Devil’s in the details at North Beach apothecary
The interwoven histories of alcohol and medicine have not been lost on contemporary cocktail culture. Hence the rise of the apothecary-themed bar, establishments that remind you that alcohol was always the sterile drink of choice in times and places where drinking water was murky and that many ingredients now firmly placed in the “liquor cabinet” category had their beginnings as, literally, tonics.
Wormwood, the main ingredient in absinthe, expelled tapeworms; Angostura bitters soothed an upset tummy. Today, when these apothecaries peddle their Sazeracs as elixirs or remedies, it is done with a knowing wink: The good doc will administer you medicine, but we all know you’re not there for your health.
Devil’s Acre, the apothecary from Future Bars (Bourbon & Branch, Tupper & Reed, Rickhouse), trades heavily on the theatricality inherent in this genre. It locates itself in a North Beach of earlier days: the raucous, gritty Devil’s Acre neighborhood in 19th century San Francisco’s Barbary Coast. The menu, disguised as an almanac, is a period piece, with fauxantique advertisements for neighboring businesses (“Al’s Attire, handmade in North Beach”), history lessons (“The soda fountain was invented in American pharmacies as early as the 1890s as another method to make bitter medicines more palatable”) and two pages devoted to Astrological Indications, a.k.a. your horoscope.
It’s a lot of gimmick — though it’s also a lot of fun. You can’t help but laugh when you read, below a marshmallow root concoction called the Hangover Cure, that “these statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration.”
Devil’s Acre offers table service, though there are two bars where you can stand, one upstairs and one downstairs. (Pro tip: Go downstairs.) There is no food, but given the extensive menu — and the relentless reminders that this stuff is all
good for you — you might be tempted to order a side of cream soda or tinctured seltzer alongside your main drink. The space is large, with few partitions, and on a recent evening was populated nearly entirely by parties of two; yesterday’s bootleg pharmacy is today’s date spot.
Servers refer to general manager Darren Crawford as Dr. Crawford. (Like many snake oil salesmen before him, he is not an actual doctor.) He makes drinks in an antique, oversize cocktail-shaker contraption on top of the bar.
The theater of Devil’s Acre suggests danger, but it feels disappointingly safe. “I wish it were darker in here, and smokier,” said my drinking companion, who typically avoids such conditions. I agreed: We wanted to be in a seedy den of vice on the Barbary Coast, darn it, and the room felt too big, bright and open for us to willingly suspend our disbelief.
But who cares? The drinks are elaborate and creative, reviving obscure cocktail ingredients (ammonia, phosphate, caffeine) — and are unfailingly delicious. The Dupont deftly counters Fernet Branca with lemon, and its addition of black tea honey syrup will transport you back to the tea your mom used to make when you had a sore throat. In the Clover Leaf, one of the menu’s “period-specific classics,” grenadine’s Bing cherry (or Luden’s cough drop?) flavor melts into the soft eggwhite froth and is topped with a mint sprig. The almanac explains each cocktail’s historical antecedent.
The tinctures ($2 each) are intended to supplement either a cocktail, seltzer water or the Surfeit Water (a hangovercuring cordial) or Aromatic Elixir (a citrus peel- and spice infusion meant to mask the taste of medicine). Their various applications range from aphrodisiac to relaxing to youth-preserving. I would not order one again; I found that the bad ones were bad, and the good ones were bland. But then, medicine’s not always supposed to taste good.