Inside the Tasteless Private Clubhouse San Franciscans Love to Hate
There was a valet stationed outside The Battery on Sunday night. Even for private clubhouse with a $2,400 annual fee, this seemed superfluous. San Francisco’s Financial District turns into a ghost town after 6 p.m…
The valet, who wasn’t there during my epic quest for power, must have appeared after sunset so that members of The Battery could pay $15 to $40 to avoid opening one of San Francisco’s myriad parking apps. Valet parking: the analog convenience economy.
Inside, the club was equally as barren as the rest of Jackson Square. It smelled acrid, like synthetic varnish and trying too hard.
A source had warned me about Ken Fulk, creative director at The Battery—a peacock of a designer who struts between the city’s nouveau tech riche and the families behind the hedgerow. “He’s the darling of old, white Pacific Heights and total nerds who don’t know any better. In three years, they’ll get the memo about terrariums.” (It’s true. No one here seems aware that terrariums are over, even the sleek scenesters at Sightglass Coffee. But mini plant worlds are nice to look at, so no harm, no foul.)
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