Little Paper Parasols at the Top of Nob Hill

"The Fairmont Hotel, please," I said to the driver, as we slid into the back seat of the taxi on Cyril Magnin Street.

It was a phrase that most folks do not get a chance to say very often, and I relished the syllables as they came out of my mouth.

The Fairmont Hotel (from Wikipedia)

Within seconds, we were climbing the steep grade of Powell Street to the top of Nob Hill, the historic location of some of the most elite addresses in old San Francisco, including the mansions of the Big Four railroad barons (i.e., the Nobs).

From the back seat, the dramatic view up the hill brought back primeval memories of my first trip to San Francisco as a teenager, sitting in the back of my grandparents' car as we followed nearly the same route on our way to our hotel in Fisherman's Wharf.

Red had the same reaction as I did back then.

"This is about as steep as you would ever want to make a street," she said, as we climbed the last impossible block to the top. There we passed the Mark Hopkins Hotel, which I pointed out to Red was yet another locale from Bullitt.

Its rival the Fairmont, which opened in 1907,  sat right across the street, looking as much like a bank as a hotel. Above the ornate portico entrance flew a dozen flags of different nations, crowded so closely that they were barely distinguishable.

It had been only four months since I'd found myself gazing on the Fairmont as I passed by it while riding the California Street cable car line. What is that place? I had asked myself, since no prominent sign adorns the outside of the building. A little research told me what it was, and piqued my interest.

The room rates were a little steep (no pun intended) for this particular trip (and frankly I'm not a big fan of staying in historic old lodging establishments), but it seemed a no-brainer to put a visit to the Fairmont on our itinerary this time.

The Tonga Room, showing the musician's barge

Fortunately Wikipedia had informed me about the Tonga Room, the funky historic South Sea-themed restaurant in the hotel. It had been quite popular during World War II and the years afterward, but like many such places had fallen into decline.

Only five years ago, the hotel owners had wanted to turn the entire place into condos and shutter the old kitschy restaurant, but as in the case of the Pied Piper of Hamlin painting in the Palace, a sudden outcry among locales had forced them to change course. The Fairmont remained a hotel, and the Tonga Room was renovated.

Having learned about this during my research back in Portland, I had used the OpenTable web site to book dinner there for us on Sunday evening. It would be the climax of our trip to city. It seemed the perfect place.

As our taxi came to stop in front of the elegant entrance, the driver opened the door to us and our feet. The hotel doorman, dressed old school to fit the setting, noticed that a dime had fallen out of my pocket as I paid the driver. He sprung forward to pick it up off the pavement and hand it to me. I tipped him a dollar in return.

We were a little bit early for a our dinner reservations, so we strolled through the lobby, gawking at the ornate marble columns and the Rococo-style ceilings. Then we navigated our way sporadically through the corridors and found ourselves alone on the rooftop garden in back, standing at the railing and watching the glow of twilight over the skyline of the city in the lordly quiet manner of the old Nobs themselves. Just across the street would could see down into the plush lounge of the exclusive University Club.

I narrated some of the history of the Fairmont to Red, including hiow it was built just before the earthquake, but had yet to open. The fire had damaged it badly, but the quake itself had left it structurally sound. A female engineer had been hired to shore it up for safety, and had applied the revolutionary technique of using reinforced concrete.

Then we took the elevator down to street level and found the entrance to the restaurant. Lively music came from the interior as we waited for the hostess to check our reservation. It was a true old-style Tiki Bar, everything you would want in such a place, down to a barge for the musicians to play on, that sailed out to the middle of a swimming pool in the middle of the dining room.

"I feel like I'm back in Kona," I told Red. We both agreed that it was a pleasant sensation.

The atmosphere was top notch, and we certainly enjoyed the exotic cocktails. Red took out one of the paper parasols and placed it in her hair. It reminded her of being a little girl, she said. Her grandfather had owned a restaurant supply business back then, and he often had many extra boxes of them which he gave the to her and her sister to play with.

It would have been a shame to lose such a place. Yet we both agreed that the food itself was very underwhelming, on par with a mediocre Chinese restaurant that serves take-out.

"They phoned it in," Red said flatly, as we ate our dessert. "It's as if someone wants this place to fail."

Still we were both glad we made it the centerpiece of our Sunday experience.

After dinner, we went back up to the lobby and lounged decadently on the circular sofa to absorb more of the decor and digest our meals.

The lobby of the Fairmont (Wikipedia)

I imagined the parade of upper and middle class residents who had come through the same doors over the years. I was particularly fascinated by the old brass mailbox just off the lobby, and the long chute leading down from the ceiling. I love such things that evoke a completely different and long past paradigm of communication. Could one still mail letters that way?

Feeling our experience at the Fairmont complete, we went out through the front doors into the warm night to stroll around the blocks at the crest of Nob Hill.

Next to the hotel I pointed out the Brocklebank, the upscale apartment building where Madeleine lived in Vertigo (Red had been unfamiliar with Kim Novak until we watched the Academy Awards this year---not a good introduction to that classic actress).

Then, returning to the movie that has been the centerpiece of this trip, I led her to Frank Bullitt's apartment at 1153 Taylor Street. The latter locale, although modest from the outside, was only a block down from the top of Nob Hill, within shouting distance of the Fairmont. Not bad for a San Francisco PD detective.

Last time I was here four months ago the theme was Dirty Harry. This time it was Bullitt. It makes me wonder what cop-related postmodern theme I'll pursue the next time I'm here in this city. I guess there's always McMillan & Wife.