Belinda's Bar - 3202 Mission Street

As I embarked on Mission on Mission this past Friday, I knew my next stop would be Belinda’s bar. However, aside from the name I didn’t know what to expect from this dive bar perched on the corner of Mission and Valencia.

As I approached the entrance of the bar I couldn’t help but notice that the door and the windows were encased by decorative rot iron bars—protecting what, the liquor?

After entering Belinda’s I didn’t see much that required the extra fortification. The alcohol inside presented a valuable commodity for this area of the neighborhood. Sure, someone could climb through the window, open the door from the inside and carry away the pool table, juke box or a bottle of Alize but I didn’t see that type of Thomas-Crowne-Affair commitment or coordination on the part of the bar’s clientele.

Looking in from the street passed the pool table and the jukebox, my eyes met with a rectangle of light which made the promise of a backyard patio. However, as I entered the bar my dreams of an enclosed concrete backyard were met with the evitable disappointment of a halogen light bulb hanging “high-noon” over the 2nd pool table.

At 6pm Belinda’s was crowded and loud as Vicente Fernandez’s Estos Celos played on the juke box. Bonny (short for Bonifacio), an older gentleman to my right, enthusiastically harmonized with Vicente’s sentimental incantations as he simultaneously attempted to work his magic on the bartender. All this under the watchful eye of the Virgin Mary whose portrait was perched over the bar but obscured by an alter of candles and fresh roses.

Unlike the other bars that I have encountered, Belinda’s Bar didn’t offer the usual welcome that I’d grown accustomed to on my Mission; and I would even venture to say that I was greeted with more than a few dirty looks as I bellied up to the bar and burrowed my way onto a bar stool between Bonny and another guy (whose territory I probably encroached). While they had me in numbers I wasn’t worried because I had a solid 3 inches on every dude in the bar and outweighed my biggest contender by about 25 pounds.

In the short time that I’d been at Belinda’s Bonny had downed three shots of tequila and two Heinekens. So, while I was not sure how long he’d been at the bar, I was sure his beer goggles were nice and thick. All in all, it didn’t matter to me—he was friendly enough, interjecting his drunken duet with the Vicente Fernandez, he more than once asked me my opinion of the “enchanting” bartender. That said I’m not sure who’d have been better off in the deal, the bartender or Bonny—his substantial midriff left something to be desired and the cheddary fart he’d left in his wake as he made his way to the restroom nearly choked me to death as I took a swig of my Corona.

In addition to Bonny’s hospitality, I appreciated the flow of street merchants that made their way into Belinda’s. In addition to the somewhat typical girl-selling-roses, there was a jewelry saleswoman followed by a guy who pulled a watch and a crank flashlight from his coat. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to pawn either of these must-have items but did manage to make off with half a beer as he demonstrated the flashlight’s nifty battery-free charging system to an unassuming distracted prospect.

On the “street-meat” front there was a vendor selling pork tamales out of a portable blue cooler with wheels. As a vegetarian I had to pass but the young group of guys sitting next to me seemed quite satisfied with the bushel of tamales that they purchased for less that $5.

As my night came to an evitable conclusion a man walked in pushing a stroller. At first I had to wonder “who brings a baby to a loud dive bar?!” Bringing a tiny baby into the bar would have been ok if the music wasn’t so loud … I was concerned that he might be damaging the little guy’s (or gal’s) ears with Vicente’s crooning.

He made his way to the end of the pool table passed the entrance and dropped the stroller’s shade. As the canopy fell it revealed a small cooler and a basket hanging from the handles. In seconds, he was pulling tortillas out to the basket and taco fixin’s out of his cooler… GENIUS! First, I found backpack-taco guy at Tip Top, and now I had discovered the baby-stroller taco guy at Belinda’s, each offering an innovative and practical approach to street dining. Until now, I had never thought of a stroller as a mini- taco truck but there you have it, live and in-person.

And in case you’re worried about the baby, there was one of those too, but he was in a much smaller stroller with his mom outside as his dad handled the business inside. Only in Mexico… and apparently, theMission too.

Next stop Argus Lounge.

