The California Club of San Francisco by Bradley A. Evans

I landed in San Francisco around two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. I picked up my rental, a candy cane colored Fiat, and did my pre-city road trip through the backcountry of Silicon Valley. My acclimatization to northern California starts southbound on State Route 35, also known as Skyline Boulevard, through the Santa Cruz Mountains. The ascent snakes up bulbous hills in every shade of green, valleys ripple into infinity, and
views of the Pacific Ocean emerged as you travel along its spine. Eventually, you descend into a velvety forest of ancient redwoods where rays of sunshine slice through conifers and the air is dewy sweet – Northern California is entering the capillaries.

I stop at Skywood Trading Post, as I always do, for a Coke and sandwich. Even though you’re a few miles from the homes of Steve Jobs and Charles Schwab, you’d never know it. You’re just as close to Apple Jacks in La Honda as you are to Larry Ellison’s $200,000,000 Japanese feudal castle.

I love everything La Honda; from being a central part of 60s counterculture to how it’s hidden beneath the canopy of Sequoias. Ken Keasey and his Merry Pranksters lived a mile from Apple Jacks, as did Hunter Thompson, Allen Ginsberg, and Neil Young. A bunch of Hell’s Anglers called La Honda home too. The trouble-making beatnik in me gets woken up in this neck of the woods.

If you’re into dives, it’s hard to beat Apple Jacks. Housed in a 140-year-old cabin that appears to have grown into the forest, Apple Jacks is the archetypal tavern. If it were a man, it’d be a crotchety old logger; rough around the edges and not ashamed of its black eye. They have (and I quote), “A no-frills beer and liquor selection that is meant to get you drunk, not expand your flavor palette.” If Vesuvio’s is mecca north when it comes to dives, Apple Jacks is mecca south.

After a beer or two, I head west on Route 84 through a bucolic landscape of elevated farms that descend into the Pacific like a curved staircase. This is when I’m fully acclimated; my lungs are cleansed with ocean air, my blood pressure is sub 120/80, and I have Alfred E. Newmans, “What, me worry?” look on my face. Do you see why I can’t drive straight from SFO to the city?

After a walk on San Gregorio Beach, I head north on the Pacific Coast Highway for a cigar on the 18th green at the Half Moon Bay Ritz-Carlton. This is, without a doubt, one of the best places in our country to enjoy a cigar.

On this particular trip, I played the Ocean Course at Half Moon Bay before meeting friends for brunch in the city. If you’re looking for majestic views of the ocean at a fraction of Pebble Beach tee times, try this links-style course at The Ritz. It gets some flak for being architecturally uninspiring, but it’s a hell of a track for the average golfer.

Afterward, I buzzed up to Eats in the Richmond District, where the gentleman who sat across from me played on the PGA Tour. We hit it off from the start. As we were wrapping up, he said, “Let’s get 18 in at the Cal Club next time you’re in town.” Cha-Ching! It happened just like that. I replied, “I’m the kind of guy who takes people up on these offers.”

Two months later I landed at SFO, did the same mini road trip, and spent the evening drinking Anchor Steams (RIP) at Vesuvio’s after another round at Half Moon Bay. I swung by the Grateful Dead house in the Haight-Ashbury the following morning (another quirky thing I do when I’m in San Francisco) before crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to visit a haberdasher in Sausalito. Being a former Man of the Cloth, I get a kick out of guys in the clothing trade.

I met Tom Gangitano of Gene Hiller Menswear the previous day on the practice putting green. His shop is impeccably curated and inviting He asked where I was off to as I was leaving. I said, “The Cal Club.” A mischievous grin came upon his face as his head nodded, “You’re gonna have one hell of a time.”

Pulling up to the Cal Club has all the hallmarks of a great club ingress; subtle brick pillars with club logos flank the gate, Monterey cypresses line the driveway (picture bonsai trees on stilts), and the first fairway is teasingly on display. All the while, San Bruno Mountain is in your rearview mirror; a 360-degree blitzkrieg on the senses.

The Facts:
 Year Founded: 1918
 Architect: A.V. Macan, 1926. Alister MacKenzie, 1928. Kyle Phillips, 2007.
 Slope: Venturi Tees 74.7/135
 Ranking: 27th in the U.S.

Approaching the clubhouse is as exciting as it is intimidating (for an out-of-towner). Part Neoclassical with Federal elements, it’s an architectural gem with a commanding presence. You’re instantly aware you’ve entered a golf club – nothing leads you to believe tennis courts or some lawyer’s brat kids are lurking around the corner.

I walked in the front door to what reminded me of a gilded age mansion during the off-season; massive, historic, and classically unoccupied. Furniture, though sparse, was unpretentious and handsome. Weathered trophy cases hold artifacts that require a century’s worth of history to acquire. Hand-painted maps of northern California reside above stately fireplaces, arched windows line long hallways, and an ornately decorated ballroom sat aristocratically empty. I felt like I was in a 19th-century bachelor pad for robber barons.

