Orphan Andy’s – The Castro, San Francisco

Only a few things about America make sense to me.

1) Turning right on red
2) Hot sauce

It was Pride weekend. It was also 2am. I’d just spent 90min in a club watching 4 dudes dance to Cher in tiny blue booty shorts, and I was getting drunk-hungry (drungry? Yes? Yes.)

Getting drunk-hungry is the best. The calories consumed during these inebriated episodes are so satisfying. Though the wee morning hours don’t always provide great outlets for a satisfying meal… until now.

I was lucky enough to find myself at the only San Francisco institution that could satisfy my drunken, post-Cher, culinary cravings. It was Orphan Andy’s 24 hour Diner. And what did I order? A grilled cheese, with a side of mediocre pickles and a mouth full of leftover #pride glitter. Fuck yes.

grilled cheese and picklesA dinner of drungry fucking champions

This meal looks basic because it was. A grilled cheese with pickles isn’t exactly going to win a Michelin star anytime soon, but sometimes life isn’t about bougie food stars (and Pride weekend definitely isn’t). It’s about cheese. And mediocre pickles. Going in my belly. While I’m drunk.
The french fries didn’t hurt either.
I’m totally ok if American Diners are the USA’s only valuable offering to the world. This one was adorned with spectacular decor and the wait staff were hilariously unamused by the Pride weekend ruckus rolling through. But at least it made for a sweet Instagram story.
Pride makes everything look great
Find ’em on Yelp. Give ’em some love. This place is a Castro institution and I look forward to my next drungy 2am visit.

Gourmonade – The Mission, San Francisco

It was a day for discoveries. Today’s achievement? Gourmonade on Valencia St.

Unfortunately the situation that led me to this discovery, was watching a video online detailing yet another racists-calling-cops situation because apparently people of color are not allowed to do things. When I realised this situation had played out just three blocks from my house, I quickly decided that lemonade should be consumed and blogged about in support for Gourmonade.

Gourmonade is owned and ran by Vicktor Stevenson (see below), and their doors opened very recently (also check out their Insta right here)

Man holding lemonade

His wife designed the Gourmonade logo after his smile. *melts*


This place is dope for the following reasons:

1) The brew tastes amazing. I tried the Jasmin Palmer. It would also pair well with soda water or a Dolores Park picnic.
2) “Home of the $8 lemonade” – never have I witnessed anyone making an $8 lemonade so fucking enticing. Naturally, the debut of the $8 lemonade takes place on Valencia St amongst the overpriced stationery and obscure record stores. There is a delicious irony here that I really appreciate.
3) The packaging was ace.
4) Supporting entrepreneurs outside of tech. Supporting entrepreneurs who are not white. The owner of this establishment is doing great things and he’s hella charming.
5) Gourmonade also sells cookie dough, because why the fuck not?


Lemonade in a lemon glass.

Show your support for local business, check this place out and enjoy some fucking lemonade! Also, call out your racist friends and steal their phones. Then drink more fucking lemonade.

What the hell, canned wine?

🥂So canned wine is a thing now?

I recently drank it on 3 separate occasions with absolutely no shame. WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE. My previous observations of canned wine have involved yelling and trash bins (people were in trash bins when it should have been the canned wine). Suffice to say, the Australian canned wine landscape was looking grim.

hand holding can

Maybe Australia just hadn’t caught up to can’o’vino sipping?

Well, I’m pleased to report that the Bay Area has done what it does best, and turned this questionable beverage from trash-bin to fridge-win.

This doesn’t mean that canned-wine drinking populous is oblivious to its preceding reputation. When I recently ordered some rosé with dinner at a respectable establishment, the waiter had to take a moment to choose his words… “Yes we have rosé, but… it’s in a can” he said as if he had just informed me I need to drink it from his shoe. It’s possible at some point in time, drinking wine from a can was akin to drinking wine from a shoe, but lucky for this guy I was ready and willing pay for wine served in a chic and recyclable matte-feel vessel.

Further observations: Canned wine is made for getting white-girl-wasted. Just look at that pink washed rose branding and matte aluminum feel. They even included fucking bubbles (!!!). I’m sure there are approximately zero straight dudes purchasing this stuff.

Wino notes: With the exception of this rosé in shoe thing, it’s likely you’re drinking canned wine at a picnic or festival. Meaning, trashy day drinking has now been made a bit more bougie. Note, they can also fit in ‘stubbie holders’, or ‘koozies’ as y’all Americans call them? (I had to google this). Perfect for stealth drinking, an added bonus.

Canned wine is a thing now. Time to embrace it.


Something happened and now I live in San Francisco.

That something being, employer decided I would be more useful to them if I worked in the same room with them. Not a completely unfair call.

So here I am. In the least sunny  part of California, grappling with America’s excuse for coffee. But I’m making it work.

Most of the Vulgar Foodie action is now happening on my Instagram (follow me!), but the most exciting reviews will be making an appearance here.

Stay tuned for more profiteroles and profanities!