Stop.
You don’t want to read this. We’re begging you.
See, today’s bit of intel is targeted at the kind of person who maybe, for whatever reason, might consider one day possibly maybe sorta/kinda having a mistress.
We know. You would never.
But if you did...
You’d want to know about the Bar Tartine Sandwich Counter, a discreet little lunch spot that just so happens to be the kind of place you could take an illicit paramour, opening Wednesday inside (you guessed it) Bar Tartine.
Right. So where were we. Ah, yes. Mistresses. Well, if you had one of those (hypothetically), you’d guide her through the rustic-y rusticness of Bar Tartine, and toward the smell of freshly baked bread. (At some point, you may want to remove your sunglasses and fake mustache. Same for her.)
The source of that smell: a custom 15,000-pound bread oven. This is the beast responsible for churning out the pretzel roll enveloping your beef tongue sandwich. Treat it with respect. And try not to stare.
So order that beef tongue. Or the Pressed Pork Melt. And, with the restaurant’s beer/wine list at your disposal, get a pint of Tartine/Linden Street Brewery’s Daily (B)red for yourself, and some bubbly for the lady. Do it from a window table overlooking Valencia Street for prime people-watching.
Yes, they have shades.
You don’t want to read this. We’re begging you.
See, today’s bit of intel is targeted at the kind of person who maybe, for whatever reason, might consider one day possibly maybe sorta/kinda having a mistress.
We know. You would never.
But if you did...
You’d want to know about the Bar Tartine Sandwich Counter, a discreet little lunch spot that just so happens to be the kind of place you could take an illicit paramour, opening Wednesday inside (you guessed it) Bar Tartine.
Right. So where were we. Ah, yes. Mistresses. Well, if you had one of those (hypothetically), you’d guide her through the rustic-y rusticness of Bar Tartine, and toward the smell of freshly baked bread. (At some point, you may want to remove your sunglasses and fake mustache. Same for her.)
The source of that smell: a custom 15,000-pound bread oven. This is the beast responsible for churning out the pretzel roll enveloping your beef tongue sandwich. Treat it with respect. And try not to stare.
So order that beef tongue. Or the Pressed Pork Melt. And, with the restaurant’s beer/wine list at your disposal, get a pint of Tartine/Linden Street Brewery’s Daily (B)red for yourself, and some bubbly for the lady. Do it from a window table overlooking Valencia Street for prime people-watching.
Yes, they have shades.
