San Francisco

There's a special kind of excitement about visiting any new place. There is the promise of adventure; there is the intimation of unknown romance; there is that solo thrill of pleasure that belongs to you when you know you'll be on your own in strange surroundings -- an anonymous man, free of the ties and props of your familiar workaday world, your wallet in your pocket, your luggage by your side, and ready to sample and savor whatever the new scene has to offer. If it's San Francisco, and if you do it right, your anticipations will be lavishly fulfilled.

Physically, this city is just about ideal for you, the impromptu visitor. It looks like nothing you ever saw before: as your plane levels off for its final glide into San Francisco International Airport, you'll be in the midst of a world of hills and valleys; sky, water and mountains -- and the fabulous bridge across the Golden Gate. Against this background, you'll find a clean, elegant, cosmopolitan city possessed of a special quality all its own: Parisian chic without Parisian snobbery; New York sophistication without its furious bustle; the tradition of London without its coldness -- for San Francisco (never call it Frisco) is a wonderfully friendly city which will gladly yield you your fondest dreams unless you're a clod and a boor.

Among its multitude of virtues for you, the young urban male visitor, San Francisco provides some which seem almost tailor-made. For all its metropolitan atmosphere, it is physically fairly compact. This means you can see and do a great deal without the kind of travel that Los Angeles, for instance, requires. San Franciscans walk a lot, they use their quaintly functional cable cars -- and though cab rates are relatively high, you'll find the city's drivers unusually courteous: where else do they leap from their seats to open the door for you?

San Francisco has more Class-A hotels per capita than any other American city. It has the highest rate of liquor consumption. It is wealthy without being too expensive -- for it is a city where people live and not a resort that must cash in on its season. It is a place of beautiful women, characterized (more than in any other city) by independence, good jobs, a friendly love of pleasure, hideaway apartments of their own, unpretentious poise, and an utterly charming knowledge of how to dress and behave to please a man. It has over 2,000 restaurants, some of which are the best in the world; they offer a greater variety of gourmet dining -- thanks to the Pacific as well as the European influence -- than a New Yorker, for example, might think it possible to sample without leaving the United States. San Francisco has better boites, intimate clubs, offbeat entertainment, cozy cellar hangouts, romantic back-street bistros and jazz joints ranging from Dixie to frigid, than any other city in the world.

And because -- as of right now -- a pretty tight lid has been clamped on the town in the matter of professional sex (continued on page 70)San Francisco(continued from page 60) and a two A.M. curfew on liquor and entertainment, the pleasure-loving, carefree and romantic young folk of Baghdad-by-the-Bay make up for the shutdown by getting in their fun early and eagerly, and by then carrying on the evening after curfew at private parties to which they're apt to invite the personable stranger they've met earlier, in a public place.

San Francisco is also a dandy place for sightseeing, concerts, museums, public parks and monuments -- and all the other fine things you can read about in guide books. But it's from sundown on, when this romantic city opens its arms and begins to live, that you'll want to savor its pleasures. And you'll want to know how and where to find the night life you seek, so that after your visit you won't feel -- as so many transient visitors to any place in the world often do -- that somehow you missed out on the real fun you might have had.

Whatever time of day you arrive in San Francisco, we hope for your sake that it's before dark. Presumably, you've made your hotel reservation in advance (a virtual essential) and you can loll back and look around you as your cab wends its way through the frantic traffic to the hostel of your choice. You'll see buildings as grand as Washington's, as imposing as Wall Street's, as Victorianly ornate as the Gold Rush could provide, as winningly elegant and sedate as the best in Boston. You'll respond with excitement to the city's special air -- seldom cold, seldom hot, never dependable, but always winey with alternate breezes from the Pacific to the west and the mountains to the east and north. You'll see, at once, that San Franciscans dress well and conservatively: smart good looks typify this city's people and there is an almost visible esprit in their everyday deportment.

Which hotel is yours? If you're lucky and have the pelf, it will be the Fairmont, on swank Nob Hill; if you're really affluent, you'll have reserved a mirrored balcony suite with its own bar, a fabulous view, and a tab (about $40 a day) which ensures princely treatment. Or, you can content yourself with a handsome double room (starting around $15) and not feel a bit sorry for yourself: the Fairmont is lively, gay, elegant in a delightfully nostalgic way (it was rebuilt in 1907, after the '06 quake), and it sports seven restaurants (about which more, later) and almost as many bars. Incidentally, it pays off to register double when traveling alone -- you never know how handy it may prove. (If you comport yourself quietly, most hotel managements are far less concerned with your personal morality than with being done out of the extra tab for an unregistered guest.)

If you don't make the Fairmont scene, you'll do handsomely at the Mark Hopkins, the St. Francis, Sheraton-Palace, the Clift, Sir Francis Drake, Plaza, Drake-Wiltshire -- roughly in that order. These are all good (there are many others) and have the advantage of being centrally located or very handy for all you'll want to do, without being in the drearier commercial section. Their public and private rooms will make you feel among the pampered rich and their guests have class and style to match your own. Of them all, our vote goes to Nob Hill's Fairmont and Mark Hopkins.

A rather new thing in San Francisco is the midtown motel. The city hasn't had a new hotel since the late Twenties; the motels are modern and plush, offer most hotel services, provide ideal privacy and a place to keep your car. Incidentally, unless you're going pretty far out of midtown, don't drive; traffic's rough and complicated and most distances you'll go are short enough for strolling or for cabbing or cable cars (avoid the buses and trolleys -- not smart). That's why we're sparing you geography and directions.

