Credit: Courtesy of Wildhawk
Regional food and drink trails are a fine way to entice visitors to a destination. There’s a pie trail in Arkansas, a mayonnaise trail in South Carolina, and a Sonoran Dog Trail in Arizona. I’ve written about beer trails and bourbon trails and eaten along a tamale trail in Mississippi. And there may be nothing more brilliant than the San Francisco Travel Association’s Martini Trail, launched in 2025 as “a curated journey highlighting 23 standout Martinis and local establishments in the City by the Bay.”
It felt as if my name was called down from the heavens to do what I do best: drink cold Martinis. When inquiring about the genius behind this idea, I was told by Anna Marie Presutti, San Francisco Travel Association’s president and CEO, that they created the trail as a celebration of the city’s deep connection to the Martini and as a way to spotlight San Francisco’s ever-evolving bar scene.
“From the neighborhoods that shaped its legacy to the innovators redefining it today, this is where the Martini found its swagger — and where it continues to be reinvented.” Presutti added that it’s equally important that the trail highlight local establishments and small businesses.
San Francisco is one of the handful of places that lay claim to inventing the Martini. As it goes, the city was a booming port keen to welcome an influx of miners in the 1850s and ‘60s and the Occidental Hotel bartender, to whom I’m forever indebted, mixed up gin, vermouth, bitters, and maraschino for a drink dubbed the “Martinez,” paying homage to the miners’ destination.
I took my husband along for this journey to my college city, because he’s even better at drinking Martinis than I am, and if we were going to tick a solid number of drinks off the Martini Trail list, I’d need an extra mouth in the name of journalism.
We start at the Starlite, inside the gloriously refurbished Beacon Grand Hotel, which serves as an outstanding home base for the trail. The Starlite is pure glamour and a better place to start your evening, than say, end it as you don’t want to forget a single detail. I sip the Dirty 90s Martini, made with vodka that is infused with extra virgin olive oil, olive brine vermouth, blue cheese olives, and a salted lemon rind. As a gin purist, I strayed for this drink because it is a signature of the establishment and most importantly, because it comes with a sidecar that waits patiently on ice until I’m ready for a refill. Not only is the Martini top notch, but the views while you sip are spectacular.
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Continuing the historic route, Tadich Grill fits the bill, perfect for a group of friends in one of the private booths, far from any judgement of how many Martinis can be held on one tray. Here, the drink is served exactly as it should be in a place that’s been open since 1849. No frills or fuss, no fancy glass — and expertly made by a bartender whose first rodeo this is not.
The evening of day two begins at Bix, a swanky supper club with live piano music that makes you feel like you’re sipping your Gibson in a place where there should be no other option for a drink. For a piano experience that feels more lively than luxe, the next stop must be Martuni’s, which my friend best described as a karaoke cabaret and the ideal place for an espresso version to keep the party going. The 150 or so patrons drinking nothing but beverages out of large v-shaped vessels confirm the decision. Dinnertime calls for an excuse to knock one more off the list at True Laurel, which offers a more modern vibe and Martinis that come in a dainty glass with garnishes as attractive as the people eating and drinking here.
If the body is made with 50-60% water, mine feels as if it has been swapped with gin by day three. I imagine my head to be growing into the shape of a coupe, with olives for eyeballs. But we press on, hitting Absinthe for a happy hour, where my husband has his favorite Martini thus far, and while I love that mine is petite, and the Plymouth is delightfully cold and perfectly wet, I bemoan the lack of back on the barstool because this is the person I have become. A quick Lyft later, the Balboa Cafe presents as the perfect place for Martinis as big as all the babies’ heads who are seated around us. Their young parents are also drinking Martinis, each drink stirred in a metal shaker, ice skating on the top.
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The night — and trip — ends at Brazen Head, a delightfully dark and moody restaurant in Cow Hollow with a version of the Martini that’s as classic as they come. We order ours with a burger and feel as if we are part of some secret club — one that would have a mile-long wait around the block in New York City but seems to be nothing more than a classy local’s joint in San Francisco. When I search my notes app to report on the beverage, I find nothing more than aggressive caps: “I WANNA LIVE IN THIS PLACE THIS DRINK IS BETTER THAN WATER!!! SHOULD WE MOVE BACK TO CALIFORNIA???”
As I sit down to write this, I wonder what all of these places have in common. It’s not the shape of the glass (though that is highly debatable), the style of drink, or even the price. To me, each bar or restaurant is the exact sort of place where you’d want to have nothing else in the world but a perfectly made Martini. In a city of cars being driven by ghosts, the chance to sip an iconic cocktail in a space with interesting people might just be the most innovative idea in the world.
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