In the 2010s, Millennials were blamed for killing pretty much everything you could think of. Ironing. Marriage. Mayonnaise. 

Now, an analogous wave of moral panic has people fretting about Gen Z. Surveys and research have shown that those born between the years 1997 and 2010 are having less sex, developing more mental issues, and are lonelier than prior generations.  

It’s enough to make you want to drink. Except they’re doing much less of that, too. The decline of alcohol consumption among the youth has some wondering about the future of the late-night industry and whether the culture of the watering hole or the nightclub as a place of wild abandon will still exist.

Bartenders have a few complaints about their younger customers: They don’t tip, they close their tab after every drink, and they nurse two beers all night. Of course, Gen Z has its own fair critiques: unaffordable housing, climate collapse, and late-stage capitalism. 

But tossing a few back is meant to help you suppress those existential thoughts, at least that’s what everyone did before. We’re nothing if not thorough, so The Standard went out all night and asked the generation supposedly killing the party what they actually think about drinking, nightlife, and being young in San Francisco right now.

10:10 p.m. — Bar Part Time

The night starts on a quiet block of the Mission at Bar Part Time, a trendy bar recognizable by its lemon-yellow facade and the curtain bangs of its customer base. Inside, a knot of drinkers lounge in semicircular booths or crowd around hightop tables. On one, a nearly empty bottle of rosé sits next to four stemmed wine glasses, two vapes, and a crumpled box of Camel Crush menthol cigarettes. 

The spread belongs to a group of 20-something guys from Sacramento, dressed in black t-shirts, baggy jeans, and hoodies. Their fingers, wrists, and ears are ornamented with silver jewelry. They’re mid-way through their evening, having started the night at Zeitgeist around the corner.

“I was like, ‘I know a bar. It’s a vibe and the music is always good,’” says Justin, 27. But bar-hopping across the city is far from the norm. The reason? It costs more, he says. “You can just drink at home,” Ram, 24, agrees. “I don’t mind paying a cover,” Issac, 23, adds, “but drinks are like $20.” 

By the time the clock hits 10:30, the crowd around the long bar is a sea of kitten heels and vintage black leather jackets. In the corner booth, a trio of friends sip on glasses of wine and cans of beer. Isaac, 23, recently moved to San Francisco from New York City, where he and his friends would stay out until 4 a.m. “all the time.” But he’s adopted his new city’s more sleepy persona. “It costs a lot less to just smoke weed at home,” he says. He looks quizzical and says: “We’re just trying to figure out when people are actually drunk here.”

11:06 p.m. — Emporium Arcade Bar

An hour later at the cavernous arcade bar Emporium, the crowd consists mostly of couples on awkward first dates. They’re ordering nitro caramel espressotinis and matcha pina colada slushies before diving into the neon-lit expanse of pool tables and skee-ball machines. Emma, 24, and Patrick, 23, hover near Killer Queen, a 10-person game they like because it’s an easy excuse to meet new people. 

Emma, a student at San Francisco State, echoes the same sentiment as the drinkers at Bar Part Time: “A lot of money goes to tuition. A lot of money goes to rent,” she says. “It’s just really expensive.” 

But Patrick, who’s wearing a Humboldt hoodie he borrowed from his brother, says he doesn’t drink much because he sometimes feels uncomfortable at bars — though less so if there’s an activity to focus on. “It feels, like sad, if you’re just drinking,” Emma goes further. “Actually, I feel like Gen Z is just kind of sad.” 

On the mezzanine level, Jessica, 25, is playing a game of oversized Connect Four during a night out for her friend’s birthday. A self-described “raver,” she drinks and goes to bars regularly but also takes frequent breaks from alcohol consumption. After raising her hand when asked if she’s a partier, she explains her habit and is anything but shy about discussing her complicated relationship with alcohol to a group of strangers: Her parents struggled with alcoholism, and she’s been drinking heavily since she was in high school. At one point, it was a serious problem. Now, intermittent periods of sobriety ensure she doesn’t become reliant on booze to have a good time. 

Plus, she’s concerned about the negative health outcomes associated with heavy drinking. “I’m trying to look young forever,” she says, flipping her curly hair over her shoulder. 

11:49 p.m. — Madrone Art Bar

After being inside the airy arcade bar, the atmosphere inside Madrone Art Bar is oppressive, heavy with the odor of sweaty bodies moving to Brazilian disco beats. The room is filled with a mixed crowd of would-be Burners, tech bros in branded vests, and a couple of women perched on the laps of two guys. 

Noah, 24, and his crew of friends have decided to hang out outside on the cramped parklet. He lofts a cigarette that’s being held between the fingers of a tiny plastic hand he wears as a whimsical roach clip. Being born in 2001 means his early 20s coincided with the pandemic, he explains, which is one reason he thinks people his age don’t go out as much. “I think our generation is less social,” he muses, cigarette smoke trailing into the sky. 

He was in a fraternity at the University of Washington, “as the token gay” he says — but he didn’t drink alcohol until he was 22. That seems impossible given the Animal House reputation of most Greek organizations. But Gen Z is less susceptible to being pressured into binge drinking just because everyone else is, he says. “We’re less people pleasing. And we’re less willing to tolerate shitty things.” 

Tonight, he has a drink in hand and is sipping it delicately, but it’s not a cocktail or a bottle of beer. It’s a small shot of bitter, slightly minty Fernet Branca. 

12:43 a.m. — Bar April Jean 

Across town on Green Street, the narrow road that runs up North Beach’s main nightlife corridor, the party is dying down. A handful of early morning drinkers linger inside Bar April Jean, a come-as-you-are cocktail bar that opened last year. As the clock ticks toward close, Chole, 21, and Lily, 21, are so locked into whispered conversation and each other’s eyes they may as well be the only two people in the room. 

They’re best friends and home for the summer from different colleges they explain in slurred speech when they finally come up for air. They’re flushed and glassy-eyed and have been drinking for hours. But they’re still coherent enough to tell the story of their first time ever drinking: They were 14 and sipped Smirnoff vodka straight out of the bottle. “I don’t even remember our first legal drink,” Chloe giggles. 

At school, however, they rarely drink this much. Lily’s friends at the University of Washington would rather go backpacking than bar-hopping. Chloe’s friends at UCLA go out, but only “two times per week and I’m like, that’s light.” Clutching her iPhone in one hand and a hot pink vape in the other, she leans in to whisper the other reason why she hesitates to get smashed around campus. “You’ll be posted on Barstool,” she says gravely, referring to the college-focused social media accounts known for viral memes and embarrassing videos.  

Atul, 26, staggers up to the tastefully decorated bar dressed in a suit way too nice for his 1:10 a.m. visit. It appears, at first, he might be arriving after a wedding. Except it’s Thursday, and he’s alone. Almost to himself, he orders a drink. Then he turns and says, “I never understood why people drink alone at the bar, until today.”  

What comes next is the recounting of a love triangle, a party confrontation, and the bitter taste of rejection. What comes back to Atul is an “I feel you, man.”

The contrast between sharing young love over a cocktail and dulling unrequited love over a stiff one is unmistakable to anyone who’s been at a bar too long and too late. It’s a tradition that Gen Z, for all of their anxieties about the world, is, apparently, still prone to partaking in.  

Maybe the kids will be alright, after all.