Once in your room, curb your eagerness, unpack, and plan the rest of your day and night. It's a lonely business seeing a new city alone, and companionship might well be your first quest. It should not prove too difficult in San Francisco -- but dress conservatively (never wear light colors after dark) and risk erring on the side of being too dressy, even for bohemian joints. San Franciscans don't wear slacks and jacket as much as the rest of the country does, and the year-round climate often calls for a light topcoat after dark.

Your first stop, preferably just before sunset, should be the Mark Hopkins, up at the glass-enclosed Top o' the Mark. This spot has a magnificent view, is apt to be crowded, abounds in tourists and natives, both, and if your preference for feminine company is another out-of-towner, this might be the place. But don't forget, the local lovelies will get a charge out of showing you their town -- which is nice for you and for them. So relax, have yourself a drink, take time to watch the sunset, and get the feel of the city here. Many a San Francisco visitor settles for the first girl he meets -- only to rue it later, when finer prospects cross his path.

You have a wonderfully wide choice for your next cocktail port of call. If you're still alone, make one of these scenes: first, try Nino's (on California); Manager Paul Pollack is a buddy of most of the city's professional models, who make this bar their unofficial headquarters. Nino's jumps at cocktail time, then is quiet until about nine, when les girls materialize again. Or, try the Iron Horse, on Maiden Lane (no jokes, please, they've all been used) which also attracts models, is a very three-button spot featuring New Orleansy wrought iron decor, and whose hosts -- Sam Marconi and Leo Georgetti -- are the guys to whom to confide your problems if you're having difficulties making friends. Another likely spot is Paoli's (Montgomery), a lively scene with a long, beautifully stocked bar and hot hors d'oeuvres to keep up your strength. The smarter office girls like the Temple Bar on Till man Place (among other spots) so you may, too; other likely, lively and pleasant bars include the somewhat bohemian Buena Vista, the not-so-posh but cutie-cluttered Yankee Doodle and the very elegant El Prado on Union Square. (When Diz heard this address, he said, "Man, what a town -- they even have a union for squares!")

The hotel beat is worth your attention too, if you have the time. Try the somewhat sedate but happy Merry-Go-Round Bar and the bigger, brassier Cirque Room, both at the Fairmont. Or the Starlite Roof at the Sir Francis Drake (lovely scenery indoors, as well as a fine view outdoors) for cocktail dancing -- a nifty custom -- or even the rather swank Terrace Room of the St. Francis which unofficially features models from I. Magnin, a very posh store, but semiofficially discourages pickups (any dates you do make here may have some fairly expensive notions about where to dine later). On the other hand, if you do have a date, want to have an intimate tête-à-tête in right surroundings (and shield her from the competition), the Terrace's low lights, chic decor and soothing string ensemble will do half your wooing for you. Back to the Fairmont: you'll be hearing, later on, about that hotel's Papagayo Room, which is "must" territory around midnight; at the cocktail hour, its small and crowded bar is a great get-acquainted spot and a sure stop for smart young people making the rounds.

Good any time, but a must for Fridays -- when dating-and-mating activity reaches a pretty frantic pre-weekend pitch -- are the tea dansants held at the Canterbury Hotel. Before the war all the larger hotels had cocktail dancing and this is a very successful revival of that habit, originally sponsored by eight gals from the Spinsters and eight guys from the Bachelors (these are the two clubs for unattached socialites) and the Canterbury's manager, Don Burger. Make your way back to the Armory Bar, complete with knights in armor, escutcheons and other animate and inanimate symbols of chivalry. The dancing to Al Wallace's orchestra takes place in one of the country's only two heated public gardens (the other is in New Orleans). Infrared heat took the temperature from the street-level 50s to a toasty 72 last time we attended this jammed affair. Good place to meet, no admission, strong drinks.

So much for a once-over-lightly in the cocktail department; try these places first, then experiment on your own if your stay is extended -- which it may be if, like so many visitors, you find San Francisco hard to leave.

Dining in this city is an art, almost a ceremonial occasion, and it is approached with zest, gusto and savvy. San Franciscans demand the best in food, its preparation, its service, the surroundings in which it's consumed, the wine that accompanies it. As a result, the restaurants are unmatched anywhere in the world; Paris comes to mind as a comparison, but San Franciscans tend to prefer the variety of national influences their restaurants afford. You owe it to yourself to allow ample time -- and appetite -- to dine sumptuously and deliciously during your stay. (Incidentally, legit theatre isn't very big in San Francisco and movies you can see anywhere, so we suggest late and leisurely dining of the sort you can't do anywhere else.) A lot of the town's glamor comes from its eating places, some of the best of which follow.

Whole books could be written about dining in this city (in fact, they have been, which is a great service for somebody -- maybe culinary historians). What you'll want to know, now, is where to go for superb haute cuisine in lush surroundings, for exotic treats, for late supper. There's some overlap, but we'll do our best; all you have to do is call well in advance for reservations -- San Francisco's a dine-out (rather than an eat-at-home) city, which is one reason for its perennial holiday mood; and the best spots won't be able to seat you any night of the week on a drop-in basis.

