible. I had dutifully set my alarm, but also slept through it for more than an hour,
dreaming that I had gotten up, gotten ready, and went to the brunch. When I finally woke up later I was genuinely surprised to find myself still in bed and not yet brunched.
In retrospect, I should have clued into the fact that I was dreaming when Ed Asner, Betty White, and the woman who played Mrs. Roper arrived and eventually caused a scene.
Luckily, RMJ and Barney were running even later than I was, so I had plenty of time to shower and get dressed in fresh “going out” sleepwear and watch some of
the news. Yes, I found it ironic that we were going to a pajama brunch who’s idea is that patrons in the neighborhood could roll out of bed and directly into breakfast, and yet I got up, showered and changed.
The
Red Door Café hosts a pajama brunch on the last Sunday of every month. And it is enforced—if you are not in your pajamas (or someone else’s I suppose), you don’t get in. The Red Door Café is a
wonderful little spot at California and Larkin. It is a small, family-run café serving simple breakfast and burgers, and incredibly delightful homemade cakes and pasties and nibblies. Cash only, no substitutions, and nothing, nothing but love. While we were waiting the host would bring little family corn cakes made with cucumber and other treats with a raspberry drizzle. The place is very small and slightly sunken below street level, with a fairly low doorway (one hot local guy commented that he felt a bit like Gandalf stooping to enter a hobbit’s den). The chairs and tables are an eclectic mix of the off and irregular, and has the feeling of an old southern home furnished with bits and pieces of leftover antiques and cast-off, yet family, furniture—including old sewing tables and stuffed wing-backed chairs. Antique, found portraits and daguerreotypes hang on the wall opposite ephemera such as a limited edition “Kitty Glitter” stuffed animal, and child’s drawing of an angel in magic marker next to an old box of Penis Pasta. The overall effect is not only welcoming, but embracing, and the sort of intimate space in which dining in one’s pajamas would be completely comfortable.
Not living in Nob Hill or the Gulch, I drove over. I finally found parking and walked the block or two, in pajamas and bear feet, down to the Red Door. (That’s not a typo, the slippers I wore wear furry bear’s feet, complete with claws.) RMJ and Barney had already been seated at a table against the wall—then again, the place is so small all of the tables were against a wall—but sitting next to each other so they could both face the room (which was worth facing). I faced the wall throughout the meal (and managed to stay on the SBD despite the smell of the freshly baked whole wheat toast), until the end when we chilled and digested with coffees and mimosas and I moved against the wall as well under the pretense of getting out of the server’s way. At that point we looked like the panel from
American Idol, and adjusted our commentary accordingly (I did the best I can as I have never actually watched
American Idol.).
When I originally arrived, I thought I might have been had. Telling me to show up downtown for breakfast in my pajamas at a non-themed event is just the sort of practical joke RMJ and Barney might devise and I would certainly fall for—
never being one to reject a theme. Some of the patrons were clearly not in sleepwear. On some of the guys it was hard to tell if they were in theme, or just slobs who put on track/sweat pants as their Sunday best. It turns out the proprietor and host, the very lovely and loving Ahmed, had been out of town for the past month and in his absence no one put up notices or flyers for the pajama brunch, and he said most people won’t think about it if they don’t see a notice beforehand. As such, the only people who showed up in sleepwear were the locals/regulars. But those that did, did it pretty well. Here is a pic of the table behind me.
The guy also had furry slippers, and while I don’t think it was particularly attractive, I appreciated that his girlfriend wore an antique bed jacket. Our host made a special effort to praise up for coming in pajamas and apologizing profusely for the lack of other participants. He was very sweet.
We had a very nice morning together, and were reluctant to relinquish our table. While we had planned to go to the antique car show atop Nob Hill as last year (and I packed a change of clothes), we all decided we would rather go home and take naps.
I love my friends. Who else would rally for a pajama brunch? And it really amused us that even though the majority of the patrons were not in sleepwear, and had never heard of the last-Sunday tradition, most of them didn’t even bat an eye and the bedroom-clad. It’s San Francisco, after all.
It occurred to me that in this town, you don’t really need the sponsorship of an establishment to make your own theme. We really could have gone anywhere and had breakfast in our pajamas.
So we are. Next month, we’ll pick another place. We’re starting a new tradition of “breakfast in your pajamas,” and a new venue each month. I’m hoping we’ll become a bigger thing.
I also love my friends because I can hear phrases such as “if you need some pieces of zebra chenille…” tossed offhand.
Note to self: I need to let y’all know one final note on Sunday, regarding Sundance Saloon and the Rodeo pageant. But I’ve got to sign off now.
I love that. Not in all my days, nor in Kelly's, in the South have we heard such a thing. Sure, no fewer than four country artists have recorded a version of "My Give a Damn's Busted." [iTMS] But "My Picker's Broken"? Man, someone had better snatch that up quick.
Actually, now I'm a bit worried. Now that this clearly obsessive personality is breaking from his constant cease-and-decist notification campaign to prevent the uses (and dare I say abuses) of the Electric Slide, he will have all sorts of free time to obsess on or pursue who knows what. That's really creeping me out. 
The CW, in an attempt to make sure their entire lineup is only crap and nothing but, has not renewed Veronica Mars for next year.
Here's a random piece of prose, found randomly, which I think is one of the best personal views of math (geometry) education ever written. It's a postcard of a piece (short, simple, personal), but interesting and well said. Take 3.14159 moments of your morning to take a read.
I am a comic book fan, sci-fi, fan, television savant, and basically a huge nerd. How is this the first time I'm hearing about a new Bionic Woman? Without the late great John Houseman, who will be the evil creator of the FemBots?
Sex in the morning stops a passionate cockerel's feathers flying at night
I think I will go get a coffee now and wallow in the cool, homecoming fog...
Shilpa and I are going to a black-tie work function tonight. In light of the last work-related formal, she e-mailed me not to forget her corsage.
