Where was I while the rest of the nation was painting their faces with Super Bowl warpaint? I am completely ashamed to say that I was not in front of the TV nor in the kitchen heating up crab dip. I know, I know; shame on me from all things American. Send me off to Canada where I can further shame myself for not knowing the rules of hockey. I admit it — I had all of this coming.
If I wasn’t eating potato skins and bothering everyone in hearing distance with my lack of pigskin comprehension, where was I? Checking out coffee shop corners with the efficiency of an In-N-Out cashier, that’s where. In truth, the extent of my coffee knowledge ends where ChemExs begin (aren’t those for chemistry?), so my coffee ineptitude was lessened by the veritable @senaponin, who, despite being a non-coffee drinker like myself, knows coffee shops in San Francisco like the back of his hand. We did it for the ambiance and house made almond milk.
For the record, though, I made it to the game in time to see Katy’s wide eyed screeching and that miracle catch by the blue team. I also ordered two cappuccinos and a drip coffee across our seven stop coffee crawl. Buzzing, in every sense of the word.
Such is the case with Saint Frank Coffee, a Russian Hill spot positively buzzing with its energy. Despite this being our second to last stop (and by which time I was rather *cap’d* out), Saint Frank’s minimalist yet warm aesthetic, well-tempered and inviting baristas, and lively clientele (with post-brunchers and workhorses alike) were awe inducing. The under bar espresso machines is genius, and the house made almond milk in their macadamia almond cappuccino is buttery smooth (though I can’t comment on the coffee itself, I hear it’s top notch). The space is pointed, thoughtful, and yet a perfectly blank canvas that can become anything you want it to be. I was inspired. It is inspiring. There are some experiences worth missing the Big Game for, and Saint Frank Coffee is one of them.