“It’s in Nob Hill,” I said, looking at the bakery’s location in maps. “Just a few blocks away from us on Larkin and Geary.”

So we promptly walked over that area, passing liquor stores and apartment buildings with barred windows. While waiting at a street corner, a woman yelled to nobody and went inside a liquor store. Unfettered, I barely turned around to look. I was too busy making sure that I didn’t step into anything unpleasant.

We glanced at the stores around us. Tall buildings with old signs. A German bookstore. A church that seemed to be a single room, nothing like the grand Grace cathedral but only had a lighted red sign. Across the street was the popular Korean restaurant with cramped seating and the atmosphere of eating inside a smoky kitchen. I imagined sticky seats and chairs. Very few people were on the street. You see, I wasn’t afraid. If I was in the mood, I would have turned right to find the Vietnamese food, but today, I was on a journey to find tasty pastries.

“Are you sure that we’re going the right way?” Chris asked.

Then we continued walking, passing yet another place that seemed closed and broken. Suddenly, I saw a window that was floor to ceiling, displaying small chairs and tables with young, educated folk. Some with laptops and others with their hands wrapped around steaming coffee mugs. A woman with short-cropped hair manned the cashier. Another man, young with a beard, wore a plaid shirt and helped a customer. Loaves of bread filled one wall in flavors of fig & olive and sourdough. More people were in the back, chopping and kneading. A kitchenaid stand and food processor were in the back. “I think that we’re here,” I said.

“There’s no sign,” Chris said.

“I think that they’re so hip that they don’t need one,” I said. “Like Tartine.”

And we stepped inside, in what seemed an oasis from the Tenderloin.