were all significant of the time and place. It was Sunday night and the
place was Steve Sanguinetti's, with roisterers in full swing and every
table filled and dozens of patrons waiting along the walls ready to take
each seat as it was emptied. Here were young men and women just returned
from their various picnics across the Bay to their one great event of
the week--a Sunday dinner at Sanguinetti's.

Over in one corner of the stifling room, on a raised platform, sat two
oily and fat negroes, making the place hideous with their ribald songs
and the twanging of a guitar and banjo. When, a familiar air was sounded
the entire gathering joined in chorus, and when such tunes as "There'll
Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" came, the place was pandemonium.
Yet through it all perfect order was kept by the fat proprietor, his
muscular "bouncer" and two policemen stationed at the doors. Noise was
rather invited than frowned upon, and the only line drawn regarding
conduct was the throwing of bread. Probably Steve did not want it
wasted.

It was all free and easy and nobody took offense at anything said or
done. In fact if one were squeamish about such things Sanguinetti's was
no place for him or her. One found one's self talking and laughing with
the people about as if they were old friends. It made no difference how
you were dressed, nor how dignified you tried to be, it was all one with
the crowd around the tables. If you wished to stay there in comfort you
had to be one of them, and dignity had to be left outside or it would
make you so uncomfortable that you would carry it out, to an
accompaniment of laughter and jeers of the rest of the diners.

So far as eating was concerned that was not one of the considerations
when discussing Sanguinetti's. It was a table d'hote dinner served with