I roamed around from one room to the next, acutely aware I wasn’t in a country club. There’s something oddly romantic about the timelessness of a historic clubhouse. I walked up a staircase to a hallway of bedrooms; nothing fancy, just simple accommodations for members and their overnight guests.

I eventually ran into a member who offered me a drink (this would happen MANY times) before taking me to the locker room to meet my host. If you know anything about the Cal Club, it’s probably its reputation for being the friendliest golf club in the country.  Let me assure you, it’s true.  I have never had so much fun at a club in all my life, but that’s for later.

The locker room is exactly what you want in a golf club. There are no televisions, exposed pipes run along the ceiling, and a gentle whisper comes from communal tables that good times are in store. There isn’t even a restaurant – only a crackerjack of a bartender who’s been there for decades.

There are no tee times, no golf carts, and shorts are not allowed. Pin flags and bunker rakes are made of wood. As I said earlier, this is a real golf club. My kind of place. Teeing off on one is not for the faint of heart. It’s the proverbial stoop of the club – everyone is hanging out, bullshittin’, and laughing, like the front lawn of a fraternity house on game day. If it wasn’t Merion-esqe enough, the members generally range from scratch to single digit handicaps. As a perennial duffer, I was dreading the peanut gallery, but the golf gods had mercy on me as I went 275 straight down the fairway.  My luck would soon run out.

I got off to a hot start when I parred one and Mr. PGA bogeyed it. My host was club champ three years running; this was the only time I’d outshoot him. He administered an ass-kicking of Biblical proportions, but he did it with class – Cal Club is a gentlemen’s club.

Walking the course is like moseying through the ideal neighborhood where you get to pick your neighbors. The members not only say hi to one another, but they stop and chat. No one is in a hurry. I was blown away by the friendliness and fellowship; like a college reunion that plays out daily over eighteen gorgeous holes.

As usual, I won’t do a hole-by-hole analysis, but I will pick my favorites. Before I do, I have to say this is a damn near impossible task. The Cal Club is one spectacular hole after another. Keep in mind, I played on a foggy day, so I didn’t see the world-class views. This is based purely on golf and not aesthetics.

Par 3 – #16. Elevated 133 yarder that contends with wind and resembles #12 at Augusta National, but with more bunkers and city views in lieu of pine trees and azaleas. I could set up a lawn chair, bring several buckets of balls, and spend the day there.

Par 4 – #7. Big time risk/reward dogleg right that plays over a canyon. I shanked the hell out of it but was assured another gent from the South did the same thing a week earlier – Bo Jackson.

Par 5 – #15. If you’ve played here, you’d probably pick 17, and you’d be right too, but I’m more into the experience of a club than just the course, and 15 is where a comedy troupe emerged out of nowhere. As we approached the tee box, a gang of old-timers meandered over and proceeded to take shit talking and dirty jokes to another level. Most of them didn’t even have clubs. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t tee off.

The course is as good as it gets. The front nine and back nine are like playing two different tracks. You’ll use every club in your bag and love every minute of it. It’s a thinking man’s course; classic golden age design.

I measure a course these days by how many shots I can remember a year or two later. Similar to Seminole, I remember every shot I took at the Cal Club. Each hole is memorable. My only regret is we didn’t play on a sunny day.

The pro shop is a classic, no-frills affair – sort of like Apple Jacks.  It has a laid back, unpretentious feeling to it.  The Cal Club logo is one of the best out there, but it’s a bit inconspicuous, and that’s part of the appeal.  How they’ve kept under the radar for so many years is a mystery to me.  That said, they’re ranked squarely between Somerset Hills and Garden City (and four spots behind SFGC).

We finished in just over four hours, but we could’ve shaved thirty minutes off if we weren’t jawing with everyone. My host had to jet, so I sat down with two gentlemen who we ran into on the back nine and played with.  One beer led to two – two to three – you get the idea.  After three hours I was about to leave, but from somewhere in the back I heard, “Hey there, what’s the rush? Come have a drink at our table.” Trying to leave the Cal Club locker room is a formidable task.  You can try, but you’re not going to succeed.

One invitation led to two – two to three – you get the idea. The first time I looked at my watch it was midnight (keep in mind I teed off at ten in the morning). The second time it was 3:00 am with a group of guys about to board a G5 for a morning round at Shadow Creek.

Golf comes first and foremost, but there’s a rare philosophical component that permeates throughout the club; one of inclusion, intellectual curiosity, and the abandonment of ego. I’ve never felt so welcomed and genuinely appreciated for who I am. Conversations were deep and intimate. We bounced between course architecture at Bel Air Country Club to the grittiness of Cormac McCarthy. Members wanted to know about my brother’s death as much as the beauty of Peachtree Golf Club. There’s also an abundance of joy and laughter; a sense of humor is just as important as a love for the game.

The Cal Club is the club that every golfer wishes existed, and for the fortunate few who get to experience it, they’re embraced with the warmth of an autumn campfire, the fellowship of gentlemen, and an escape from all their worries.

Contributor Bradley Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. He lives in New York City and is the founder of The Bohemian Capitalist. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.