A Weekend In Sacramento, CA
An amalgamation of surprisingly disjointed parts makes for a city hard to describe absolutely.
California is a state so important and influential that if it were a country its $4.1 trillion GDP would rank fourth internationally (this jump to 4th just happened!). One might expect that the capital of this economic behemoth would be respected, if not beloved. Instead, Sacramento is mostly an afterthought. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger, during his 8 years as governor, commuted daily by plane from his home in Los Angeles rather than residing here (despite the Governor’s Mansion looking incredible). When he had to stay overnight, he’d just rent the main suite at the Hyatt Regency across from the capital building. I guess people want the sexy sunshine of LA, the rolling hills and fog of San Francisco, the beaches of San Diego, or the charm of about a dozen smaller California cities. Naturally, this makes me wonder what Sacramento has to offer.
Going in, my perception of Sacramento was a rather ghetto or cheap vibe, and from casual conversations, that seems to be a common take for others. I don’t know what exactly formed that idea, but it’s in the air. When I boarded my flight and a heavily bearded man in a Flyleaf shirt walked past me in the aisle, I was sure my preconceived notion was spot-on and a trashy, nü-metal paradise awaited me. Did you know both the Deftones (a cool nü-metal band) and Papa Roach (a very lame nü-metal band) hail from there? Several other random bands too – Cake, Tesla, and Trash Talk, among them.
However, what immediately struck me on arrival was the lush urban landscape. It’s not naturally verdant like Hawaii or the Pacific Northwest, it’s more intentionally crafted this way. The City of Trees is a moniker thrown out to a lot of different places, but in the case of Sac, they planted their way to reality. In particular, the citrus. You’ll find many varietals on any given block in the city – Meyer Lemon, Bearss Lime, Kumquats, Mandarins, and Naval and Valencia Oranges. It perfumes the air. In February, when it’s 65 degrees and partly sunny, having just left the gray winter shell of home, it gave me the odd sense that I had stumbled into an unknown tropical paradise.
But it’s not just the citrus, it’s all the trees. A mix of California Sycamores, Coastal Redwoods, Douglas Firs, Ponderosa Pines, Gray Pines, Willows, Maples, Eucalyptus, Junipers, Oaks, and of course, the non-shade providing Palms, thrive here. In fact, depending on which study you look at, Sacramento has the most trees of any city worldwide, per capita. Others keep it to the most in the US and ranking high internationally. And still others claim it has more canopy coverage than any city in the US, and third most in the world at 23.6% coverage. All of this simply growing in yards and along streets.
The city, in typical American fashion, sprawls out in every direction, but from the waterfront heading east, the key neighborhoods of Old Town, Downtown, Midtown, and East Sacramento, are shoulder-to-shoulder and provide the bulk of entertainment in the city. It’s a dense urban core, that, along with the tree lined streets, makes it very enjoyable for walking and running.
Midtown is at the center of it, full of charming homes, from century old multi-story mega-mansions to the modest low-slung ranch style homes, with intersecting streets lined with shopping, cafes, bars, and restaurants. The sheer number of divey neighborhood haunts at the city center immediately caught my attention.
I started my evening at Federalist Pizza, an open air concept built out of shipping containers in the backyard of the owner’s home. They do classic Neapolitan wood-fired pizzas matched with a solid draft beer list. The pizza is a bubbly, slightly charred crust with a good undercarriage so it’s not a floppy mess. Then they’re topped with farm fresh ingredients. The fan favorite Southside comes with fresh mozzarella, pork chorizo, potato, cilantro, and chili oil. It’s a perfect one-man meal.
Federalist Pizza made two things abundantly clear about Sacramento.
1) The self-given title of Farm-to-Fork capital is legitimate. The Mediterranean climate of the city and surrounding farmland means everything can grow here – the Sacramento Valley produces ¼ of the nation’s food, and it’s immediately evident at most restaurants. Many use local produce and meat, and whatever’s in season, so the creativity is abundant.
2) While real estate in Sacramento is a bargain compared to SoCal and the Bay Area, everything else is standard California cost of living. The pizza was not unreasonable at $20, but the $10 mediocre draft beer at all non-dive bars was a recurring theme that drove me crazy. In general, going out (dives aside) did not feel cheap.