The Knockout S.F. – 3223 Mission Street @ Valencia

Mission on Mission has redefined my Fridays.

Three months ago I would look forward to Friday because it meant that I could go home, throw on T-shirt, a pair of jeans and flip flops and shed my corporate uniform of shirt and tie for at least a couple of days. Friday signaled downtime—relaxing at home, watching a couple movies or maybe a manageable mini adventure like a mountain bike ride. In short, Friday was my weekly threshold to a lazier life—it was my “off” switch.

Now, as Friday approaches I get a sense of nervous anticipation, excitement and a little anxiety as the next leg of my journey awaits. Come Friday at 6pm, I usually have no idea what bar I’ll be visiting next, who I’ll encounter, what the experience will be like or if I’ll be welcomed into this new community (or at a minimum blend in). With Mission on Mission, my Fridays are now an exit strategy from my safe and comfortable little weekend box, forcing me to engage with people and places that I would not otherwise encounter. And, I have found that it has become even more than that… it is an opportunity to think critically about my interaction with the “local” – the local as a place, a community and as an individual (a “regular”).

As my Fridays have changed thanks to this new adventure, so too have my weekends. Mission on Mission has forced me to separate my work life and my real life—and I find that I am taking less work home with me on the weekends. And while I am the king of procrastination when it comes to this blog, I somehow still manage to get it done. Writing is far from easy for me and there is great satisfaction in clicking the “publish” button on my posts.


Until now I have not done much introspective rambling about Mission on Mission—and I promise that it won’t be a regular occurrence—but I think it’s important that I put this Mission into a larger context. Even though these first few bars have only been a mile from my house, crossing that dark threshold every Friday at 6pm is like getting off a plane in a foreign country without a place to stay, alone, and without a safety net. This experience of landing in a new territory, surviving the experience and coming away with a story to tell is both exciting and rewarding. In general, I’m not that big on chronicling my experiences or sharing them to an audience of strangers, but its all part of the journey and I’m glad I’ve started it.

Ok, enough introspection, let’s get on with the next bar… I can’t tell you the size of the smile on my face as I passed Lucita's Niteclub and saw that my next stop on the journey was the Knockout.

I’ve been to the Knockout once before on a Saturday afternoon a couple months back. My only recollection of the place was having too many beers, playing a lot of pool and then, as day turned into night, someone offering me a warm, fresh donut. At the time, I had no idea what to make of it but I welcomed the nourishment and washed it down with a beer –delicious, huh? About the same time I finished my donut dinner, a band called the Donuts Disco (classic disco, mutant disco, italo, cosmic, dutch electro old school hip hop and house) took the stage.

This time I made my way through the Knockout’s dark doorway wondered how my evening would compare to last time. And, well, it ended up about the same.

The Knockout has been open for 3 years and the bartender for the evening, Molly, has been working there since the beginning. I was able to join a conversation with her, Elam and Emma –who were the musical entertainment for later that evening.

I’ve gotten pretty good at joining conversations and starting my own so this trip down Mission Street is paying dividends on improving my social skills. Chatting with Elam, originally from Israel, and Emma, from LA, I learned about their music, their backgrounds and how they approach their creative process. I can only imagine what it takes for them to stand in a spotlight in front of an audience, and sing—it is amazing to me and I admire their confidence. Suddenly, clicking the “post” button for Mission on Mission didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Along with the interesting conversation I also shared a drink and shots of Ouzo (Molly’s treat) 3 times over, with the group. Molly prefers Raki, a Turkish drink, but the Ouzo was definitely enough to get me going. I managed to stay until about 9pm which wasn’t long enough to see either Emma or Elam perform. (sorry, next time guys!) But I hope the Ouzo helped ease their nerves as they took the stage.

Decorated with old album covers, brightly colored cartoon posters and band flyers and with a photo booth to the side of the “dance floor”, the Knockout may be dark but it offers a solid positive vibe. Sitting across from Molly, the tattooed clientele and the out of town musicians I felt completely at home in this punk dive bar.

Stumbling out of the Knockout into the chilly San Francisco night I made my way up the block hoping that some Silver Pad Thai with Shrimp would calm the 3 shots of Ouzo rattling around in my brain.