Can I get some pretzels with that?

Memories.

So I'm ambling down Grant Avenue (at my second fastest speed) and a young couple washes past me like a wave around a rock and as they pass I hear the girl say to her companion: "... and he wouldn't make me a cosmo."

Too much the gallant to butt in and ask, "Excuse me, child, but WHO wouldn't make you a cosmo?" I instead flashed on an evening, years ago, when I, too, was a mere slip of a lad and learned some important lessons about bar etiquette.

What I learned was, you don't go into a biker bar and order a whiskey sour.

The Grant & Green today may appear a little rough around the edges but let me tell you ... it's the Top of the Mark compared to what it was when I first bumbled innocently across the threshold. This would have been the early '70s, I guess, and I was still drinking whiskey sours then, mainly because that's what my old man, who was no drinker, would order on those "rare occasions."

Walking past a line of choppers and squeezing into a room tightly packed with foul-smelling, leather-clad men baring iron pecs and sagging guts should have been a warning, but no. My friend and I caught the bartender's eye, and I leaned in confidently to order my pour.

All these years later, I'm still in awe of his magnificent display of contempt.

He never uttered a sound. Upon hearing the words "whiskey sour" he stared at me -- hard -- for a good five seconds before turning abruptly to the bar back. I couldn't quite make out the brand of whiskey he selected; he only held the bottle long enough to pour me a straight shot, which he set down on the bar as if he was stabbing his ex-wife in the heart. Then he stalked off and I never saw him again. I drank the drink, paid up (leaving a good tip), and slithered into the night.

Well, OK for you, Mr. Barkeep, but my thirst has yet to be slaked. So we headed off toward downtown and presently found ourselves all hugger mugger at the bar of this dive called the Tunnel Top, which still perches delicately above the south portal of the Stockton Tunnel.

As we nursed our drinks in a very self-consciously Sam Spade-ish way, the gentleman to my left attempted to strike up a conversation. "I just got out of San Quentin," he snarled. I looked at him closely. There was no reason to doubt his claim.

He gave me an appraising look, then checked out my (male) companion. Then he looked at me again and, pointing, made it clear that if he were planning a European sojourn, he'd pick me to accompany him.

Not used to this kind of frank interest from the rougher sex, I could think of nothing brighter to say than, "Thank you," as I nudged my friend toward the door.

And so I learned another valuable piece of bar etiquette that night. What I learned was, you don't go into a strange dive and banter with badly scarred men who have nothing left to lose.

Correction: Yesterday I said Ned Boynton and Cafe Americain play at Caffe Trieste on Thursday nights. I'm losing control of my faculties. They play Wednesday nights. If I sent you on a wild goose chase, I hope you at least liked the coffee. And while I didn't mean the jazz post to be an exhaustively researched survey of the local scene, I'd be remiss leaving out North Beach fixture Mal Sharpe, who plays Saturday afternoons with Big Money in Jazz over at the Savoy Tivoli.
Topics: North Beach , Grant & Green