The Myth of Fernet:
| ||||||||
Our story begins above the ocean with the dearly beloved namesake of a reclusive Italian count lying stone-silent in a child's coffin, among the suitcases and souvenirs in the cavernous belly of a commuter jet bound for the New World.
When the container is pried open some 8,000 miles later, in one of the newest restaurants in one of San Francisco's oldest neighborhoods, the contents are pulled from the yawning mouth and carefully placed on display in a softly lit glass case, ending the miraculous passage from their homeland in Italy to their final resting place, on Fillmore Street.| Excellence knows no oceans, no frontiers | |
| Inscription, Fernet-Branca bottle |
|
 |
|
The legendary liquid in that emerald bottle is more than merely San Francisco's preferred method of self-medication; it's an intoxicating fairy tale. And even though Dammann's story is one that demonstrates the devotion of Fernet's fans, in a city that drinks more of the liqueur than any other locale in the United States and more per capita than any place on Earth, there are plenty of asses on barstools with a story to tell about Fernet-Branca. And in telling the tales, they continue the life of the drink itself, which was born of myth, and somehow along the way has become perfectly suited to San Francisco's palate.
This is how Fernet-Branca came to thin the lifeblood of our city.
You never forget your first time.
| Source: SF Weekly – ©2005 SF Weekly |
|
Home • General Index • Contact Us • Search • News • About Us • Site Map |