If you're on the town for just one night, try to get into Alexis' Tangier (1200 California). This is, perhaps, the most fabulous and romantic spot to dine in San Francisco. When you call for your reservation, tell Wanda the hostess (a princess on both sides) or Henri, the maître de, that you'd like a drink in the Casbah Lounge before dinner. The drink will be served by a slave girl clad harem style; she will also bring you delectable Near Eastern hors d'oeuvres. Tangier offers a variety of exotic drinks; the cobra, served in an iced brass bowl, is too much: Alexis reports that ladies who always say no say maybe after one cobra. "After two cobras she say maybe again. After all, ladies can never say yes, and a gentleman never needs to be told maybe more than twice."

Alexis is a perfectionist to the slightest detail. The Persian setting is jewellike, with subtle arches framing brasswork and beautiful mosaic murals. Sit in the dining room and let your romantic self go. You might begin with dolma -- the stuffed grape leaves which Scheherazade prepared for the Sultan of Baghdad, or blini -- thin yeasty pancakes served with melted butter, sour cream and black caviar. As an entree the rack of lamb is incomparable; if you favor subtle sauces, try the capon á la sultan. If you're going all out, try a Wurtztraminer Hügel '53 with the chicken. The Tangier's wine list is the finest in town. For dessert, mangoes-lichis à la Alexis, and after dinner drink kismet. The tab is large, but not exorbitant; the service is the best and you may linger in the dining room or Casbah Lounge without that rushed feeling many restaurants specialize in creating after dinner. (Entrees from $3.50.)

On a par with Tangier -- but featuring more exotic fare -- is Trader Vic's (Cosmo Place off Taylor between Post and Sutter). It is here that gourmets gather to savor the dishes from Trader's enormous Chinese barbecue ovens; you'll see these monsters as you enter the restaurant. The wood carvings, mats and other island artifacts are each one authentic, most of them collected by Trader, his friends and associates. The dining room is a great ship's cabin with curved wooden beams and paneled walls. Before dinner you'll want to sample some of the special rum drinks; they're weird and wicked, cost lots and are worth it, every drop. The variety is endless. A Samoan fog cutter or suffering bastard will do you in just as fast as a Doctor Funk of Tahiti, and if your date digs those little translucent orbs, order her a Tahitian pearl, which includes a real gem to add to her collection. All served in special containers designed to make you laugh and groan. For dinner, if you really want to indulge yourself, ask the captain's suggestions, because Trader always has seasonal specialties and new creations not on the menu. Classics are Indonesian lamb roast or butterfly steak Hong Kong style. Fried bananas with Malaca sauce make a most satisfying dessert. Entrees from $3.00. Don't bother trying to get into Trader's, except the spacious cocktail lounge, without a previous reservation. Bill Coleman, the maître de, will do his best, but Trader's turns away people every night.

If you can't or don't want to make either of these rather ritzy and hard-to-get-into scenes, but still demand the utmost in fine dining in smart settings, there are two spots that rival the more famous duo: Ernie's and the Blue Fox. To have been in San Francisco and not partaken at least once in each of these gourmet heavens is like -- well, it's like all wrong.

Picture yourself making your way down a dark alley, with your date on your arm. You come to an orange-and-blue building guarded by a heavy iron gate. You go through this and into the Blue Fox (659 Merchant). Chances are, the first person you'll see is Mario Mondin, who fronts the Fox, and then Piero Fassio, who supervises the cuisine; these two have delighted gourmets from all over the world with their kitchen and cellar. Ask Mario for a table in the pine-paneled Lafayette Room, replete with murals of the American Revolution. If you've never had or heard of scampi alla Livornese, try them. They're out-sized prawns, flown specially for the Fox from the Adriatic, deep-fried in olive oil and served with a sauce of dry sauterne, sherry, parsley, lemon and butter. This as an appetizer must be followed by pasta, tortellini al brodo, stuffed with prosciutto (an Italian ham) and spinach in a subtle cheese sauce. For an entree, if you like sweetbreads, they're sautéed á la Florentine. Mario will be glad to suggest a specialty, or if your mind is on game and there's bread in your pocket, a chicken pheasant en plumage. For dessert bunet alla Piemontese is a unique custard with sauce involving nine liqueurs, made by Piero's wife Gina; or if you're a glutton for rich cake, zuppa Inglese. The wine cellar, which doubles as a banquet hall, is hung with salami, cheese and grapes, and stocked with over 300 choice vintages. About that fox, you'll find one over the bar as you enter and another in a corner of the wine cellar, which you'll be shown if you ask. Dinner for two, from $10 -- but be ready to spend quite a bit more. (On page 58 you'll find a view of some of the Fox's specialties: double martini with champagne float; Chateau Margaux, 1934; veal tonné: pressed filet of veal with tuna sauce, red pepper and capers; radicchio Trevisano salad: imported Italian lettuce with sliced eggs; tortellini al brodo; cotolette valdostana: veal cutlet stuffed with prosciutto, mozzarella cheese and truffles; artichokes doré; potato princesse; peperoni don-salvatore: peppers baked without skins; bunet alla Piemontese; Blue Fox cucumber cocktail, an after dinner drink; German Rhine wine: Hochheimer Kirchenstück Trockenbeeren Auslese, 1934; condiment tray.)