Luckily the dives were plentiful and brimming with $3 or $4 High Life’s, so it was easy to keep my BAC hovering just above the legal limit without concern. How there are so many old school dives still here given the amount of old money that remains, while gentrification fills the gaps, is beyond me. Regardless, the abundance is real.
I heard that The Old Tavern often had fights and was generally sketchy but I felt fine walking in. The atmosphere was a bit off though. I had only just ordered when the bartender turned up the volume on the Kings game, overpowering the previous thumping of Nelly’s ‘Country Grammar,’ and WOW. People were not pleased. He was instantly rained on with angry shouts to turn the song back up. He had to explain it was a close game with six minutes left before they relented. Where’s that fanbase I’ve heard so much about?
Given its reputation, Old Tavern is disproportionately well lit, which made it harder to melt into the background and meant I could read the words of every neck tattoo throughout the bar, and there were many. Despite some slight tension in the air, people came and went leisurely, many seemed to know each other, and mostly liked one another. Two seats down from me was a man balancing a straw upright on the bar with a coaster on top. He explained he’d learned that trick in prison. Along with his neck tattoos and fried vocal cords, he had an ease of speaking frenetically to everyone and no one at once, which made me think the prison comment probably wasn’t a quip. All in all though, I have no complaints with Old Tavern. I talked hoops with the bartender Jay, a super friendly guy once you got him talking. This is objectively true because when I ordered my second round, it was $2 cheaper than the first. It’s a good hang, if only for a short while.
I bounced a couple blocks over to Q Street Bar, another spot with friendly bartenders, cheap beers, and a mixed crowd. The dedication to the TV playing “Beyond The Law,” an early 90s biker gang film starring Charlie Sheen, meant fun shouting and low brow jokes, but killed any opportunity to really connect with Sacramento locals.
At that’s fine, because it meant I arrived at Round Corner sooner. This spot was two blocks from where I stayed and exuded the soul of a classic neighborhood joint. It sits on the corner with the name adorned in neon, complete with a martini glass, a sad little entrance awning, and a front door surrounded by square, glass block windows. The two-tone paint job over the cement siding – blue on bottom, white up top –was the perfect finishing touch.
It's basic inside, a long wooden L-shaped bar top, with a few tabletops, two pool tables, an ATM (it’s cash-only), and a few TVs. My bartender was a friendly older guy running the show solo, he looked like he might’ve owned the spot, and casually sported their “Get Wrecked at the…Round Corner Tavern” shirt. The pool players ran the tables all night while the rest of us drank at the bar and casually watched NBA dunk contests from years past (it was NBA all-star weekend).
I’d settled into a few drinks when a knocking at the front door broke the buzz of conversation. The bartender, who was the only one on staff yelled, “Go around!”
Again, “Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!” at the front door.
Without hesitation the whole place, in chorus with the bartender, shouted,“USE THE SIDE DOOR!”
A couple seconds later, “DUNK! DUNK!”
“USE THE OTHER DOOR!”
A muffled plea at the door and another, “Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!”
The bartender sighed shaking his head, leaving the bar, and unlocking the front door.
I expected a lot of things but what entered was your average white couple in their 30s. Insults were hurled at them as they stepped inside, she was somewhat expressionless walking towards the bar, and he embarrassingly followed behind her, giving mumbled, half-hearted apologies.
As she got to the bar it became obvious – she was blackout drunk. But she wasn’t refused a drink, instead she just bounced off the bar like a bumper car and headed in a new direction. He grabbed her arm and unintentionally paraded her around the whole joint, doing one big lap. Having never left our seats despite the disturbance, each of us booed them as they traipsed by, back to the door they so desperately wanted open. As they exited, the boos got louder, and we began to clap. With them outside and the door only cracked, he left us with a pathetic final word, “I expected better, we live around the corner, we won’t come back!” The boos rained down as the door slammed shut.
Neighborhood bar camaraderie is alive and well, and the Round Corner has set the standard. It was, despite being confrontational, a truly endearing moment to have with a couple dozen strangers. And the fun didn’t stop there.
