Between handbags and mannequins, the glass storefronts mirrored a confident old lady marching through the city. With my head held high, back stiff and straight, my wedged heels clicked forcefully on the pavement. I knew I looked self-assured because even the panhandlers gave me a wide berth—but underneath I felt like an idiot. Who traipses across San Francisco carrying a shiny foil-wrapped cake platter? And who would bring a chocolate cake studded with M&Ms to a trendy restaurant?      

I had not intended to walk to this dinner. My plan had been to take the subway into San Francisco, cut across Civic Center Plaza, then get an Uber for the couple of miles to Fillmore Street. But, as usual, technology eluded me and I couldn’t get the app to work; then I couldn’t find a cab anywhere. Frustrated, I gave up, dug out the scrap of paper with the directions, and started walking into the sinking sun of the shortest day of the year. 

It took me over an hour, trudging up and down hills, across an array of snazzy and derelict neighborhoods. By the time I reached the proper street corner, with sore arms and swollen ankles, the sun had disappeared. I could see no sign or indication whatsoever that there was a restaurant here, let alone a fancy one with the unappetizing name of State Bird Provisions. I double-checked the address, then noticed what appeared to be a line forming outside a small, nondescript door. I joined the queue feeling totally out of place in my tweed skirt and sports jacket among the distressed jeans and spiked heels of the expensive casual chic. The aluminum-foil-wrapped bundle did not help.