Behind a pair of mahogany and stained-glass doors, Ernie's restaurant (847 Montgomery) preserves the spirit of San Francisco's Gilded Age. On your way into dinner in the upstairs Ambrosia Room, you'll pass the bar, an extravaganza of mahogany, leaded glass, mirrors and fluted columns, all carried around the Horn by clipper ship. The room impressed Alfred Hitchcock so vividly that he had it copied to the last detail at the Paramount lot (at a reported cost of over $100,000) for his new opus, Vertigo (his version of Diabolique), starring Kim Novak and James Stewart. Ernie's couldn't be used, in situ, because of the demands of room for long shots and color cameras, but much of the film was taken in San Francisco and maître de Carlo and owners Victor and Roland Gotti were flown to Hollywood to take their own parts in the film. The last, last word on Ernie's by Eva Gabor: "I like it so much. It makes the women look so lovely, and the men look so -- wealthy." For dinner there's a mouth-watering choice of appetizers, tantalizing pastas and redoubtable entrees, of which the steak au poivre, with its sauce of butter, chives, mustard and freshly ground pepper, flamed with French brandy, is tops. If you prefer your "bif" avec a sauce less hot, try the entrecote marchand vin, and from the wine list a superb vintage, Chateau Canon, St. Emilion, 1947. If you are still able, top off your dinner with a warm zabaglione Carlo, which sits on a pousse-café in the hollow stem of a champagne glass. Dinner for two could cost as little as $10 -- but you'd be consciously stinting all the way. (Visible on page 58: Ernie's old fashioned; prosciutto and melon; tortellini alla Romana; tenderloin of beef en brochette; cherries jubilee; brandy alexander.)

Only slightly less de rigueur than these four top dining places are a host of others. If you want to move from cocktails to dinner without going out of doors, the already-mentioned El Prado, Nino's, the Iron Horse, and Paoli's have fine food, too. For a salty, down-to-the-sea change, go to the bustle of Fisherman's Wharf and try Fishermen's Grotto's superb seafood while you watch the fleet at anchor. Tokyo Sukiyaki will be a revelation to the man who thinks of Oriental food in terms of chop suey -- the Japanese delicacies here are mouth-wateringly exotic. Taj of India and India House are uniquely different and romantically atmospheric, and the food is delicious. For sheer plushy posh (that goes for the tab, too), try Romanoff's. Amelio's is a very inside place to dine, specializing in haute cuisine with prices to match. In Chinatown -- the world's biggest outside of Asia and a wonderful place to stroll and window shop, try Kan's; let Johnny Kan, or the beautiful hostess named Jo, guide you through a meal which will probably include beef with oyster sauce. Or dine at Hang Far Low, the oldest Chinese restaurant in America.

Walk down businessy Montgomery Street at night, between the quiet office buildings, turn half a block up Sutter Street then down an alley complete with garbage cans, and step into Charlie Anderson's Domino Club (25 Trinity Place). If you want to persuade your date of your interest in the female form divine, this is the place to dine her. From the dark alley you enter an always crowded, jolly, raucous bar and dining room whose walls are lined with Charlie's collection of over 200 canvases, at least 90% of them nudes. The place is always full of a varied crowd with most of the women laughing and blushing at the pictures. Charlie says the girls pay more attention to them than the boys. Dinner features charcoal broiled specialties from $3.25 per. If you're there after nine, you might look in on Charlie's Penthouse, where vocalizing by a pair of busty warblers, assisted by the customers, goes strong until curfew time.

Skipper Kent's is another "must" dining spot; there are snooty S.F.'rs who consider this a square scene strictly for rubbernecks, but we like it and predict you will, too. The Polynesian food is luscious and various, the tropical setting is highly romantic, you won't have to part with a tenner to the maître de to get a good table and the tab won't break you. And if you plan to postpone your dinner until late, but your mouth waters for some delicatessen sustenance to see you through (or if the pastrami mood hits you late at night) head for David's -- the place for this sort of thing.

By this time, in any other city, you might be feeling a bit stuffed and somnolent. There's something about the San Francisco air that perks up body and spirit, though, and after a gorgeous meal you'll likely aim for some night spots instead of the sack. This is when you'll see the city at its variegated best: S.F. is the home of the boite, the little cellar hideaway, Pacific jazz, the Oriental strip. It's a city of neighborhood entertainment, joints, dives, bohemian and arty avant garde hangouts where poetry meets jazz for a real crazy battle of sounds. There are smart places to dance; there are planned and spontaneous floor shows; there's just about everything in entertainment except the dull, stereotyped super nightclub with its unimaginative show, crowding, bad booze, gyp prices -- and that you can find in most other cities, where San Franciscans are content to let it stay.

There was a time when S.F. was a roaring town, when the words Barbary Coast evoked scenes of wild shenanigans. Even a couple of years ago, the International Settlement (also dubbed Hell's Half Acre) swarmed with strip joints, B girls, prosties -- and gents, hoods and servicemen on the prowl. Barkers conned the passer-by with cries of "Girls! girls! girls! Luscious girls in nature's own!" No more: interior decorators are moving into the old Settlement. But what the city now lacks in raw and raucous and open-town aspects, it makes up for in the urbanity of its entertainment. The city has -- as its columnist laureate, Herb Caen, puts it -- "13 hundred-odd bars and some of them are very odd indeed." Despite the current curfewing and club closing and raiding, the town jumps after dark. Sometimes it's hard to find the best sexier salons. What happens is that a columnist, or a magazine, spreads the good news of an all-night hot spot, or an after-hours total strip emporium, and the law clamps down pronto. San Francisco has licked this problem via an ancient mode of communication -- word of mouth. Many barkeeps and most cabbies, and some of the city's swingin'est cocktail lounge pianists, can usually give you the word.

