The Elegant Art of Dining: Bohemian San Francisco, Its ... - iMedia

Where Fish Come In
It was very early one morning. So early that one of us strenuously pretended
sleep while the other gave urgent reminder that this was the day we were to go
to Fishermen’s Wharf. Daylight came early and it was just four o’clock when we
began preparations. A cup of hot coffee while dressing served to get us wideawake,
and we were off to see the fish come in.
Fishermen’s Wharf lies over at North Beach, at the end of Meiggs’s Wharf, where
the Customs Officers have their station, and to reach it one takes either the
Powell and North Beach cars, or the Kearny and North Beach cars, and at the
end of either walks two blocks. When you get that far anybody you see can tell
you where to go.
Fog mist was stealing along the Marin shore, and hiding Golden Gate when we
arrived, and the rays of the sun took some time to make a clear path out to sea.
Out of the bank of white came gliding the heavy power boats of the Sicilian
and Corsican fishermen, while from off shore were the ghostly lateen rigged
boats of those who had been fishing up the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers,
their yards aslant to catch the faint morning breeze. As they slipped through the
leaden water to their mooring at the wharf we could see the decks and holds
piled with fish and crabs.
Roosting on piles, and lining the water’s edge on everything that served to give
foothold, were countless seagulls, all waiting for the breakfast they knew was
coming from the discarded fish, and fit companions were the women with
shawls over their heads irreverently called mud hens, and old men in dilapidated
clothing, who sat along the stringers of the wharf, some with baskets, some
with buckets and others with little paper bags, in which to put the fish which
they could get so cheaply it meant a meal for them when otherwise they would
have to go without. The earlier boats were moored and on the decks fires were
burning in charcoal braziers, on which the fishermen cooked their breakfasts
of fish and coffee, with the heavy black loaves of bread for which they seem to
have special fancy. As the odor of the cooking fish came up from the water the
waiting gulls and men and women moved a little closer.
Breakfast over the fishermen turned to the expectant crowd and began taking
notice of the pitiful offerings of coin. Tin buckets, newspapers, bags, rags and
even scooped hands were held down, each containing such coin as the owner
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