Shanghaied Midday at Sam's Grill and Old Ship Saloon 

The World Series has a way of taking over your evenings, so last week, my attention turned to lunch. The meal that most of us eat huddled around our computer monitors has a long, proud tradition in San Francisco. It's always been a drinking town, and in the years following the Gold Rush, saloon proprietors used to lay out free buffet lunches to entice people into their bars in the middle of the day (a custom only carried on today at Comstock Saloon in North Beach). Even when you're paying for your food, it's still fun to get into the Old San Francisco spirit and spend an hour or two of your day in the 19th century.

Sam's Grill claims to be "the fifth oldest restaurant in the United States," dates back to 1867, and recently reopened its doors after a three-month remodel that was bankrolled by a few of its loyal patrons. Unlike the recent modernization of the similarly ancient (in S.F. years) Schroeder's, Sam's probably still looks the same as it did 100 years ago, just cleaner now. It's stubbornly old-school, with a menu that includes mock turtle soup and calf's liver with bacon and has nary a kale leaf in sight. The delightfully solicitous waiters wear bowties. Most of the clientele could have been coming here for a half-century or more, though there was a strong showing of young (40ish) whippersnappers in suits throwing around business jargon. The only people under 30 appeared to be dining with their parents.

Despite their similarities, the restaurant doesn't have the same cultural cachet as Tadich Grill, though what it lacks in fame and tourists it seems to make up in customer loyalty. Most of the patrons during lunch were greeted by name by the maître d'. And then there are the back booths, which are basically the reason to visit. Tadich's booths don't even approach the complete privacy of the ones at Sam's: Once you draw that heavy curtain, it's just you, your food, the person sitting across from you, and the doorbell you can use to call the waiter if the need arises. You can imagine deals being brokered and crimes being plotted between the dark wood walls — and though it's probable that lascivious acts have also gone down given the restaurant's long history, the atmosphere is surprisingly unromantic.

From top to bottom, the menu is a throwback to a different culinary era, and the only thing to do is give in and eat like they did in the Gold Rush. Do order Sam's Special Seafood Salad ($20), half tiny pink bay shrimp and half pulled crab on a bed of mushy celery hearts. The tomatoes on the plate are stiff and flavorless, but the avocado has been cut at the exact moment of its ripeness. A bite of buttery crab, sweet shrimp, creamy avocado, and the piquant Louie sauce is sublime, and makes you wonder how long it will be before the modern Louie sauce revival.

Boned Rex Sole a la Sam ($13.50) was just small filets of sole in a butter sauce — fine, if a little boring to a palate accustomed to fish sauce, chiles, and the other umami bombs of our generation. But the sole livened right up with a dollop of the tangy housemade tartar sauce, as did its tired garnish of roasted potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. Clam chowder ($3.50) was oddly reddish (though creamy like New England chowder instead of brothy like Manhattan) and was loaded with shredded chicken, as though a few clams wandered into a chicken soup, but it was still comforting.

There were a few dishes that were pretty bad, like the Hangtown Fry ($22) — slimy oysters, overcooked egg, not enough salt — and the flaccid, unfresh creamed spinach ($4). But the martini was dry, the booths offered all the novelty of being in a film noir, and the people-watching was appetizing as can be.

When you walk into Old Ship Saloon in Jackson Square, you'd have no idea that it's one of the oldest bars in the city. Its reclaimed wood ceiling, black steel reinforcement beams, and six big-screen TVs scream of the aughts, not the 1850s. But if you look closely enough at the old photos on the walls, you will notice one from the day in 1907 when the bar reopened after it had been destroyed in the earthquake the year before. The street in front of it is unpaved, there's a horse-drawn carriage, and the bartenders are wearing the kind of old-timey suspenders, aprons, and mustaches that they wear in 2014, only in the photo they aren't being ironic about it.

The bar's name comes from its supposed origins, in the hull of a ship that had made the 178-day voyage from New York around Cape Horn, and had been intentionally grounded in 1849. According to the bronze plaque outside, the building had been a seaman's bar, boarding house, bordello, and a "shanghai shop" some even say the term "getting shanghaied," referring to being knocked out, kidnapped, and waking up as a sailor on a ship in the Pacific, stems from this bar. But the only thing missing today is the actual ship. It's buried under the bar and extends the whole block of Pacific, or so my bartender told me, though the bricks on the interior wall were salvaged from the earthquake.

Even without the ship, the hamburgers are a compelling reason to visit. They take their kitchen seriously for a place that's little more than a glorified sports bar. There's a long list of burgers with various topping and bun configurations. Turkey and veggie patties are available. I decided to combat a Giants-induced hangover with the Curly burger ($11), loaded with a fried egg, bacon, and lots of cheddar, on toasted sourdough. The patty was cooked a perfect medium-rare and the whole thing went together well in an artery-clogging kind of way. The fries look like they started the day as real potatoes, and the slaw wasn't too heavy on the mayo.

The menu also has a Southern bent, as evidenced in the gumbo that a few people at the bar were eating. It came with a bucket of housemade hot sauces, in flavors that a prospector could never have dreamed up: ghost pepper root beer, mango habanero, and pepper vinegar. Despite their dubious-sounding ingredient lists, the sauces actually worked. The bright mango and citrus notes helped bring out the habanero's peppy heat, and the root beer made the ghost pepper into a subtle, earthy burn. A bar called the Old Ship Saloon may have started life at this spot in 1851, but the bar that is now in its place could only be a delicious product of the 21st century.