Out of these 13 hundred-odd scenes, here are the ones you'll want to make without fail, if you have the time -- with a few of the reasons why.

Let's start on Nob Hill. The Fairmont's Venetian Room is the only place in town featuring really big-name entertainers. Such stars as Harry Belafonte, Lena Horne, Robert Clary, Ella Fitzgerald and Edith Piaf have worked this very formal room which is done up in Dorothy Draper's very best pink-and-red hotel manner. A rather permanent fixture here is romantic dancing to the music of Ernie Heckscher and his orchestra. Shows at 9:30 and 12:00. Cover $2.00; Friday and Saturday, $2.50. Dinners, too -- from $3.75. Dark on Mondays.

If all you want to do is dance, they've got a room for just that in the Fairmont. (They've got a room for everything at the Fairmont.) The Cirque Room is a remarkably low-lit and quiet bar and lounge, considering its circus theme. Very pleasant dancing to Al Wallace and his orchestra every night from nine P.M. to 1:30 A.M., excepting Sundays. No admission or cover; hot hors d'oeuvres served with the drinks. If you're a Latin-style hopper, the Copacabana (831 Broadway) has a frantic band, and the best dancers in the area habitually congregate at the Thursday sessions.

If you're still alone and lonely after the dinner hour, why not wander toward North Beach -- S.F.'s bohemia -- and drop in at XII Adler Place (off Columbus below Broadway), a real Roman Ivy League scene with a leavening of rough trade. A host of colorful young ladies congregate around the piano presided over by Vern Bennett, a very heady stylist. One of his interpretations the local initiates fancy is When Sonny Gets Blue. Frank, the barkeep-owner, is a man who knows what's happening around town as well as a real friendly guy.

El Matador, the aficionados' gathering place (492 Broadway), is a very big scene for cocktails, but we say leave it until after the theatre hour, when it's the town's favorite nightcap spot. A very good chance to meet very good people, including owner "Matador" Barnaby Conrad himself. There's a piano with Johnny Cooper on the 88s; Vernon Alley plays bass. On Sunday evenings Juan Buckingham plays flamenco guitar and El Matador narrates great bullfight movies past and present. Olé!

If you go for a less dressy milieu, turn up Columbus and walk along the North Beach part of Grant Avenue. Here you'll find the more bohemian boites. Half a block uphill on Green you'll arrive at Freddie Kuh and John Silverman's Old Spaghetti Factory Cafe & Excelsior Coffee House (480 Green). This is a large place in a recherché Victorian mood and often packed with congenial crowds. "Steam beer under a fig tree" reads the slogan. Steam beer, as made by Anchor, is the last surviving breath of a venerable American brewer's art. Only to be had in San Francisco, try it light or dark. If you're in fettle to continue your tour, head further up Grant past (believe it or not) the Coexistence Bagel Shop to The Place, furthest retreat of the San Francisco Renaissance. Here, depending on the evening, you can hear poets read (or scream), see avant garde films, or -- if you're really lucky -- take part in Blabbermouth Night, a howling session at which everybody can take his chance at wailing, until the audience drowns him out. The Place is small, packed, claustrophobic and very in-group. Beer and wine only, by the way.

If you'd like to hear a young local jazz group of the hard-blowing modern stamp, turn back on Grant, right on Green and a few doors down descend into The Cellar (576 Green). Tuesday is session night, most Wednesdays there's poetry and jazz and the music is Harold Wylie, tenor, with the Cellar Jazz Quintet. Wine and beer, $1.00 admission weekends and when there's poetry.

Back to liquor country: right opposite El Matador, the Jazz Workshop is a very smooth little club with a jazz discovery policy. Their big find to date, the Jean Hoffman trio, now works around the country. No admission, cover or minimum. Monday session.

The most swingin' jazz club in town, and one of the craziest in the country, is the Blackhawk, in the Tenderloin (200 Hyde). It's a smoky joint, serving ordinary drinks, but the music is the end. Combos really blow when they're in San Francisco, and in this barn -- run by a tough, sweet cat named Guido -- you'll find such names as the Modern Jazz Quartet, Chet Baker, Shelly Manne, Stan Getz or S.F.'s own Cal Tjader and Dave Brubeck. Admission 50¢ to $1.50 depending on night and attraction. Sunday jam sessions.

On the Dixieland and old-style side of the fence the Club Hangover (729 Bush) usually features Earl "Fatha" Hines with his All-Star Jazz Band and intermissions by Joe Sullivan. No door charge or cover. The Tin Angel (987 Embarcadero), right on the waterfront, is full of sawdust, smoke from the central fireplace, and loud, loud music by such as Kid Ory and Bob Scobey. Admission, $1.00-$1.50. Easy Street (2215 Powell) opened last New Year's Eve and is the most beautifully landscaped of the jazz clubs in town. It's part owned by Turk Murphy, Dixie trombonist who plays there with his San Francisco Jazz Band. Intermission pianoed by Harry Brooks, who collaborated with Fats Waller on such tunes as Black and Blue and Ain't Misbehavin'. $2.50 minimum at tables, none at the bar.

