By Deno Gellepes 

Let’s set the record straight – dive bars get a bad rap. 

To some, they’re dim, daunting slums where the ‘seedy’ crowd drowns out broken dreams. It’s the bar world’s version of switching from the Palazzo to Circus Circus after losing big in Vegas – or like getting Don Henley when all you wanted was Glenn Frey. 

But for some of us, dive bars possess undeniable charm and soul that no sleek cocktail lounge can match. They’re gritty, full of character and often more genuine than upscale bars that are trying too hard. So, let me introduce you to one of the finest dive bars I’ve ever stumbled upon: The Silver Spur, a place I’ve only visited once but haven’t stopped thinking about since. 

Whenever I go to dive bars, it’s usually at the end of a night out, or at least with a light buzz. But on my inaugural trek to the Silver Spur, I was stone-cold sober, just a solid lunch from Hole in the Wall Pizza keeping me grounded. 

It was a typical foggy afternoon in the Sunset District when I crossed Irving Street and neared the bar. Anxiety with a hint of adrenaline flowed through me that was only amplified by my unfamiliarity with the Silver Spur’s crowd and overall layout. The lack of alcohol probably didn’t help either. 

Peering through the fog, a rare pocket of bright sunshine spotlighted the entrance, illuminating the classic sign overhead. The glare obscured my view inside, yet the sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out onto the street was unmistakable. It was the uproarious laughter and joy of a packed house of daytime regulars. 

“Dive bars aren’t supposed to be this lively!” I thought to myself, tempted to bail. But echoing in the back of my mind were the familiar voices of Kruk and Kuip from the Giants broadcasts, reminding me that I was “On Assignment.” 

I stepped inside, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the long, narrow corridor that stretched ahead like an old train car. Every barstool was occupied above the maroon carpet worn from years of loyal footsteps. No open seats in sight and my anxiety level began to rise. 

Toward the back, an open door spilled more light inside. A patio, maybe? I followed the sun past the pool table and unisex bathroom, only to find myself standing in a small parking lot. A regular patron nearby explained they smoked cigarettes there, away from the crowded Irving Street. I understood and should have paid closer attention to the front sign: “Silver Spur, PARKING IN REAR.”

I was about to resign, “some heaven this is,” I muttered, as I stopped in to use the restroom before making my exit. As I flipped off the light to the bathroom and drifted toward the glimmer of the entrance, I saw somebody paying their tab about five stools inward. I pounced, sliding into the tight quarters and was immediately greeted by a sweet and welcoming bartender who took my beer order and put my mind at ease. Waiting for my drink to arrive, I took the place in from another angle. It was jam-packed at the bar. The lady next to me having an affair with her iPhone. Regulars playing dice huddled in one corner and the guys in the opposite corner giggling and downing scotch like they were twice-divorced and damn proud of it! 

A warm seat, a cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in hand, and “Domino” by Van Morrison spilling from the speakers – just like that, my fortunes shifted. I was floating now, riding what felt like a perpetual pink cloud, basking in the only sunlight that seemed to reach the western side of the City that day. 

The bartender couldn’t have been kinder. I was a local, but a first-timer at the bar, and she made sure I was always comfortable and included. She walked me through the popularity of certain beers on tap there (Sierra and the Lagunitas IPA are always solid go-to’s) and how the bar opens early to accommodate the construction workers, nurses and other emergency personnel who live and work in the area. From 7 a.m. to 2 a.m. (the next day) every day, the Silver Spur serves stiff cocktails along with beer and shot combos to keep the western side of the City’s engine running. 

With one bathroom and a packed bar, I braced for long, awkward lines. But to my surprise, the system ran like clockwork. No one hovered outside, waiting impatiently. It was as if these regulars instinctively knew each other’s bathroom schedules – a silent telepathy I’ve only seen in world-class rock bands! 

As I sipped my beer and chatted with the bartender, a voice exploded behind my left ear: “C’mon Gold Foot! Let’s go, baby, let’s GO! She’s gonna do it, C’mon Gold Foot! Hell yes! She’s done it! Gold Foot WINS!” 

I turned to see a man possessed: one who excitedly shouted and waved his horse racing program violently in the air and looked like a taller version of the late, great, David Crosby. He had khaki slacks with a navy blue blazer and somehow more stories than the weight of the gold jewelry that adorned his body. 

“Everyone gets a drink! On me!” he wailed before looking right at me from about a foot away, “Kid, what’ll it be?”

Before I could answer, he spun back around to the bartender, “Hun, get this kid another beer and add on a shot, whatever he wants, my tab.” 

I shook his hand and thanked him after ordering a shot of Jameson, and, we’ll call him, “Dave”, vigorously shook my hand like I was his long lost nephew. 

“Kid, today is my day and it’s only going to get better from here! You play the horses?” 

I told him no but that I went to “Dollar Days” at Golden Gate Fields (R.I.P.) once about 12 years ago, but was more interested in chugging the $1 beers and slamming hotdogs than taking the time to understand the betting odds. He shrugged with a slight smirk as if I’d blown a shot at a million dollars but knew immediately that my highest level of gambling was Fantasy Football with my buddies, and he was correct. 

Over the next hour or so, accompanied by multiple shots and beers, Dave told me everything about horse racing and gambling in general. He riffed on about the different tracks, the betting lines, the jockeys, you name it. He recounted all his big wins and never acknowledged the losses, as only a true gambler could. 

He went back and forth between the racing program, the TV showing the next race, and making quick-witted quips to anyone within earshot (whether they were listening or not). He moved swiftly across the barroom floor while hammering away at other patrons with the chops of Don Rickles! Occasionally he’d break the routine to down a shot of Jamison and then back to screaming at the TV during the races and calling the action, both what was happening and what should be happening in the race. This guy was holding court, and you could tell this wasn’t his first time doing it. By this time, many others had joined in to enjoy the show and kindly introduced themselves to me as regulars of the bar. 

After about four shots of Jamison from Dave (he refused to let anyone else buy a round) and another couple of beers, it was time to tap out as my mind was overloaded with odds and horse names like, “House Boat Blues,” “Damion’s Dagger,” “Pokies Paradise” and, my favorite, “Tumbling Dice.” 

I closed my tab and thanked Dave and the bartender for such a unique and thrilling experience and set out on my way. Although blue had turned to grey outside, the party was still raging inside and these folks, led by Dave, were just getting warmed up. 

Once the cold Pacific wind hit my body, it sent a chill down my spine like the one you get when you think you’ve just spotted your childhood idol in the street. Gone was the sun to light my way, and I was, in a way, now on my own. I zipped up my jacket and looked back to see the Silver Spur sign lit up and knew I’d just taken a cheap ride to heaven, and baby, I couldn’t wait to get back! 

Silver Spur is located at 1914 Irving St.

Deno Gellepes is a 14-year San Franciscan originally hailing from Chico, CA. He’s a sales professional at a leading tech company and has a passion for music, writing, and sports – especially as they pertain to the history of San Francisco. He spends his weekdays sounding like Rick Steves and his weekends like Mick Jagger. He can be reached at denogellwriting@gmail.com and followed via Instagram at @thegellstudio