From coffee to cocktails, it’s like an S.F. ‘Cheers’
Orson’s Belly a good neighbor in the avenues
It’s 5:15 p.m. at Orson’s Belly in the Richmond District. A 40-something wearing a septum ring says hello to Cigdem Onat-Salur, who runs the cafe with her husband, Cem Salur. She pivots between the shiny La Marzocco espresso machine and the wooden four-seat bar next to it.
“How are you?” asks Onat-Salur, her wide smile and sparkling eyes framed by stylish dark bangs. “The ushe? Four?” The customer nods assent; Onat-Salur pulls the espresso shots into a ceramic mug.
At the cafe tables, guests tap on laptops next to empty cappuccino cups. Evening light pours in the wide, red-trimmed front window, and soft electronic music unfurls its steady beat. One by one, the tappers to my left and right trade their coffees for beer — Orson’s has a few on draft (Modern Times, Fieldwork), plus cans and bottles from the likes of Prairie and To Øl — then return to their keyboards. There’s a deal on the burrata if you order a cocktail. After finishing both, a young woman says goodbye: “I’m writing a book, so I’ll be around.”
“This,” the writer says, “is a perfect place.”
Perfect is a lot to ask of anywhere, but I’ve come to love this spot. Part cafe, part bar, part neighborhood gathering place, it feels like you’ve brought your laptop to a friend’s kitchen table and somehow escaped into a favorite travel memory — that time you drank vermouth all afternoon in Madrid, that long sunset aperitivo hour in Bologna. Most of all, Orson’s Belly makes me wish I lived nearby.
When I get to Orson’s early enough, I
like to tuck into a Turkish coffee ($5) while I write. Salur, 34, bubbles the silty brew in a filterless copper pot held directly over a blue flame, then balances the cup in one eye of an owl-shaped wooden board. The coffee is warming, depositing a blanket of fine, chocolaty powder on my tongue.
As I arrive around 5 p.m. on a recent Wednesday, though, Onat-Salur, 35, is swapping the morning menu for aperitifs. (Folks tend to start drinking earlier, however, and a noontime beer is not looked down upon.) Under the shade of hanging philodendrons, Salur pours Miro Rojo vermouth into an ice-filled wineglass, then adds bitter, orangey Cappelletti and Prosecco to make a Sbagliato ($12). There’s no garnish, and the cubes aren’t cut from crystal blocks. This is a low-key daytime drink, and it’s wonderfully refreshing. You can have a little tin of peanuts with it if you like.
While Salur was disappointed that their wine-and-beeronly license kept them from serving familiar bottles like Aperol, he dived passionately into the world of aperitivi, and currently 17 vermouths and wine-based amari stand at attention on the bar. I try a taster of the LN Mattei Cap Corse Blanc; it’s like a more fragrant and bitter Lillet, with a bright, citrus-pith finish.
They’ll turn anything into a spritz, adding Prosecco and soda, or will add tonic for a bitter twist. Some customers won’t recognize many of the vermouth labels, but Salur says he loves to help them explore. “I will give them a taste of every single thing that we have up there,” he says. “I want them to get to know what it is. It’s fun.”
A gray-haired regular looks up from his barstool to ask Onat-Salur if he should have another beer. She considers it, pointing out that he’s had two. He hesitates. “I was up early,” he says. “I should go home.” Then: “I’ll have one more. But first I should feed the cat.” He returns 10 minutes later, bearing stories about the mouse she’s caught.
Two school-age boys come in and get a sandwich. “Do you want microgreens on it?” Salur asks. (They don’t.) “Your dad has a tab,” he tells the boys as he hands it over.
“Is your cat white?” one customer asks the beer drinker, as Onat-Salur delivers her a drink. “I see a white one around a lot.” He shakes his head no. “She’s a tabby,” he says, getting back into the story of the latest catch. He raises his glass.
His conversation partner sips her drink as she opens her laptop. She asks Onat-Salur if the Wi-Fi password has changed. Onat-Salur laughs.
For now, it’s “Feed the cat.”
“The Richmond was our first neighborhood in San Francisco,” says Salur. They met in a nightclub while on vacation in southern Turkey 16 years ago. After a stint in New Jersey — where Salur’s mother is from — the newlyweds headed west to San Francisco, living in a tiny in-law apartment in the avenues while working in restaurants and retail shops and going to school. Salur studied film, dreaming of becoming a director, until he realized he didn’t actually like movie production.
“We’re Turkish, so hospitality is part of our culture,” Salur says. Years ago, his uncle owned a restaurant in Istanbul. “Visiting was a magical experience for me as a child,” he says. “You’d see the fish being prepared, you could stand there and see castle ruins across the Bosporus Bridge. Maybe those visits planted the seeds for here.”
As time went on, Salur figured, “Why don’t I blend the two things I’m doing — hospitality and film — together and see what happens?” He envisioned a “cultural hub,” screening movies and serving drinks. Today, at Orson’s Belly, books about directors and cinematography line the room’s ledges, and posters advertise “Citizen Kane” and Jacques Tati’s “Mon Oncle.”
“People come here and feel comfortable,” Salur says. “That’s our main goal.” I remark that there’s a rare mix of age groups in the cafe every time I’ve visited — a number of older folks, a mother and father with an infant strapped into a carrier. “Mel and Graham!” Onat-Salur exclaims. “Oh yeah, they’re great. They’ve been here since the beginning, before they were even married.”
As for their older customers, Salur beams. “A lot of them live alone, and they say this is their social hour, their social place. We talk to them about their lives, we share. Those people become family. We don’t have family here.”
Every few minutes while we talk, the couple waves at neighbors walking by on Balboa. A few curious first-timers open the door, disappointed to find that the cafe is closed Mondays. “It’s just my wife and I!” Salur protests with a laugh. “Just the two people!”
On a recent Sunday, a World Cup game is on, and draft beers are $5 as long as they play. “Hurry!” Salur jokes to a customer considering a beer. “It’s still going, but only four more minutes!” Half an hour later, the game’s in penalty kicks, and Salur’s still pouring farmhouse ales. “Damn it! Finish the game!” he laughs. Each goal brings groans and cheers at tables piled with plates of feta and cucumbers sprinkled with herbs.
“Grandma says hi,” OnatSalur tells a woman who inquires about the couple’s recent trip to Istanbul, where they also scouted for unusual handmade ceramics for a new retail area in the cafe.
The soccer watchers call out goodbyes as they leave. I lose track of how many people here have asked me if I live in the neighborhood.
“I don’t know if we’d be here if we didn’t have Orson’s Belly,” Salur tells me. “But this is our home, this is our little bubble, and maybe people feel that way, too.
“You know, people don’t like their job, or have a (rough) day, and they come here to have a drink and hang out,” he goes on. “Or it could be the opposite: You’re having a good time, you want to share that time. There’s a love that goes on here.”
The door’s trim is marked with heights, names and dates, measuring neighborhood kids as they grow. As I pass through to leave after our chat, Salur shouts out, “You’re part of the family now, too.” I can’t remember the last time I felt so at home in this town. Maggie Hoffman is the author of “The One-Bottle Cocktail: More Than 80 Recipes With Fresh Ingredients and a Single Spirit” (Ten Speed Press). Twitter: @maggiejhoffman Email: food@sfchronicle.com
Clockwise from far left: Cigdem OnatSalur (left) and Cem Salur at Orson’s Belly; Cem Salur (center) serves Max Taylor and Christine Dano; a plate of feta and vegetables sprinkled with herbs.