A unique spot, recently opened, is Dick Freye's Backstage (Bay and Mason). You enter through a door marked No Admittance into a mess of lights, scenery, props and theatrical types. The Foot light Bar, a lucite affair that diffuses a warm glow throughout the room, dispenses all types of drink. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays you'll find rehearsal soirees and auditions in the showroom. Fridays and Saturdays, $1.50 admission to the shows, which are continuous and run much in the spirit of a dress rehearsal. If Bernard Bragg is still there you'll find him an exciting young mime from the school of Marcel Marceau. If you go, don't complain; we said it was offbeat. Like they've got a spiral staircase which goes nowhere, for chorus girls that didn't make it.

Nightclubbing San Francisco style is bound to take you to the Hungry i (i for intellectual) at 599 Jackson. The i rattles around in a converted opium den, a cavernous brick-vaulted, candlelit cellar. Sounds cold, but it's warm. A large bar known as The Other Room, hung solid with paintings for sale by local talents, contains Sam Gee, roving jeweler, and other artsy-crafty creatures of the night. The i's principal attraction is a cabaret showroom which sets the pattern for the new style in American nightclub entertainment. Vocalists like Ada Moore or folk-bluesist Josh White are in the show, but the specialty remains cerebral comedy by Prof. Irwin Corey, Shelley Berman and the i's own contribution to the scene, Mort Sahl. Like the man said about Mort, who rattles on ad libfinitum in his pullover sweater and no shave, "Nothin' he says is facts, but it's all true." The i is run in the grand manner by impressario Enrico "The Beret" Banducci, an artistic temperament well worth cultivating. Admission to the showroom $1.50, Friday and Saturday $2.00.

For spelunkers with eyes for a smaller, more intimate club, with much the same "discovery" policy, it's the Purple Onion up the street at 140 Columbus, m.c.'d and managed by Barry Drew (of the Barrymore Drews). Such acts as Jorie Remes, Phyllis Diller and Maya Angelou, have been intro'd at the Onion, which is presently building a tight, folksy vocal group billed as the Kingston Trio. Lou Gottlieb, a dapper Ph.D. in musicology turned comedian, lectures hilariously and authoritatively on such phenomena as "the reverse cleavage in American pulchritude." A very dark, candlelit room with a real onion tree. Admission 75¢, Friday $1.00, Saturday $1.50. Dark Sundays.

Bimbo's 365 Theatre Restaurant (Columbus at Chestnut) is the only big show club in town. Bimbo Giuntoli is rightfully proud of his 27 years of operation; for what's where in this maze, refer to Petar Jakovino, the maître de. The decor is extremely soft and tasteful with much attention to lighting and seating. The theatrical lighting for the show seems more elaborate than in most legit theatres. The show includes considerable Hollywood talent in the lively, bright musical comedy tradition. It changes every month and includes comedians, vocalists, specialty dance acts and a line of well-trained chorines. In the showroom there is a $1.00 cover, $1.50 on Saturdays. Dancing to Alex Duchin and his orchestra starts at seven P.M., the three shows are at eight, 10:30 and one. If you want to be entertained while you eat, dinner is served from six, featuring charcoal broiled fare of the best. Dinners from $4.50. The shows can be watched free of cover from the comfortable club seats in the show lounge, which contains a number of oils on the subject of King Neptune and his Nymphs. Next door to the lounge in the Mermaid Bar, for 10 minutes of every hour, you can see the famous "Girl in a Fishbowl." Even though it's all done with mirrors, she's well worth the eyestrain. The nude model is actually lying in a black velvet room downstairs, stretching her limbs in swimming motions. Her image is projected via mirrors into a turning aquarium. The Trophy Room, lined with stuffed birds, is always crowded around the piano-bar by guys and girls who come for community singing. Sweet, low and downright sentimental.

If you have any lean at all toward the good old days, vaudeville, belly laughs and cancan, the Gay 90's (345 Broadway) is for you. Bee and Ray Goman, once headliners on the Keith circuit, have a beautifully kept prohibition saloon full of carved wood, gilt, flounces and all the trimmings. The show's the real thing, with great period costumes and the fastest-paced, most uproarious entertainment in town -- if vaudeville's your style. Even if it's not, you'll have a good time in this last bit of old-time San Francisco. The format is classic situation comedy and blackouts. Samples? A hotel clerk answers the telephone: "There's an old lady peeking over your transom? Well waddya want for $7.50, Gina Lollobrigida?" Wife (in bed to husband entering): "There was a burglar here just now." Husband: "My God! Did he get anything?" Wife (stretching in her diaphanous negligee): "Yes, dear. It was dark and I thought he was you." Blackout. Wally Rose's Dixie-flavored band drives the show, which goes on and on, with banjo solos by Ray Goman, vocalizing, lectures on temperance by Bee Goman, much 23-skiddoo-type high-jinking from Ray, Jr., the featured comic, and a very attractive live-kicking six-girl line. There's dancing and community singing. Separately, there's an always-packed bar with old-time piano playing. Maître de is Tommy. Cover $1.00, Friday and Saturday $1.50. Dinners, too. from $4.00. Champagne dinner $5.95. Shows at eight, 10:30, 12:45. Dark on Sunday.

Close by (440 Broadway) is Ann's 440, a revue club featuring torrid dancers such as Inez Torres, comics, vocal groups, and (whenever she's in the mood) Ann Dee the proprietress, who sings a few tunes. Comedienne Patsy Kelly started a long engagement here a couple of months ago. Continuous show. Two drinks minimum. Dark Monday.