With order restored, everyone went about their business. As the juke box turned through a disjointed cycle of metal, hip-hop, indie, and classic rock, an old man with a cane walked towards the bar. He was very short and wide, with a wobble of walk. As he inched towards the bar, his cane planted awkwardly, throttling him backwards to the ground. He lay like a turtle on its shell kicking in the air, grasping for his cane. Sitting near the fall, I hopped from my seat to help him back up. As I leaned down, he snapped “don’t touch me!” Seconds later a couple of younger men helped him back up and walked him out of the bar. I shot a look at the bartender and got a shrug in return, and once again the Round Corner returned to business as usual.
Minutes later, the same guys who had helped him off the floor returned. They ordered drinks and made small talk with the bartender that ended with a look at me, then back at the bartender,“Man, every time with that guy!” Suffice to say, I love the Round Corner.
The crowds I saw that first night were diverse and solid proxies for Sacramento as a whole. The city is an eclectic mix (30% white, 30% Hispanic, 19% Asian, 12% black, 1% native American, depending on where you pull stats). Plus, it ranks in the top 10 of the most LGBTQ friendly cities in the US. With that eclectic mix as the foundation of the city, I expected a place full of personality and expression. In actuality, Sacramento is subdued.
But it’s also a government city dominated by public sector employees. 120,000 residents work for the state or federal government, so there’s likely a lot of job security too (prior to doge bullshit, anyway). Maybe having such a large slice of the population in civil service brings an air of earnestness to the culture.
As strange as the lack of expression was, something else stood out to me, which is not meant as an insult though it will be interpreted as such. Sacramento is not an ugly populace, but it is not eye-catching. What I mean is that after 24 hours in the city, the thought, from nowhere, came to me – I hadn’t seen one outright, objectively sexy person. Woman or man. What does this mean? Nothing, really. But how is that possible? I’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Was it bad luck, the places I hung out, or something else? I moved on, but the thought stayed in the back of my mind.
My second night started at the Chambers Room downtown. It’s on one of those blocks that’s perpetually dealing with some kind of construction, and despite being a couple blocks from the King’s Arena, there’s little foot traffic once night falls. The homeless activity is ratcheted up as is their suffering. Inside is a long shotgun set up – everything has that outdated 70s look – fake wood paneling on the bar top, cheap cafeteria style chairs and tables, and the dulling color scheme of brown, red, and faded yellow. It’s not a carpeted bar but there is a massive rug that is covering most of the floor.
They sell 40oz PBRs here and the walls are covered in amateur paintings. Many are abstract but there was also a recurring Asian woman in many of them. It was only after leaving that we realized those were self-portraits of the bartender. She likely made all the art on the walls. We only stayed for a couple of rounds and visited too early in the evening to properly see this place at its peak. But the consensus seems to be it’s a righteous late night dive.
I had my friend Nick along with me this evening. He had his car and was sober, so I had him take us to The Trap. It was 20 minutes south of downtown and isolated in an otherwise residential area. When we pulled up to the gravel parking lot, the wide, sagging roof of the front porch gave me the feel of an old western saloon, liked we’d entered rural California. And in fact, it claims to be the oldest bar in Sacramento and has a quality history (and is now owned by a billionaire?). However, once I stepped out of the car, I looked up at the signpost and saw, “The Trap” within the circle of the mars symbol (the male symbol), but the arrow pointed southeast rather than northeast. I’m still unclear what that means. We noted it with an air of hesitation as we stepped in.
You’re basically standing at the bar when you open the door, so we took the two closest seats available. The looks were already hitting us from each set of eyes — the few men at the bar (and one woman), to the few in the back playing pool. It was a ragged and older crew, with a down-but-not-out blue-collar working vibe. Our bartender though was younger – a tall and beefy guy in glasses, rocking the ‘fresh from the gym look’ of sweat pants and a hoodie. He had a chubby cherubic face and gave us an extremely friendly greeting. As if it were a Chili’s, he slapped down menus, mentioning popular menu items and a couple drafts, and letting us know he was available if we need anything. He was a very close talker with a jittery energy and piercing eye contact.
