Blocker: 200 Steiner

Throughout our visit, a number of fixed-gear cyclists whoosh down the pavement; by no means is this block’s grade steep, but watching these riders — invariably, slender males between 20-40 years of age — zoom toward Waller gets us wondering if we’re on Potrero or Russian Hill. But no, we’re not. We know because there’s an overamped, likely mentally ill man lumbering up the other side of the street, and he’s shouting, Fuckin’ Warriors!! — then after a 15-second pause, Fuckin’ Nuggets!!. You don’t see so many foul-mouthed NBA nutjob-fans in those hillier parts of town.

Large apartment buildings anchor three of the four corners here, with longtime neighborhood café / gathering spot Bean There occupying the fourth. A smattering of people hang out at its outdoor tables, although in typical San Francisco late spring fashion, the day’s slightly chilly breeze lends itself less to seated lingering and more to the wearing of wool caps. Pedestrian traffic here surpasses even that of tour buses and ultralight bikes.

By now the boom-voiced pro basketball fan has moved along, taking his strangely profane roll call of Western Conference clubs with him, so it’s time to cross the street away from the flurry of pedicures occurring at StarLynn Beauty Lounge at 211 Steiner. The telephone pole at Steiner and Waller, directly across from Bean There, holds our attention rapt for the next few minutes. On it are the posted results of a temporary neighborhood suggestion box recently set up at this spot — pie graphs, bar charts, all sorts of rad statistical representations. Results culled are predictably well-meaning, with one significant surprise: 100 percent of the participants are “in favor” of “Love, hugs, et al,” while “Bike stuff” also seems to have gathered a large majority of approval from 200-plus Lower Haight denizens. The shocker? From the looks of one of the charts, a mere 95 percent of responders (perhaps a bit higher – but definitely under 100) are “opposed” to “Dog poop.” Do certain Lower Haighters appreciate a nice hug more than they detest inadvertently stepping in a fresh pile of K9 stink-grunt? Are these things even quantifiable at this point? Really now.

Architecture here runs the gamut from charming to ghastly; fortunately, the former far outweighs the latter. 216 Steiner is the block’s only true clunker, its flat, slate, stale front capturing the boneheaded spirit of brutalism faster than you can dodge the Vietnam draft while still catching the premiere of M*A*S*H’s second season. Cute cat in the window of the lower unit, though.

Back down the block, past a fellow who inquires if we’re scouting locations for a film (Yes, that’s right), we pause to admire the Victorian Jr. at 210. Far less ostentatious than the more celebrated Vics just north of Japantown, this immaculate, mid-size home is cast in multiple shades of inoffensive greens, and laps the field for the title of Nicest Place on the Block. No cat in window, however.

Mid-block, we linger at the corner of Laussat, a narrow and comparatively quiet ribbon of pavement that yawns one block east to Fillmore. The scent of honeysuckle punctures the air, and it beats exhaust from a wayward tour bus by a city mile. That’s nice.

(Photos by the author.)