A live-it-up gathering place for the racing, boxing, gambling, spending types is George Andros' Fack's II (960 Bush). This includes a fine bar and large showroom with dancing to Jack Weeks' orchestra. Comic Mel Young is a year-round attraction and if your timing is right you might hear The Four Freshmen, S.F.'s Johnny Mathis, the Mary Kaye Trio or even Frances Faye. Admission $1.00, Friday and Saturday $1.50. Shows at 8:30, 10:30, 12:45.

There are two all-Chinese nightclub revues, pretty unhip and touristy, but novel enough to merit your dropping in. One's the Forbidden City (363 Sutter); Charlie Low, the owner, is a polo enthusiast, race-horse owner and golf champion. His club, the first of its kind, opened 20 years ago and is going strong. The show (thrice nightly except Sunday) includes a line of six gorgeous Chinese chorines, a stripper, comic, vocalist, acrobat and several production numbers. Cover $1.00.

The other Chinese club is Andy Wong's Chinese Sky Room (605 Pine), seven floors up and boasting the first all-Chinese revue in America. (The Forbidden City makes the same claim.) The shows at both these places are much the same. Special drinks at the Sky Room include dragon's tooth and dragon's blood, but you'd do better to stick to your own brand of booze and leave these to maiden ladies from Dubuque.

The Latin scene in San Francisco belongs pretty much to Luz Garcia's rather squarola Sinaloa (1416 Powell), a Mexican cantina with a show of six acts, including flamenco dancers Antonio and Teresa, whom Señora Garcia brought from Spain, Mexican folk dancers Pancho and Carmen, and Jarochita la bombshell. Dancing to a five-piece Mexican orchestra. Cover $1.00, Saturday $1.50. No cover if you have dinner from $3.25. Closed Wednesdays.

For a complete change of scene, try the Honeybucket (3138 Fillmore), jolly home of collegiate stein-raising, loud Dixieland, player pianos, some few fresh-eyed and eager coeds, and a replica of "The Face on the Barroom Floor." Nothing but beer here; you can have honeybeer. which is just what it says, or redeye, which is beer and tomato juice. Up the mighty steep Fillmore Hill and over a bit at 2244 is an even more so -- or less, depending on the night -- parlor called the Copy Cat (beer and pretzels). This place runs to a slightly older crowd, maybe post-grads, guys and dolls from the local boarding houses, and lots of nurses in toreador pants. The band, consisting of slide-whistle, banjo and piano, performs Comin' Round the Mountain, etc., with much joining in, etc. There is a dark set of bleachers largely used for necking.

About now you may be ready to head for the pad, but you may want a late snack and a bit more fun first. A good place "for these is the Buena Vista Cafe (2765 Hyde), home of Irish coffee in the States. This drink has made the Buena Vista one of the most successful bar operations in the city. Last St. Pat's day they used 84 bottles of Irish dew to wet the whistles of the eager populace. A great mixture of types abounds, in this never-empty gathering place. Actors and such folk from the Playhouse on the opposite corner, exurbanites on the way home to Marin, middle-class boheems, and such drop by regularly -- as do not a few loners of the other sex.

Curfew or not, you can still eat and be gay alter two at several places of far more than routine interest. For that sudden hunger that can come over you when you get out in the air after sitting in a smoky club, try the Hippo (2025 Van Ness) which stays open until three and serves a couple of dozen kinds of great burgers, including Cannibal, Bourbon, Nude, It and Hippo. Or if you're right in North Beach and not too dressy (it's sort of tough), the Dante Billiard Parlor and Lunch (521 Broadway), better known as Mike's Pool Hall, serves formidable Italian-style sandwiches until dawn. It's always crowded with a polyglot group of characters, some of whom look as if they'd cheerfully choke a horse -- and no one would be surprised if one wandered in.

The place for everyone who knows who's who to table-hop after clubs and such is Al Williams' Papagayo Room at the Fairmont, also open until three. Show people, musicians, celebrities, etc., make this scene regularly. Al is a sports car buff, knows everyone, will talk about anything, has parrots and cockatoos all over the place, and serves excellent, moderately priced Mexican and American food which is brought to your table by very off-shoulder waitresses. (Papagayo fare, as displayed in the photo on page 58: frozen daiquiri; hors d'oeuvres with salad á la Papagayo; Papagayo combination plate -- taco, enchilada, chili relleno, beans and rice; T-bone steak Papagayo; coffee crunch cake; Irish coffee.) Incidentally, wherever you go in San Francisco, tell them Playboy suggested you drop in, a canny move to assure yourself special attention and the best of service.

If you're wound up for dawnsville, Jimbo's Bop City (1690 Post) opens at two for very hard-blowing jazz. You'll notice the big names playing around town sitting in and you can get food or coffee to sustain you. Admission, $1.00. There are always after-hours joints operating in the Tenderloin district, but they change so fast you'd better ask a cab driver. Most of them have small bands, a door charge, B girls, mediocre food and coffee or setups. Depending on the heat, they'll get you a drink for a price. They're usually masqueraded as breakfast clubs.

