Pancho’s is no more.

Yesterday, a little after noon, the sun came out, and I went on the longest walk I’d taken since the shut down began, a trek down Polk Street.

It seemed only a little less crowded than usual though almost everyone was masked, and even those who weren’t looked oddly blank. Most were carrying purchases. A family on bicycles passed by, a husband, and a wife with a toddler riding in front of her in a child’s seat. All three were barefaced and grave. Even when the mother cooed to her child (“look, look, look at the people…”) as they swept by, she did not smile.

The Walgreens near California is completely boarded up and looked derelict, but I suspect the big squares of plywood were to protect its windows and glass doors, because a masked woman stood in front, plainly waiting to go in. Common Sage, the little Japanese deli where they sell my favorite rice balls was open, but I did not go in. I saw what I could swear is a new taqueria, El Capitan (strictly take-out), but perhaps I noticed it because Pancho’s is gone. Cheese Plus, the gourmet wine and cheese shop, is open, and has the regulation lines drawn on the pavement before it and what looked like a hand-spritzer stand set up just in front of the door. One customer waited.

Wags, the dog grooming place, is open, though they are not allowing customers to come in. On normal Saturdays, three or four people usually stop to look through the broad front window to watch all the dogs dropped off by their owners waiting for their cuts and shampoos. They’re usually a churning mass behind the counter, some anxious, some resigned, some wagging their tails at the watchers through the windows, while miserable-looking spaniels and pitties are lathered and rinsed in the stands behind them. Yesterday, I saw only three dogs and two groomers in masks in front of the counter in the dark little shop, undoing their leashes.

I’d planned to walk all the way down to the bay, but ended up only going as far as the Russian Hill Bookstore. It used to be one of four in the neighborhood — There had also been Aaben on California, Acorn around the corner on Polk, and the landmark “metaphysical” bookstore, Field’s, across the street from Acorn. Aaben, Acorn and Fields went under years ago, but the Russian Hill Bookstore, cavernous, enticing, stocked with games, puzzles, tarot cards, pens, diaries, cups, candles, used books and new, has managed to survive.

Locked, of course, and dark inside. On its window, a desperate placard asking for donations.

I found where Pancho’s had been on my way back. Even when it was open, Pancho’s had been hard to spot, just a narrow little joint with a few tables. When I pressed my face against the glass door, I saw the inside had been been scoured, all furniture, all decorations gone. No more framed posters of bullfights and old Mexican films, no more brightly colored drums and maracas. The mural mimicking cracked adobe walls and desert landscapes through glassless windows had been scrubbed away, the little sign post pointing the way to Los Angeles, Mazatlan, Timbuktu etc. vanished. The woodcut from 1918 of “The Doctor surprised” on his rounds by a skeleton in a sombrero and serape, gone. The framed early ’80s Herb Caen column recommending Pancho’s on Polk, gone. All that remained was the faded word “COCINA” above the door to the back. Michael tells me Pancho’s has another location a few blocks away, but it’s still another scrap of life before the epidemic erased.

I visited the revered Golden Veggie Market just across California on Polk (now in new hands and simply called “Golden Market.”) I was one of two customers, they had almost no spices left, but the shelves were well stocked with produce. and I picked up beautiful red and yellow peppers for the chicken etouffe I’ve planned for this week. No shopping bag, thanks, just the little plastic bag for the vegetables.

Halfway back down California I had to stop, unwrap the scarf over my nose and mouth, and take some draughts of fresh air, looking up at the white clouds being pushed across the blue sky. I’ve never been able to bear the feel of my own breath against my face. Then I wrapped up again, turned onto our street and stopped in another store, Chico’s, partly to pick up some salt, partly to show some support. Only the owner was there in his mask behind the counter and we talked for a bit. His wife, who’s usually there too, was absent. He told me he is well, his wife is well, I told him I am well, my husband is well, and we both thanked God for 21st century medicine if not 21st century American healthcare.

I hope I’m not the only person who went in to Chico’s yesterday. And I hope his wife is truly well. I’ve never before gone in and not seen her there. This neighborhood has not been hit as hard as SOMA or the Mission, but there have been cases of CV19. (One at the Trader Joe’s a couple of blocks away.) I can’t imagine someone struggling to keep open a store during a pandemic admitting to a customer that someone who worked there had gotten sick.

Broccoli soup last night, made with English cheddar and a few of the potatoes from the large bag Michael brought back from Costco last week. They’re starting to sprout, and I need to use them up. A good night for a soup, chilly, with the wind loud and wuthering across the rooftops.