The mayor’s restaurant obsession is feeding something real

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Even the most cynical San Franciscans, myself included, have been won over by Mayor Daniel Lurie’s Instagram — a relentless stream of a skinny, suited-up guy with hair shorn grade-school short playing our city’s awkward hype man.

Yes, his stilted, dad-style gestures make him approachable. But he’s also almost celestially ubiquitous: One minute he’s with hip-hop exec Ghazi at a Civic Center concert; the next, he’s walking the streets talking drug crackdowns. But — most often — he’s stopping by one of the city’s 4,000 or so restaurants. 

By my rough count from clicking through his “highlight” reels, he has posted videos of about 150 restaurants since January.

They tend to start with his phone held at arm’s length: “Alright everybody, I’m here at [fill in the blank].” He’s at a gen-pop boba joint where he’s getting matcha. Or a coffee shop (a mayor needs a lot of coffee). He’s getting a sandwich, he’s getting ice cream, he’s getting noodles. Refreshingly, he gravitates toward established mom-and-pops.

Or just a “pop,” in the case of Anthony’s Cookies in the Mission. “I didn’t know the mayor was coming,” said owner Anthony Lucas, who opened his Valencia Street shop 16 years ago. “I just saw this black Rivian pull up, and he hopped out, and we started chatting on video. I didn’t feel like I was being used; he was just like, ‘Hey, man, I’m trying to help businesses.’” 

Or The M Stop, a market and deli in the Excelsior, owned by Sal Albowyha, where Lurie ordered a turkey sandwich, hold the mayo. “He came right at our lunch rush and was engaging with all the customers,” Albowyha said.

I was invited by the mayor’s team to join him Friday evening at Celia’s by the Beach, which was celebrating its 65th anniversary. Standing beneath an arc of balloons, craning his neck, Lurie listened to towering third-generation chef-owner Phil Havlicek tell the story of his grandparents.

Inside the festive restaurant — filled to the brim with mariachis trumpeting and sweaty with the smell of combo platters — the mayor shook hands and stepped his well-polished oxfords into the kitchen to gamely play a game of dice with the cooks. The dishwasher promptly rolled “boxcars,” or double sixes; there were cheers and a requisite mayoral fist bump.

By then it was past 7 p.m. Lurie was ready to set off for a meeting in Chinatown, and finally, have his weekly date night with his wife (they ended up at Verjus). The next day he was back at it again at Sohn, the new Korean cafe.

Lurie told me he just wants to show the world “all of our amazing spots.” And it seems that simple.

Though The Standard CEO Griffin Gaffney was convinced the mayor’s visit made it harder to get a table at his favorite pho joint, Golden Lotus, the economic impact turns out to be negligible. That restaurant reported only a 2% bump in business after Lurie posted, while others saw “a little bump” or 50 extra customers. But the pride, and a permanent place on the mayor’s Instagram feed, is unmistakable.

I’ve heard some grumble that a boost from Lurie to his 150,000 followers is empty calories — no more than a sweet gesture. But Amy Cleary, director of public policy at the Golden Gate Restaurant Association, disagrees: “Along with his permit reform, I think it makes the industry see the mayor as an ally.”

I agree. Goodwill can accomplish something that’s nearly as important as policy. It makes beleaguered small businesses feel seen and part of the city’s story. And until Lurie’s reforms show they can deliver, this kind of visibility offers real sustenance.