It's an odd thing about San Francisco today: a guy who's alone and on the prowl, or is curious about vice as such, will wonder how a town this big can be closed up so thoroughly. Little more than a year ago, for instance, "massage" parlors were a big deal in San Francisco. Sixteen of them were closed in March of '57, four years after a state assembly committee looked into "what goes on in addition to body rubbing." A lot did; you used to be able to find accommodating massage joints in the yellow pages of the phone book. This wasn't wide open -- you had to know passwords and such, or be a convincing talker. But the places could be found, and some of them even had a phone service which would bring a white-clad "nurse" to your hotel, complete with little black bag (and a figurative bag full of all sorts of tricks).

But what the town lacks today in the way of illegal fun, it more than makes up for with its free-and-easy friendliness. A guy who isn't ready to call it a night shouldn't find it too hard to get himself invited to a private party for the wee hours. Lots of people have large houses and apartments that make for grand parties, many of which are of the informal, bring-your-friends-and-bottles style.

Of course, they do have daylight in San Francisco. By day, you'll want to stroll the hills -- Nob Hill, Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill -- Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown and the Union Square area. Smart shops abound right off the square -- you'll find Gump's a fabulous treasure house of objets d'art (in case you want a trinket or bijou to take to the girl you left behind).

You'll want to lunch at the fantastically ornate, Victorian, Palace Hotel's garden court. You'll want to hire a car and drive out through Golden Gate Park (with a stop at the Japanese Tea Gardens, or the amusement park for a few rides) to the Cliff House on the ocean, where you can lunch or have cocktails while you watch sea lions larking and barking on the Seal Rocks right off shore.

Finally, if you're lucky enough to be in San Francisco on a weekend, you'll want to explore (again, by car) the nearer, charming, hilly, unsuburban suburbs -- Sausalito and Marin County -- by driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, preferably with a companion who knows her way and has friends on whom you might drop in for a drink.

Whatever you do, however you spend your time in San Francisco, it's our prediction you'll leave with reluctance -- and plan to return again. For Baghdad-by-the-Bay is a gay and fun-loving city that's just a bit more sophisticated, a bit more cosmopolitan, a bit more aware than any other town in the U.S.

City's gay cable cars are preferred transportation even when one's dressed for the evening.

Year-round flower stalls dot the downtown area, give it a Paris-in-springtime atmosphere.

Chinatown floor show, as exotic as its food.

San Francisco's salty, seaport origins are vividly evident in the colorful Fisherman's Wharf area, from whence hundreds of fishing boats ply the Pacific. Restaurants along the Wharf are favorite stopping-off places for late seafood snacks or, earlier, for a shore dinner. Informal and cheerful, they feature huge copper caldrons in which the famous Pacific crabs are steamed, to be eaten cold only, of course. Typical of these places and one of the best, is Fishermen's Grotto, above.

Right, the proud padrone of an outdoor wharf eatery proudly shows his tempting wares.

Below, the city offers the full gamut of Oriental cuisine; at Tokyo Sukiyaki the decor and the decorum are as authentically Japanese as the menu.

Your hosts display their specialties (see text) at three "must" stops. Gourmet haunts are: Left, the Blue Fox--Mario Mondin and Piero Fassio in the Wine Cellar room

center, elegant Ernie's (Victor and Roland Gotti).

Right, for late munching it's the nobby Nob Hill Papagayo Room--Al Williams. These are the men to get to know; trust their guidance in your ordering.

Left, rendezvous for romantic interludes is Skipper Kent's, where drinks, dishes and decorations are Polynesian and lights are low.

Above and below, shades of a gaudier day are vanished girlie shows of International Settlement, and once widespread (now rare) "massage" parlors.

Above and below, shades of a gaudier day are vanished girlie shows of International Settlement, and once widespread (now rare) "massage" parlors.

The bar at the Iron Horse, a bistro popular with fashion models--hence, men with a roving eye.

The city comes alive at night with entertainment ranging from big and brassy to intimate and "advanced." Lower left, The Cellar offers a cellarful of the coolest esoteric jazz; here poet Kenneth Ford improvises verse with music.

Contrasts in entertainment: Above, at Ann's 440 Club, topical and droll reviews in miniature are featured.

Below, at the Fairmont's Cirque Room, there's fashionable, low-lit, bar-lounge dancing, drinking, table-hopping.

Lower center, a mood-and-music hangout where a guy can meet a girl and vice versa, the Purple Onion is a landmark of the city's bohemian quarter.

The picture under that proves the Blackhawk books top names in Pacific jazz; it also features Sunday jam sessions.

Right and below, Anxious Asp is another bohemian nightery in the intimate vein.

Lower right, more chic, and with a distinctly Andalusian atmosphere, is Barnaby Conrad's El Matador.

Below, Paul Desmond blows grand music with the Dave Brubeck Quartet at the thronged Blackhawk, the combo's home base and the city's swingin'est shrine of Pacific jazz. Musicians know the crowd is hip here, go all out--and far out--when they make this jumping scene.

Upper left, strip shows in San Francisco aren't too different (the human anatomy being what it is) but can only be seen in the same rather drab surroundings as in most other cities.

Lower left, comparatively new to the city are several luxury motels near the heart of town, like the Plantation Inn, which features privacy, a swimming pool, a free continental breakfast, ultra-smart rooms, sunbathing when the weather's seasonal, as it often is--and privacy.

Above, the incomparable Top o' the Mark perched atop Nob Hill offers a panorama of the entire city, the bay, its bridges and the hills beyond. It is also smart, crowded, famous and--paradoxically--a favored cocktail lounge for both tourists and natives.