El Bobo

1539 Folsom (between 11th and 12th)

Tel: 415-861-6822

France kicks ass! And not just because of the whole world cup thing. I mean, on our national holiday, we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence. France celebrates the storming of the Bastille. We sign, they storm. You've got to love them.

So in honor of all the ass France kicks, I celebrated Bastille Day by having a couple beers at one of my favorite bars, El Bobo--which, coincidentally happens to be the best place in the city to watch the bus loads of baseball-capped suburb people they drop off in front of Holy Cow every forty-five minutes.

Why do I love El Bobo? So many, many reasons. First, and most obvious, is the name. El Bobo. Say it out loud a few times. El Bobo...El Bobo...El Bobo. It's just like elbo with an extra bo. What's not to love?

Then, there's the jukebox. One word: Morphine. How much ass does that kick? A lot. Huge amounts. And the jukebox goes to random play when the money runs out. So you never have to drink in silence just because you're too cheap to sink a buck in the slot--or too drunk to get off your stool.

The beer selection is okay. Paddy O'Lushly liked the Guinness, but says it's good, not great. Try the Humboldt Hemp ale. It's tasty, and after a couple of these, you'll get a nice little pot buzz. I'm going to send a six-pack to Martha Stewart, so she can talk about it on her silly, little show. "Hemp seeds and beer. It's a good thing." You go, Martha!

Paddy liked her Guinness cake better. I know what you're thinking. It's not a big slice of beer-flavored chocolate. It's tasty, chocolate cake with a little beer in it. Paddy got the roasted potatoes to round out her perfect Irish woman's meal. Yum. I got the lemon soba noodles dish with a red pepper sauce and shittake mushrooms, which is delicious, but covered with fresh greens, so don't get it if you don't like bunny food. Tasty and healthy.

But you wouldn't expect cheese fries and beef nibblets at El Bobo. It's not exactly a dive, with its sleek and chic, two-toned bowling-shirt decor. But the cool thing about El Bobo is that it doesn't attract a hipster, bowling shirt crowd. It's really just a neighborhood bar that attracts a few freaks from time to time, like myself and Paddy. And if you go often enough, you're bound to see some of the Eleventh Street glitterati drift in on their way to Slim's.

Like the two cell-phone girls in stretch pants and bra shirts who wandered in looking for their boyfriends-- who, if you ask me, were probably hiding in the Castro somewhere. "We waiting for someone!" They announced to the four people in the bar, including my little Bastille Day dinner party and the cook and the bartender. I asked if they were celebrating Bastille Day. "No, but congratulations!" Thanks. Vive La France!

Melinda Whitehouse

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