When eating a soufflé is an act of resistance

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Until I dined last week at the beloved North Beach French restaurant Café Jacqueline, I had never considered that eating a soufflé could be an act of resistance.

I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but midway through the third hour of our four-course dinner — our dessert long demolished and the lone mustachioed, bow-tied server in no rush to drop our handwritten check — it hit me: Maybe just committing to a place that obstinately refuses to get swept up in our addiction to speed, convenience, and instant gratification is, in its own quiet way, radically subversive. (Though, admittedly, not particularly guerilla — the souffles for two start at $60 apiece.)

Born in the South of France, Jacqueline Margulis opened Cafe Jacqueline on Grant Street when she was reportedly 45. It was 1979, and I’d venture to guess middle-age women didn’t do that kind of thing then since, for the most part, they still don’t. 

The dining room is deeply feminine, meticulously painted a romantic seafoam green and pastel pink. A grand brass chandelier hangs from the high ceiling. Many a marriage proposal has happened here, as documented by tiny plaques above one table. The route to the bathroom will take you through the tiny kitchen with its massive wooden bowl full of eggs awaiting their transformation. There, Margulis, with a long gray braid and wraparound glasses perched on her nose, is hunched over a copper pot whisking. Catch her eye and you’ll be rewarded with a gentle “Bon soir.”

It took me 32 years of living in San Francisco to finally make it to the legendary restaurant, and even then, only because an in-the-know rumorist claims that Margulis, who famously makes each soufflé to order herself, is about to hang up her apron. Fans feared as much in 2020 when she fell ill (opens in new tab). If I do the math, she is now 91. A closure sometime soon seems inevitable.

If I was going to dine there, it was now or never. For many people, it’s never. My co-conspirator, Lauren Saria — a proud, digital-native millennial — has little interest in dining at Café Jacqueline. Despite being included in the Michelin guide, the restaurant has no website, no Instagram, no page on OpenTable. The only way to make a reservation is to call the landline, leave a message (since it’s rarely answered), wait for a return call, and then — if you’re lucky — speak to a human being. Since the pandemic, the last seating is at 7:30 p.m. This is just too much old-world inefficiency for Lauren, and surely others. 

Fortunately, my friend Glenda, who’s been dining annually at Café Jacqueline for 25 years, suggested we just show up at 5:30 p.m. on a Tuesday and hope for the best. It worked. (Another friend who’s also never been, recently tried the calling method but reported that Café Jacqueline’s voicemail was full.)

Whether dining here is an act of resistance on the part of the diner — or a resistant act on the part of Margulis and her loyal, no-nonsense server Matthew Weimer, who’s been there for 30 years — is a fair question. Margulis has rarely allowed interviews (I tried). But I discovered this lovely mini documentary (opens in new tab) about Café Jacqueline where Weimer says, “We try to make the same shift every time. That’s our life. Even though it’s just dinner, it’s what we do.” It reminds me of the Japanese philosophy of kodawari: the belief that doing one thing, perfectly, is enough.

And while, yes, Margulis’ souffles are indeed flawless — and the French onion soup perfect — dining at Cafe Jacqueline made me realize that the lofty mix of egg whites, Gruyere, and bechamel held up only by a puff of steam isn’t the point. Waiting for it to arrive is. 

So, go now. The minute Margulis retires and the doors close, there won’t be another place like it, one that forces us to take a step back in time, out of the age of 90-minute table limits and QR codes. A time when ChatGPT could have written a shockingly passable version of this story in two seconds flat.

An evening at Café Jacqueline is a wonderful excuse to sit still, with a friend or lover, at a white-clothed table topped with a single yellow rose — and reacquaint yourself with the art of lingering.