Many an artist and writer has long struggled to capture the essence of San Francisco in an image, an outcry, or a few well-formulated words. They should have been shopping for weed instead.
Some people swear by Geary Boulevard or Market Street for the title of our most emblematic thoroughfare, but I think it's Mission Street. It's all there: High and low, rich and poor, old and new—with all the frisson and friction that competing for space in uncertain times and on unequal terms creates.
As it happens, almost a third of the city's 30 (and counting) marijuana outlets are located along the path of the 14-Mission bus. Starting on the city's southern rim and working my way north, I found a weed club for all walks of life in 2017 San Francisco, from the blue-collar worker, forearms tattooed with "415" in gothic script, to the patron of the $12 toast.
(via Culture Magazine)
If you know anyone who calls the city Frisco without a shred of irony, they probably buy their weed at Cookies SF (5234 Mission).
Pac Heights and Marina types will feel out of place: Next door to a T-shirt shop selling faux street signs for "Hunters Point" and "Excelsior," you pass your driver's license and medical recommendation through metal security bars spray-painted black to a towering jacketed security guard with dreadlocks.
This is the home of the cannabis-friendly San Francisco cultural export in-the-know millennial stoners from coast to coast know all about: The "Cookies fam" stable of cannabis genetics. The most-hyped strains in the game: Gelato, Sunset Sherbet, Zkittlez, and the ubiquitous Girl Scout Cookies, marketed to the nines by Berner, a Fillmore District-raised rapper, clothing entrepreneur, former budtender and, his lyrics claim, major figure in the weed-slinging game.
The dispensary is friendlier today than the last time I was here. Mercifully, there isn't a security guard barking at me today to stand two feet this way, then three feet that way while in line, but the black walls, floors and ceilings still make me feel like I'm in one of the underground gambling clubs further up Mission. The menu, broadcast on plasma TVs hung behind the bud bar, is almost all indica-dominant strains, the kind to put you and your crew on your asses before the evening fog can roll in.
The young hapa gentleman with close-cropped hair is curt but cordial as I ask to see the few sativa-dominant strains on the menu, and is forthright when I start my fastidious white-person routine and ask about pesticide and terpene testing. "We just test for THC, really. Not many people ask," he says. Indeed: Among the dozens of strains, there isn't a sign of CBD to be found at Cookies. And not a scrap of bammer weed. Big, bold and brash like a lowrider, Cookies is about unapologetically getting lit and impressing your boys.