Sugar Magnolia, blossoms blooming, heads all empty and I don't care...

Eggs & Bacon, bitches

To look at me, you would never guess that I was once a hippie.  Alas, fifteen years ago, I was long-haired, tie-dyed, spun-out, and hanging out on the Haight St.  Thankfully I sold out: cut my hair, put away the patchouli, and learned a few trades besides hustling grilled cheese sandwiches on Grateful Dead tour.

Magnolia and the gentrification of the Haight are symbolic of my own personal transmogrification from a clueless hippie-kid into a more or less fully functioning adult.  We all have to grow up sometime--even the Haight.  So it's little wonder that I love Magnolia.

Ambience/Atmosphere:
With only a light dusting of 1960's nostalgia (something that could have easily been overdone), the place always seems warm and open.  Its weathered antique look belie an attention to cleanliness and detail that don't come easily.  Even the noticeable water damage on the ceiling and poorly fixed cracks in the walls somehow give the place a rustic resonance.

The graphic design is clever and subtle: collage art mixed with a series of original sketches.  Lots of psychedelic eye-candy without being overwhelming.  Again, a palpable sense of detail.  The website alone deserves a visit--that's some trippy shit.

Food/Booze:
I've never had a bad meal here.  Everything always seems to be on point.  This particular outing I had the eggs and bacon (again).  Its a peculiar rendition of the classic American breakfast staple.  Pork belly and scrambled egg served as an open-faced sandwich on a house-made bagel and drizzled with maple syrup.  I said:  "Goddamn!"

Wash that down with a half-liter of their notorious Proving Ground Pale Ale--cask brewed on-site in the basement--and you have a perfect breakfast.

Service:
The only word I can use to describe the service is "stony".  Clearly getting baked before work is a job requirement here.  I'm actually alright with that.  Mellow bartenders and servers beget mellow customers.  This I like.  So, sometimes you may have to remind the bartender that you like to drink beer.  Or water.  Or that you exist at all.  But, don't take it personally.  He just got high-as-fuck in the walk-in with the cooks; he's just trying to maintain, man--back off.