We walked to Zarzuela. The hills, which seem normal to Michael and me, slightly daunted our visitors, who are used to Chicago. The restaurant is one of those little places on a Russian Hill street that curve up and down like a roller coaster, set in among the old apartment buildings and alongside the cable car track. Across the streets is the Swenson’s that Michael and I visit whenever we’re in the neighborhood. The walk was worth it. It’s a small, cozy place with the tables set close enough together so that you can see what other people are having and ask them about it. Unlike most tapas places, this one had large portions. We enjoyed fried potatoes, snails, baked goat cheese in tomato sauce, Spanish pie, marinated anchovies, olives, bread, etc. Afterwards, we walked across the street to Swensen’s and got some ice cream.

Another lost place that became familiar to us because we liked it so much. It went out of business just before the COVID shut-down. I don’t remember it as small, so perhaps it expanded after 2000 — two dining rooms, umber lighting with touches of red inside, Spanish posters of bullfighters and senoritas, and always, always delicious food that I would enjoy while glancing out the window at Swensen’s, brightly lit and waiting for us on the opposite corner. Swenson’s, at least, is still there. Where Zarzuela was is now a comparatively colorless restaurant. Which I unfairly resent.