Chino, Where Patrons Help Bartenders 

Where would you be if you weren't here? Have you got an escape plan in mind, when San Francisco's market forces come for you?

The question has been on my mind. I'm feeling my fingers slip off the ledge, and if I fall ... I don't know what'll happen next.

Chino is on 16th Street, just off Guerrero. It's an area where you can see a transition happening moment to moment. Neighborhood fixtures are being replaced by the kind of establishments that cater to people who don't have a "place": tourists and jet-setters, bicoastal frequent fliers, people who never stick around long enough to put down roots. Walking through the neighborhood, I see an elderly black man helping a white couple back their Mercedes into a parking spot. It's pretty obvious to me who got here first, but I have no idea who's going to end up staying longer.

Chino has a bar at the front with maybe 10 spots, lots of tables, a few booths, an open kitchen, and almost no standing space. Colorful Japanese lanterns hang from the ceiling, cheap plastic toys (a Simon, an Etch A Sketch) are shelved on the walls, and the bathrooms have Asian-dressed dolls of the appropriate gender affixed to the doors. The men's room has pink walls and a bouquet of pink flowers underneath a Hello Kitty sticker. It's pure Asian-fusion kitsch, to the extent that fusion and kitsch can be called "pure."

I order an "Up in Smoke" (Laphroig Scotch, lapsang souchong tea, cardamom, and peach). The tea and peach combine to smooth out the scotch into a lovely, mellow drink — if you like tea that tastes like a campfire — with a medicinal back.

I was hoping to meet people tonight, but this a much better spot to come and chill with people you know. The layout makes it hard to chat up strangers, and everyone around me is already in groups.

"How's your day been?" I ask the bartender.

"Not so great," he says, grimacing. "I'm trying to pull myself out of a bad mood."

"Me too," I agree. "I was having a good day yesterday, then I spun out of control last night, and now I'm trying to get back on track."

He nods. "Exactly." Recognition passes between us.

"Under the circumstances," I say, "I appreciate you being so friendly, so far."

He laughs. "I used it all up on you."

I order a Ho Coc (coriander infused rum, black tea, pineapple, and lime) and some food. The drink is fruity and uplifting with a little body and a nice sour kick at the end. The chicken salad is terrific, and the chicken wings are dynamite. It's funny, when I first arrived in S.F., a girlfriend and I had a running joke about how nobody in this town seemed to do Buffalo wings right. That's not so true anymore.

But much as I'm enjoying Chino, its delicate drinks and small plates put it squarely on one side of this city's divide. This is a bar for people who don't need bars, and a restaurant for people who don't need restaurants. You come here to experience novelty, not to slake your hunger or your thirst. I would never go here because I lived nearby and wanted a meal or a drink, but if I had money to burn I'd make it a destination from across town because I wanted to have a new experience.

As that kind of bar goes, it's great. That's actually why I'm here — even if it makes me wonder how long I can possibly stay as my bill racks up.

I wave the bartender over, and ask about the most novel-sounding item on the menu. "I know I shouldn't. I know I should resist, but ... slushy boba cocktails?" They're whirling in a pair of slushy machines behind him.

"Yep!" he says, then considers. "You wanna sample them before you order?"

He pours a small bit of each one into its own glass and passes them over to me: the red "Boba Fett" (vodka, apple, ginger, thai basil, lemon) and the yellow "Dr. J" (rum, orange, vanilla, cream).

I swirl them around my palate like wine. "You know," I say when I'm finished, "honestly, having tried them ... I think I'm good now."

He grins at me. "Yeah, that's why I did it. Sometimes you just want to know."

We get each other.

I order a BK instead (Bank Note Scotch, pickled pineapple jalapeno, dashi, Cynar, lime), which tastes deliciously like a spicy gimlet.

When the check comes, it's delivered to me on a miniature clipboard that is pink and plastic. It's a flimsy design and won't last long, but at the moment it's part of an experience worth paying for.