Dive In: It’s 20 to 11 o'clock somewhereBar reviewer Kristen Haney seeks to separate hipster wannabes from real-life dives in this weekly column. Check out her last installment here.
Almost hidden next to Bar Johnny’s, Cresta’s Twenty Two Eleven Club is a welcome dive in an area populated by lounges, wine bars and cafes. There’s no pretense, just kind-hearted bartenders, straightforward drinks and regulars who look like they’ve contributed to their fair share of empty alcohol bottles.
Cresta’s is the reason why the phrase “no frills” was invented. You basically have a choice of one of the few bar stools lined up across the narrow bar, or you can try and snag one of the two tables in the back. The décor is bare bones, and a solitary tiny T.V quietly flickers a broadcast of whatever local sports team happens to be playing. The clock, always set at 10:40 (in homage to the bar’s address and name), can be disconcerting if you don’t have your own timepiece.
On my visit, the amicable bartender, outfitted with a leg brace after a recent injury, thumped around the bar without letting it hinder her bartending or general demeanor.
She took the time to make idle conversation with my solo self, which I always appreciate (partly to help defray lingering thoughts of alcoholism I entertain when I drink alone). There were only four beers on tap, nothing fancy, and they were just working with three that night. If domestic beers aren’t your thing, get a mixed drink. They pour a mean gin and tonic, which you might regret as your lurch up Russian Hill, searching for your car and blowing smoke in joggers’ faces as they run past. Or so I’m told.
The crowd that night consisted of a random collection of older dudes in equally as eclectic hats – a fedora here, a beret there, a well-worn beanie in the corner. The patrons, who all appeared to be men in serious need of dental work, were more than willing to stop between gulps and chat, no matter how slurred their side of the conversation was. I started to feel like I might actually have the soul of a 50+ crusty gentleman with a pack-a-day habit and a conveniently absent family as I, the interloper in the pack of regulars, discussed the blow to my psyche caused by the Niners’ loss to the Vikings.
The convivial combination of gregarious regulars and obliging bartenders makes Cresta’s a perfect place to fly solo. The bar is comforting, and while neither particularly dirty nor ominous looking, I consider it an ideal dive. The core group of regulars is ancient, the pours are strong, and the lack of decoration practically begs the question “what else could you ask for?” Throw in little complimentary bowls of peanuts and a clock that’s consistently set to a time when it’s acceptable to be drinking, and you’ve got your new neighborhood bar.
Cresta’s
2211 Polk, SF
(415) 673-2211
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