The City in Which I Ate

The wildness of San Franciscan air

San Francisco, California

I used to be so afraid of the city. It wasn’t a particular city I feared but any place big enough to swallow me. And my god, San Francisco swallows, her heavy fog obscuring bridges and bays, cascading over hills, cooling the air, cultivating the wild. But I am no longer afraid of the city; I have learned how to find my way even when swallowed.

When I arrived in San Francisco last Tuesday, the air was thick and cool and the fog clung to the low mountain range beyond the airplane windows. I’d dreaded getting lost but I found my way quickly from terminal to train station to bus stop, heading north in search of flavor.

San Francisco is the city of bread; its sourdough culture dates back centuries to California’s Gold Rush era. What is important to understand about a sourdough starter, a mother, is that it is alive. It must be cultivated and fed. Every starter is an ecosystem, influenced by flour, water, and the wild microbial strains that keep it living, swelling as bacteria breaks down matter and produces carbon dioxide. In San Francisco, a particular strain lives amongst the fog: Lactobacillus Sanfranciscensis. Locals claim that San Francisco sourdough is uniquely tangy due to the city’s environment—the frequent fog rising from the cold Pacific, salting and cooling the city.

I called my day trip a Bread Crawl—arriving with one purpose: to taste this city’s ancient wildness. I wanted to wander through the fog for miles, inhale the mingled scent of rising dough and salty air. It’s true: San Francisco does smell of bread. Not everywhere, but often, when entering a market, or meandering down a quiet neighborhood past open-door bakeries. You might say: isn’t that every city? But it’s different in San Francisco. More pronounced, like an aroma the lingers and hovers in the air.