When Los Angeles Dodgers center fielder Andy Pages tore across the outfield to make a spectacular, bottom-of-the-ninth catch in Game 7 of the 2025 World Series, every gobsmacked pair of eyes at downtown San Francisco pizzeria Pie Punks (opens in new tab) was glued to the TV.

Putting aside Giants fans’ enduring hatred for the Dodgers, it was a thrilling moment — and an unusual scene for 8:30 p.m. on a Saturday in a neighborhood supposedly trapped in the doldrums. Every table was covered in pans of Detroit-style pizza, glasses of natural wine, and tiki mugs filled with tropical cocktails. Per the logic of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” most people seemed to be rooting for Toronto, but a rum-fueled camaraderie prevailed.

That a trio of journalists was there to witness this moment was pure serendipity. We were merely exploring, curious to see if it’s possible to have fun in a neighborhood that — despite all the city-sponsored endeavors to draw people downtown — seems to relapse into a coma as soon as the First Thursday festivals and boozy street parties wrap.

From 8 p.m. until after 1 a.m., we met with uneven results. For every hopping cocktail bar, we found a black hole of womp-womp clamminess that no high-spirited shenanigans could improve. And we reconfirmed that just about everyone who’s out and about downtown at night works in tech. 

But one other message was just as clear: There is plenty of fun to be had downtown on a Saturday night if you’re willing to look — and open to embracing the chaos.

With L.A. having won its second World Series in a row — sorry, Giants Nation — The Standard’s team of two reporters and a photographer set out to find more thrills. We wandered over to Holbrook House (1 Sansome St.), an ultra-luxe venue atop the Montgomery BART Station. John Kranz, president and chief strategy officer of BCCI Construction, was having a cigarette with his wife, Beth, outside.

“It’s an amazing party, but there are 700 people in there,” John Kranz said. “We need a little fresh air.”

The EDM ricocheting off the venue’s marble pillars was almost shockingly loud — though unlike in other parts of town, a noise complaint was unlikely, and not only because the neighborhood has few residents to disturb. The Kranzes were attending We Love SF (opens in new tab), an annual fundraising gala put on by noted SF booster Empire Records and attended by wealthy types who want to see the city prosper — the elite, in other words. 

Kranz wouldn’t specify how much a ticket cost. “I don’t want to put a number on it,” he said, crushing out his butt and walking back in. As the door opened, the music got briefly louder. The lighting was dim, but an aerialist was visible, as was someone dressed as Little Bo Peep, shepherd’s crook and all. It was a raucous affair for certain, but not one open to unticketed interlopers. Rather than press our faces to the windows, we moved on.

Hoping to find a party we could get into, we alighted on Pagan Idol (opens in new tab) (375 Bush St.). Inside downtown’s top tiki bar were four scattered groups and staff who had plenty of time to offer thorough drink recommendations. The Mr. Hanalei ($15), made of a Caribbean rum blend, allspice, orgeat, and lemon, went down almost too easy. 

We were sucking down the last of our drinks when the vibe shifted. Metered by a bouncer checking IDs at the door, two dozen people began streaming in at steady intervals, mostly in costume, owing to it being the night after Halloween.

David Wang was Bob the Builder, repurposing overalls from last year’s Super Mario costume. The software engineer in his mid-20s was part of a group of 25 to 30 people who mostly hang out to play the murder-mystery game Blood on the Clocktower (opens in new tab). It was only his second time at Pagan Idol. “Truthfully, we mostly hang out in apartments,” he said.

They were a sociable gaggle, but there were reminders that Gen Z doesn’t rage on the regular. One of Wang’s friends said the last time they’d convened at the bar, things got a little wild, “but I’m not sure that I drank anything.” 

Still, people who arrived in San Francisco in recent years have one distinct advantage: blissful ignorance about downtown’s post-pandemic misfortune. “I can’t compare it to what it was like back then,” Wang said, taking a satisfying pull from a rum punch. “I haven’t been here long enough.”

Almost as loud as Holbrook House and more chaotic than Pagan Idol, the drunkest destination turned out to be Harrington’s (245 Front St.). Nominally an Irish pub, it anchors City Hall-sanctioned events, including First Thursdays and the occasional outdoor Valkyries viewing party on Front Street. On this night, the street was deserted, but the bar was mobbed.

It was clearly someone’s birthday, but had we crashed a private party? Almost certainly yes — and so had quite a few others. Attendees, mostly in their late 20s and early 30s, were hoarse, flushed, sipping out of plastic cups, and largely unable to identify whose birthday it was. A worn-down bartender muttered something about far more people showing up than he’d prepared for, inciting a pang of self-consciousness. We slipped out just before midnight.

Day-after-Halloween parties and World Series be damned: The evening’s clear theme was birthday celebrations. At the 174-year-old Old Ship Saloon (298 Pacific Ave.), a 5-minute walk up Battery Street, Sarah Judge and Chris Cheng were among a group of about 40 who had made their way over after dinner at La Mar on the Embarcadero. Even after midnight, they were going strong.

“I love this spot,” Cheng said. “It’s the oldest bar in the city.” (There’s some ambiguity to that claim, but no other bar was constructed along the city’s original waterfront atop a wrecked 19th-century ship.)

“It feels properly dodgy,” Judge added. “As somebody who has always adored San Francisco, downtown is feeling more like the San Francisco I fell in love with.” 

If the Financial District is the heart of San Francisco, then California Street is its aorta. And if that aorta hasn’t been in such good health lately, then Turtle Tower (245 California St.) may be the stent that repairs it. 

The northern Vietnamese restaurant, famous for its clear-broth pho, closed its locations one by one during the pandemic, only to revive this year by taking over the former Barbacco space — and making an eye-popping commitment to serving food until 3 a.m. (Something’s working; another Turtle Tower location is in the works.) There’s no better fourth meal than nem cua, a dish of crab, shrimp, pork, egg, and wood-ear mushrooms with fried imperial rolls.

At 1 a.m., Eurythmics were blasting, but things were otherwise slowing down. The chattiest person was a server named Nhi who launched into a disquisition about her family history and the cuisine of Vietnam. She was born in the South but ate northern-style pho because her family had taken their recipe with them when they fled a famine in the 1940s. “This place is amazing,” she said of Turtle Tower. “It tastes exactly like my grandma’s.”

And so a late-night tour through San Francisco’s boom loop started with a daring play destined for the annals of sports trivia and culminated in a culinary history lesson over bowls of steaming noodle soup. With downtown’s recovery intensifying, the only thing left in tatters may be its reputation as a dead zone.