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By Airyka Rockefeller
*The Long Wait is a letter series celebrating our favorite gathering places, in support of raising proceeds for the 86Fund.*
Created by Fyrn in San Francisco.
Photos by Airyka Rockefeller
<aside> 🔊 Listen to the letter, read by the author
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https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/secure.notion-static.com/4ecd895d-de5e-4405-a078-9750a01c2f52/Dear_Frances_Reading_by_airyka_Rockefeller_for_Fyrn.m4a
Inga Bard's blue mural adorned the plywood at Frances in San Francisco's early months of lockdown. Text on the door read "Take care of yourselves and your neighbors until we dine together again."
February 12, 2021
Dear Frances,
It’s been too long since I’ve visited you. We’ve both become so dormant. I understand your absence—I know it’s necessary—but still, I must admit, I miss you.
When we first met over a decade ago I was young, not yet thirty. You already had your bearings in the city, knew your priorities. You were crazy-talented, a bit French chic, understated. You moved into an unassuming, residential street in a small space, with minimal fanfare in 2009, the year the market slipped like a landslide in a season of ceaseless rain. Ten days before that, just blocks away, I too signed a lease.
In person, you radiated elegance and sophistication, yet you were friendly, easygoing. Low, golden light spilled from your windows. You were never boisterous—just social. You didn’t blast—you hummed. You weren’t cold or sterile, some modernist, fusion fiasco, like the style of the neighborhood. Your minimal furnishings and spare aesthetic kept you classy, but I could see that your cushions were sewn by hand, maybe by your mother. I could tell the aprons you used were soft, maybe silk. Clearly, you weren’t one for needless discomfort. You didn’t cut corners, but you didn’t clutter them, either.
Each time I visited you, I had barely arrived and you were already offering gifts, plying me with seasonal fruit and wine concoctions you called market-shots. What a feat—using fruit to both flirt and educate—each sip immediately illustrating what came to fruition that month: Crenshaw melons in August, Kishu mandarins in February, strawberries as early as May. When you handed me a piece of almond-colored paper, your menu, it felt like a love-note, ever-changing and light enough to hold between two fingers—deceivingly casual for a thing strewn with temptations.
Long before I made reservations for anything—not for movies, and certainly not for dinner—I made them for you, stashing away weeks of tips to lavish on you. I was an artist working part-time as a barista in a bustling bakery then. I’d come home splattered with butter, reeking of ham quiche, exhausted. I’d shower and scrub, slip on the outfit I’d planned embarrassingly far in advance, knowing I’d be seeing you.
You never rushed me, never teased me for my eager, childlike enthusiasms. You handled my many queries: “Can you explain what preserved sudachi is? Glazed celtuce? And what’s a chocolate bonet?” in stride, kindly. I knew well the Zen-like discipline and endless patience required to remain as calm—to appear as unburdened—as you did, despite mounting need-to-do-now’s and dozens of personalities a’swirl in the room. I took note, observing your graciousness, your fluid gestures, wondering if I should make them my own. You won everyone over this way—surely I was no different. That was the thing about it: you treated every admirer equally, be they habitué or stranger.
Even when I showed up unannounced at ten pm, hungry for boozy affogato and black sesame meringue, and possibly dinner, too, you smiled at me like you’d been expecting me all along. You didn’t judge me for being late, clumsy, and oddly outfitted. In your presence, I felt elevated, connected, at ease. You were impressive, Frances, but you didn’t let yourself get worked up about it. You put your heart into it, your crew nimble in a thimble-sized kitchen—in the flow, never wobbling under pressure; making more room, more food, for all of us.
You made it easy for people like myself, overwhelmed by choices, and offered just a few. I long for you, Frances, for your redolent red snapper, your chickpea frites, your roasted romanesco brightened with preserved lemon and tempered with creamy anchovy-aioli. I long for your candied kumquats in slow-roasted lamb, your tendrils of just-rolled fettuccine, your swirls of Sungold tomatoes simmered in olive oil until bursting; all fireworks, so easy-to-fork.
Over the years, I spoke your name many times, even if you could never properly pronounce mine. I even told my parents they’d love you if they only got to know you. I brought everyone I dated that decade to see you, Frances. If we didn’t have a magical evening under your care, I knew we wouldn’t stand a chance. You were consistent, and in your even light I could see my companion more clearly. I noticed, as surely you did, how he handled sitting so close to his neighbor, how he treated your staff, how adventurous his palette, and how generous the tip.
Restaurants like you, Frances, gave me, give all of us, a space—a reason*,* even—to practice adult virtues of patience and gratitude, and to be stirred by somatic and social experiences. The cleverness, choices, and conveniences of virtually selecting meals—meals delivered to our doors by strangers—cannot compare to what you provide. You foster community between us. You focus our attention on what we eat, on how, and by whom, our food is grown and cooked. I know you already know these things matter. You’re the expert, after all.
When we dine out, we sit for an hour in a room whose buzz we are only borrowing. We feel full from the feast, and from friendships fostered at your table. When we mingle, dining in communal spaces like yours, we explicitly make an agreement, telling one another, in shared glances and dessert suggestions, This we should celebrate—no matter how fleeting. We agree to invest our curiosity, time and resources in real, vital food; in local farmers, new crops, old seeds, young chefs and proud waiters. We admit these things matter to us, that they’re as imperative to our culture as our designs, our technologies, and our relationships.
Just before the pandemic shuttered your doors, Frances, I brought the man I was falling in love with to visit you, curious if he’d fall for you too. Our waiter—a gentleman who’d been part of your pack from day one—had probably never seen me visit with the same man twice. I placed my order, and then in a moment of unexpected candidness he looked me straight in the eye and complimented my wonderfully diverse taste. To this day I don’t know if he was speaking to my taste in food, or men, or both. He was subtle, warm, and a bit mystifying—just like you, Frances.
One day I will ask him what he meant, and how he’s been. I will finally introduce myself, and thank him. All forty-eight seats will be taken, with a soft throng of more to come, at the door. We will see, really notice, this time, the value of what is on our plates, and on yours.
Airyka Rockefeller is a photographer, artist, and writer based in San Francisco
If this letter stirred memories of an experience you've had at Frances, share it with us in the comments.
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Or contribute to the 86Fund which is providing grants to bridge restaurants through this period.
Email [email protected] if you'd like to submit a letter for consideration to be included in The Long Wait