We grabbed a High Life and Perrier and sat back like we were totally fine with this. But the name is no lie, this felt like a trap. I do my research on places to hit, and The Trap recommendations, or at the very least criticisms, were posted numerous times across reddit. But none mentioned it was a gay bar. All signs said otherwise. And that’s no big deal, but the group at the Trap on this evening felt seedy, like Zed and the Gimp from ‘Pulp Fiction’ were set to emerge from the far end of the bar. The aggressively inviting nature of the bartender, coupled with the uneasy looks from the sparse crowd of eight, made for a perplexing awkwardness.
It is likely in no way related to the energy of the place, but it must be noted that I took my friend Nick here, just two fresh-faced out-of-towners, on Valentine’s Day.
Friday night was off to the races and our next stop was the Old Town neighborhood. What better way to top the energy of the Trap than with a visit to the tourist district? This stretch of 12 blocks is the historic, original site of Sacramento, full of old, saloon style buildings and cobbled streets – preserved to feel more like Tombstone than Sacramento.
During the day it was quiet and a little touristy thanks to the California State Railroad Museum (which is supposed to be a great museum). At night though, this area becomes a tourist trap of the lowest common denominator. I’d have to think back to high school, bored in a parking lot, to find a memory of being surrounded by unimpressive cars revving their engines, complete with blacked-out windows and glowing under-kits. But that’s the local crowd on a Friday in Old Town.
Even walking by, the bars were awful. Like a distorted version of Broadway Street in Nashville, where college kids and bachelor(ette) parties lose control, and old, drunk couples stumble aimlessly. It draws in all your classic townie goons and seemingly every tourist who happens upon Sacramento. People of the internet claim our destination, the Back Door, is a dive bar. I hoped for respite from the nonsense outside. But it’s more like a bad speakeasy concept mixed with a hotel bar than anything remotely offbeat. No one needs to come to Old Town at night. If it doesn’t depress you, it will at least annoy you.
I had a last ditch ever to uncover a new gem – the Pinecove Tavern. The neon sign filled me with hope but the dedication to karaoke in a large and loud, non-descript room killed that chance. Our night ended at the one place I knew I could trust, Round Corner. The vibes were great once again, and this time we ate there too. Drian’s is a little window towards the back that slings your standard fried bar food plus burgers, tacos, wings, and even Lumpia. Our dozen buffalo wings were an over-sauced mess, fantastic after a night of drinking.
The urban forest of Sacramento made running the streets pleasant – the Capitol and Fabulous 40s are must-dos. The capitol grounds are lush with citrus trees and epic cedars that look big enough to be old growth. It feels like the edge of a large urban park, but it’s only a flyby, not expansive enough to log miles. The fab 40’s though (as in 40th – 49th Avenue), is a stretch in East Sacramento that is famous for its wide, quiet streets and gorgeous homes (Lady Bird was filmed here). There are towering trees sitting in extensive lawns with Tudor and Colonial Revival mansions perched behind them. It’s a fun area to zigzag through and let your mind wander.
In typical fashion the areas which are designated for running – the Sacramento River Bike Trail, Sutter’s Landing, and Discovery Park – suffer from neglect. They’re on the fringes, slowly collecting detritus while drawing in a few homeless camps. Discovery Park is also a flood basin at the convergence of the two rivers, collecting water during the winter months, which minimizes upkeep.
While food is core to the identity of Sacramento, I was never fully immersed. A long wait at the city’s beloved Ramen and Izakaya joint, Binchoyaki, meant a pivot to Urban Roots Brewery for American BBQ. Not a terrible second option, but certainly not a place to experience the Sac food scene. So instead of Kimchi Mazemen or Onigiri, I had a brisket portion that would have Texans throwing their trays in tears. While it was average, I will note, their collard greens with ham (which was more like pulled pork) was outstanding.
At Magpie Café, I got my desired bar seating. It’s a hectic environment but you’re well-tended to. The wine and cocktails slapped, and at $14, it was a bargain for California and much of the country (which is an embarrassing comment to utter). I hit big with Acme bread and hummus plus a half dozen oysters to start. I don’t even know what kind of oysters they were, but they were from Bodega Bay, and they were maybe the best I’ve ever had. My third choice was a miss – batter-fried broccolini and yams in black sesame sauce. It was fine, but two months later, I still can’t figure out my logic in that choice. I took that over pork belly with pickled onions, a BLT, and a pistachio pesto pasta? Shame on me.
