“Stress relief.” … That’s what they called it in the SFPD Academy during the too short academic introduction to urban police work. It was a required topic during your in-service training every 24 months as well.
We also had roll call training, California POST video training, when the “Cop Docs” (departmental head shrinkers) pulled you aside after critical incidents, and every time some terminally ruined cop ate his gun in a locker room, we all got “the lecture.”
Most of us preferred our own liquid solutions. … Like most apex predators, cops are very territorial as a species, especially when it comes to the sanctity of our watering holes.
Each of the nine district stations had their own local ABC regulated establishment that would grant “credit” to the local blue suits, and conversely, cash the bi-monthly paychecks day or night, seven days a week.
You could usually tell which local bar was the “cop shop” by the fact that the local city parking controllers (meter maids) would never ticket any vehicle within two blocks of the place, no matter how creatively they might be parked.
(Yes, they drank at these places too. Just count the number of three-wheel Cushman scooters parked in a local alley.)
Specialized units had their own refreshment centers, and woe would it be for a civilian to wander into the Solo Traffic Enforcement bar around dusk anytime. I would think that the 30 full dress police Harley Davidson motorcycles cluttered around would be a hint to go elsewhere, but some people who ride Italian pastel colored Vespas side saddle don’t really ever have a clue.
Northern Station had “The Bus Stop,” Central had the oldest bar in China town “Ling Peng’s,” Tarravel had the Irish Cultural Center (of course), and so forth.
Mission Station, being Mission Station had not one hangout, but three.
Two of these dispensaries were located in “safe” up-scale neighborhoods, usually west of Mission Street.
If you were stupid enough to go imbibing east of Mission Street, where the Barrio gangs controlled just about everything, then you’d more likely than not find your almost paid for expensive boy-toy 4×4 missing tires, and profane Spanish graffiti on the door panels.
The third place predictably was closer to “home,” as in on the flat roof of Mission Station. This was more of a beer garden than a full-scale bar. The donated workout weight benches, picnic tables, (with floral accented umbrellas), lounge chairs, and the coolers containing “hydration liquids” sort of evolved over the years.
All was fine and dandy until some know-it-all city inspector broke up with a cop she was dating, and then paid her back by red flagging the rickety homemade wooden ladder from the parking lot to the roof, while noting that the “300 empty beer bottles” might be a health hazard.
Everyone however had Zukas Bar.
As in a lot of other endeavors, it was a simple concept: Location, location, location.
In the 800 block of Bryant street (south side) there were seven bail bonds offices, 23 criminal defense law firms, and four bars.
Zukas was the best.
Headquarters for the SFPD 850 Bryant, as well as where the county court rooms, the county jail, and district attorney’s offices were located.
Frank ran a very successful restaurant operation from 0500 to after midnight, while his wife ran the bar.
Daytimes, the restaurant handled juries, courtroom attendees, and more than a few hip-pocket negotiations that got some people out of or into state prison.
The very large restaurant area sub-divided into special interest kindred souls. Defense attorneys had the back rear area, while the prosecution teams were appropriately located as far away from them as possible in an alcove near the bathrooms.
Ironically, pimps, hookers, petty thieves, and assorted politicians filled up the tables between the two legal groups.
Cops of course, owned the bar area.
During the daytime, nobody drank anything questionable while in uniform because doing so in front of lawyers and people that you were going to testify against in court 100 feet away was also a one-way ticket to meeting a head-hunter from the Office of Internal Affairs, which was also located 100 feet away.
Happy hour was different.
The courts closed down at 4:00 p.m. By 4:06 p.m. it was elbowing time at the large standup bar.
With the so-called “code of silence” in effect, both on the streets as well as in the bar, no one ever knew who put several .45 caliber slugs into the commode in the men’s room, or why three streetlights over the alley doorway suffered the same fate.
(Yes, across the street from police headquarters.)
There were however 20 some witnesses to the ill-advised “tequila shots-fired event “that had Team Patron vs The Quervo-ites racing to a state of liquid oblivion one Tuesday evening.
In a truly symbiotic effort, city ambulances were occasionally designated as “mobile recovery transports” so that “fluids” of the IV nature, pain killers, and oxygen, were provided to people that had to be on-duty in five hours or less. In that ambulance crews were always targets for rip and run narcotics thefts, and that district field units always ran “escort duty” in several notorious areas, it was a true “team effort.”
With “The Balcony” at Mission Station closed (temporarily), a relocation was appropriate, and after due consideration, a very devious site was approved.
San Francisco is shaped like a gigantic thumb. The populated area is represented by the fingernail, with the Pacific Ocean on one side, and the brackish Bay Waters on the other. The west end of Golden Gate Park abuts the Pacific in an area called Ocean Beach. This great stretch of sand and surf has a large 10-foot-tall barrier that protects the Great Highway that resides above from high tides and out of control beach parties.
It also was a perfect location for Choir Practice.
I explain:
The Great Highway is SFPD turf, and therefore was not a problem. The huge parking lots adjacent to the GH are part of the state park system (patrolled by California Highway Patrol Officers who are usually handling traffic accidents on the freeways six miles inland). The beach itself is part of the federal park system, which meant that FEDERAL BEACH LIFEGUARDS would have to bring a golf cart from the Presidio after dark to somehow to try and enforce a beach curfew. From the tide line west, law enforcement was either the jurisdiction of the Coast Guard or the US Navy.
To signify the relocation launch, certain members of Mission Station held a “Sundowner Salute” just as the setting sun touched the water around the Farallon Islands. Participating in this event were Officers Glock, Beretta, Smith (and his partner Wesson), and the Master of Artillery, Magnumus Colt.
It was a touching, if not very loud experience.
Enter Brother Lopez, whose semi-questionable hobby was creating very LARGE homemade fireworks for Cinco de Mayo, and that other event in July.
After the 40 or so celebrants had recovered their hearing, and consumed an appropriate amount of alcohol with salt, lemon, and ice chips included. Ernesto set about recreating what turned out to be a very realistic simulation of the Omaha Beach assault with his latest high explosive toys.
Everything went well enough until his “Pinata of Death“ contraption got hung on a city streetlight prior to detonation. Once lit off, it was followed by a black powder explosion that rivelled a small nuclear event. The streetlight looked a lot worse for wear, (like a blacked wooden match), which (of course) caused a massive breach in the city power grid, and subsequently blacked out a 12-block stretch of city streetlights.
We all adjourned to Zukas with hurried and not surprisingly unanimous consent.
10-7
