"Nobody likes it," I replied. "But it's better than nothing. They're just trying to keep us safe."

And it was then that the darkest reality of the "new normal" hit me. It hit me more than three months of sheltering in place; more than working from home; and more than hanging out with only two other humans for almost 100 days. Our current predicament is so dire that it has turned Zeitgeist—Zeitgeist!—into a place that genuinely and thoroughly cares about our safety.

This is most definitely not why I fell in love with Zeitgeist. I fell in love with the bar because when I first moved to San Francisco in 2002, the noisy black box on the corner of Valencia and Duboce was unlike anything in my native UK. It was a punk rock haven ideally suited to the day-drinking my more disreputable friends and I favored. And its air of unencumbered mayhem endured even in daylight.

I fell in love with Zeitgeist because, for regulars at least, it always felt like a dysfunctional family. For the weekend crowd, the idea persists that Zeitgeist bartenders are the surliest in the city. (The tag "Rude Bartenders" continues to appear on its Facebook page). And while that's not without just cause—I once saw a bartender yell at a woman to "Get the f--k out if you can't f--king read!" because she had the audacity to ask if they served Blue Moon—regular clientele have always enjoyed an easy banter with the staff.

In 2009, I had a brief stint working at Zeitgeist to supplement my freelance writing income. I was a "yard dog"—a role that appears, based on my recent visits, to no longer exist. My shifts were long, boring and almost unbearably cold. During that same year, I had an even briefer stint living upstairs in Zeitgeist's "hotel." I can confirm that my room was tiny, came with zero kitchen facilities and shook whenever a truck rumbled past on the freeway. But still the noise from the yard downstairs always soothed me.

Changes at Zeitgeist are frequently greeted with sadness by those most attached to it. In March 2010, when the kitchen's beloved smoker got retired—one can only guess at how many burgers came out of that thing over the years—staff members were so bereft, they took turns posing for photos with it.

Zeitgeist staff bidding farewell to the beloved smoker, March 2010. | Courtesy of Jef Hoskins

Changes have been pretty relentless ever since. First there came a rule about not smoking on the back porch. Then came clean and flushable bathrooms in the yard instead of the Porta Potties. Then, it was a fancy new bar set up with more taps and back windows so that people could order from the porch. Then came that stupid electronic screen above the kitchen, so people knew when their food was ready. (Whatever happened to just yelling?) Did I mention they took the best fried potatoes in the Mission off the menu? (#NeverForget)

Sure all of these things sound, in theory, like improvements. But, for a lot of us, the new shine on Zeitgeist has erased a lot of the grime we loved it so much for in the first place.

But I will always return. Because the juke box never changes. The drinks are still some of the best (read: strongest) in the city. And because—despite a mass exodus of longterm staff last year—there are still always familiar faces.

Zeitgeist's new normal is shocking, even after months of other COVID-related surrealities. And it scares me to think how long socializing is going to look this regimented, even in places known for being freewheeling dives. But alarmed as I was by the alien nature of Zeitgeist's new set-up, one new item on the menu let me know that the bar I've loved for so long is still hiding under all those new regulations: a 32-ounce margarita, equivalent to two regular sized ones, served in a mason jar. Because, in the end, Zeitgeist still knows that its margaritas are the best in the city. It still knows that one is never enough. And it's still, despite everything, doing its very best under terrible circumstances to do what it's always done best: get you good and drunk. For that, I am grateful.

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