The Hungry Fork hit a hangover home run with their classic greasy spoon food and presentation. To get on the waitlist, write your name in the notebook next to the door. Wait outside for an undisclosed amount of time (about 25 minutes for us) before getting yelled at to be ready. Get squeezed in at the bar unceremoniously and start knocking elbows. But once seated you can sit back with an Arnold Palmer or Bloody Mary and wait for your over-buttered toast, perfectly crisped bacon, crunchy-on-top, soft-on-bottom hashbrowns, and slightly oozing over medium eggs.
After late hours navigating dimly lit bars, the lights feel a bit too bright and harsh. With the the kitchen and wait staff yelling back-and-forth, causing everyone else to speak over each other, the atmosphere may seem like a mismatch for easing into your day. But that’s when you let the coffee refills and the bite of vodka from your Bloody Mary course through your veins, simultaneously awakening and relaxing you. Sit back and watch pounds of hashbrowns get doused in liquid butter, cooking in a single, unified log of potato over the flat top griddle. That’s when the brain fog burns off and it’s understood that in this moment, it is the only place you should be.
When you can’t be at the whims of unknown wait times though, waking up to Zoe’s Coffee & Tacos is an easy choice. The breakfast tacos, with bacon (or soyrizo), potato, egg, and cheese, wrapped in soft tortillas that meld to the insides, are compact hits of revitalization (but the Cali prices get you again at $6 a pop). They also have pupusas. Temple Coffee is also great, with their celebrated roasting. I know nothing about coffee other than it was mellow and good and didn’t taste like the burnt sadness of Starbucks.
I’d hit Zebra Bar earlier which was fine but unmemorable. Prior to that I checked out Karma Bar – I was lured in by the patio next to the Capitol grounds, but more $10 beers pushed me out. and Der Beirgarten was exclusively an outdoor spot that was lively, but unexceptional (but I did see my first genuinely attractive people here). I went back to East Sac to hit Club Raven, which did seem like a rowdy dive. But it’s a narrow shotgun set up, and a regular was having a birthday party there, complete with balloons and cake, so there was no space for me to operate.
My last night ended where they all did, the Round Corner. I ended up chatting with Erik a good while – an Englishmen from Manchester who was an architect, but for the last 5 years was living out of his car (our conversation never really connected those divergent lives). Sacramento provided all that he needed – mild winters yet easy access to good skiing, plus proximity to a major airport (San Francisco) to get back to England cheaply, as needed.
For the others living here, best I could tell, the draw of Sacramento is that you get the weather and liberal benefits of California, but without the flash and money of the coast. And thus, a shot at the American dream – owning a home where you can raise a family. Maybe the subdued culture and tempered expression was really just contentment of achieving that.
On arrival in Sacramento I had chatted up my driver Lana, a proud and very knowledgeable local. When I told her I hoped to uncover what Sacramento was all about and what others were overlooking, she replied matter-of-factly, “I don’t think you’ll find anything here. I’m a local, all locals just say there’s nothing here, it’s just a place.” I was shocked and dismayed, and eager to prove her wrong. All weekend that quote stuck with me.
But during that third and final night in town, I felt content to ease into my barstool at The Round Corner rather than put together a last-ditch effort to uncover another side of Sacramento. Lana’s voice plainly calling out her hometown played through my mind, and despite my resistance to it, as I ordered a beer, I knew at least for now, I couldn’t prove her wrong. Maybe Sacramento is just a place. But I think that’s how the Sac wants it — to set a low bar only to consistently exceed expectations.
Dang, you hit the mark. Bay Area native, current Sac resident here. This review is spot on.
Next time you're here, check out the Mapple Room Lounge, an old-fashioned dive in the middle of strip mall sprawl that didn't mind my trans friends' patronage.
And yes, my husband and I are here because it allowed us to buy a house, something impossible to do in my much-loved and much-missed home in the Bay Area. I suppose when the kids are grown, I'll look back on my Sac era fondly, but like parenting...there are some days I ask, how did I get here....lol.
Another great ramble through a place I've never considered going! :) Appreciate these so much, they provide much needed respite from my email drudgery.