Michael Pollan Goes to a Dive Bar
Exploring the roots of community and the bar-to-stool economy of an Oakland watering hole
It all started with a curious itch I’d felt since finishing my last book. Since then, my usual destinations— grocery stores, fields of heirloom tomatoes, and Amazonian ayahuasca retreats all felt too familiar. I yearned for a raw, unfiltered experience of American life. So I decided to cut my afternoon of gardening short and seek out something new. Descending from the Berkeley hills, the wheels of my Prius glided confidently beneath me like the skids of a sleigh on fresh-fallen snow.
Named after an 1859 telegraph line, Telegraph Avenue epitomizes the eclectic contrasts of the Bay Area. It stretches four and a half miles, connecting Berkeley to Oakland, skewering both like a harpoon. This pulsing artery epitomizes the spirit of the area that’s been my my home for decades—a street Berkeley’s website calls “seven kilometers of genius, beauty, madness and rapture.” It’s this quirky thoroughfare that guides me the last mile of my journey.
You won’t find any royalty or fisherman at Kingfish on Telegraph Avenue. While it’s named after a 1922 bait shop, today it’s a buzzing pub beloved by sports fans and regulars for its affordable beers and welcoming atmosphere.
As I enter the bar, I smile as I immediately recognize an old friend. Even in this beer-sodden corner of Oakland, I can’t seem to escape the dominion of zea mays. The species of domesticated corn that once fueled the construction of Mesoamerican pyramids and today forms the rickety nutritional pyramids of the modern junk food industry is present at Kingfish in the form of popcorn that I’m told is free of charge. I scoop a bowl for myself, abstaining from the complimentary Sriracha for now so I can assess the quality of the corn itself. The popcorn is almost as salty as the bar conversations. I’ve already overheard dates, debates about Basketball, and rants about tech culture and housing prices.
Looking for a free stool, I take stock of the ecosystem of the bar unfolding around me. Everywhere, people nurse tallboys of Tecate and gesticulate wildly at the Warriors game that’s playing. Many are spewing profanity that I notice tends to either vehemently attack or exonerate the character and play of Draymond Green.
Sitting down at the auxiliary bar on the back patio, I order a Scrimshaw pilsener. As I assess this pint of amber liquid, fizzing with promise, I’m told it’s brewed by North Coast Brewing Company, 150 miles up the Mendocino Coast in Fort Bragg.
Scrimshaw refers to a form of art created by carving decorations into the bones of marine mammals such as whales and the occasional walrus. While it was once an integral part of whaling culture, today it’s little more than adornment on a beer label. I can discern little whaling history in the beer, except that the keg lines were likely last cleaned when the bar was lit with whale oil lamps. My second beer, a Racer 5 IPA, confirms my suspicions. Despite having a hoppier profile than the Scrimshaw, it has the same earthy funk as the pilsener did. I pull out my notebook and make a note to write a provocative New York Times Magazine cover story about the science, culture, and history of draft beer before ordering a tall boy of Tecate.
This eye-catching can, feeling heavy and frigid in my hand, refreshes my senses in a way that the draft beer simply couldn’t. Within minutes I feel positively jovial. After imbibing only a third of this towering red silo of Mexican lager, I feel as if half this bar are my best friends, and the other half will be soon. Astoundingly, I still have half of the beer left. What a magical and everlasting proposition a tall boy is— truly a time machine to your most ebullient self.
I explain to a couple in matching Steph Curry jerseys that Tecate was founded in 1944 in a US-Mexico border town after Alberto Aldrete converted an old vegetable oil factory into a brewery during the waning days of World War II. The nonplussed looks on their faces suggest they do not find this beer’s backstory to be as fascinating as I do.
Now sipping my beer in silence, I ponder the palpable authenticity and benevolence of a good dive bar. Kingfish is a place where life unfolds in its most unvarnished form. As the Bay Area rapidly evolves, this bar has remained a vital oasis that quenches our thirst for beer and belonging. While in more chaotic places like the Marina, you might be hit on, vomited on, or pitched a startup, depending on the time of day, in this unpretentious pocket of Oakland, the ethos of togetherness is alive and well. The only evidence of drunken mischief I can detect here is that an anonymous bar patron appears to have put the same Doja Cat song on the jukebox multiple times in a row. I’m told this is possible thanks to a new app that I must download to add my own songs to the queue. Yet music can wait. I’ve already struck up a good conversation about the political economy of radishes with a group of Berkeley grad students and I didn’t need to hear Woody Guthrie that badly anyway.
My new friend Henry mentions that he and a few rock climbing buddies and members of his poly-cule are going to get a sandwich if I’d like to join them. It seems they’re headed to Cholita Linda, a nearby fast-casual Latin American restaurant. They sell a sandwich called the “Papito,” which contains organic arugula, flank steak, and plantains on griddled French bread. The journalistic possibilities and satiating potential posed by this late night snack are too good to resist. Tempted by the promise of ingredients from multiple continents, embodying hundreds of years of culinary history all in one savory bite, I agree to join them.
After finishing our sandwiches, which were as filling as they were greasy, one of my new friends suggests we “run it back,” and before I know it we’re back in Kingfish, cracking open more Tecates. After a celebratory toast, I excuse myself to text my wife, letting her know I’ll be home a bit later than I initially indicated.
Lost in my Tecate, I wonder why the eagle on the can resembles Nazi iconography. Surely there is a backstory, so I open the Wikipedia app on my phone to dig in. Thirty minutes and one more tall boy later I’m reading the Wikipedia page for rutabagas, after exploring fascinating tangents that led me from the Battle of the Bulge to the history of socks, with stops at Rick James's discography and Jordan Peele's Get Out. I fire off a quick email to my editor, letting him know that I may have found the idea for my next book.
Hours later, having abandoned my Prius at Kingfish, I find myself in the back of an Uber cruising uphill towards my home. In the contemplative silence only felt at two am, I begin to feel wistful and philosophical all at once. On the one hand, I realize that my email to my editor had a few typos and autocorrect made me insist on the wide pubic appeal of my book idea instead of the more correct “public appeal.” Yet I feel a stronger counter-veiling force at play, too. My time at Kingfish has given me access to a purer and more raw form of myself and the East Bay as a whole. By stepping out of the fragrant fields of thyme and basil I’m so accustomed to roaming, I’ve gotten a glimpse into the raw, unfiltered essence of the culture and soul of the Bay Area. And that, I realize, has been the most nourishing experience of all.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that community cannot happen without physical spaces like Kingfish. While they feel easy to dismiss or overlook, dive bars are integral nucleation sites for local culture. Without them, the social bonds and relationships that make up the fabric of our cities will wither and die on the vine.
I know I have much to do tomorrow, starting with picking up my Prius and finding my debit card. Still, I am buoyed by the thought of starting down the path of my new book. I recognize the work I have to do to bring it to fruition parallels the work that the patrons of Kingfish do every night to keep the torch of community so vibrantly lit. They won’t rest, and neither shall I. Neither, for that matter, should any of us. For community, like a sustainable food system or a sensible approach to drug policy, requires active participation, careful maintenance, and frequent reinvestment to be viable for future generations.
I’m excited to started on all of this first thing in the morning. But first I must sleep off these Tecates.