Birthday parties, so I'm told, come only once a year. With that fact in mind, I helped a co-worker celebrate his natal anniversary, and he had the good sense and connections to take us all to a spot in Oakland with a promising sobriquet.
People call Dan Sung Sa the "Porno Bar" because, at one time, there were posters of Korean pornography plastered on the walls. Or so they tell me, "they" being one of my less-than-trustworthy comrades-in-arms at the S.F. restaurant from which we both extract a living.
Driving down a nondescript, mostly non-commercial stretch of Telegraph Avenue, you'd be forgiven for not noticing Dan Sung Sa. Its exterior resembles one of those anonymous Tenderloin sweatshops that sell baby elephant tusks painted with Soylent Green. Go inside, however, and you're transported to some kind of Wild West, ramshackle restaurant lined on either side with semi-private booths wherein occurs things tinged with a sinful red glow. The whole ambience of the place reminds me...
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