Avoiding the Cops and Running a Speakeasy in San Francisco Bay

The call comes five days before.

"Hi, Lauren. This is Eugene. I'm calling on behalf of Wes Rowe. I want to invite you to this little… shindig we have planned."

There aren't many more details than that. Arrive at Treasure Island, the man-made, former military base located between San Francisco and Oakland and straddled by the Bay Bridge. Meet at the churro stand at 7 PM sharp. Do not, under any circumstances, be late.

This as close as you get to a ticket to the Signal Room, an old wooden tower perched atop Yerba Buena Island (the natural, hilly landmass from which Treasure Island extends), temporarily transformed into a speakeasy-cum-clubhouse but destined to be demolished in about a month's time. Intrigue is the name of the game. And for one night in February, dinner will be served.

First, however, you'll have to hike across Yerba Buena Island. Scramble up a hill covered in poison oak. Cross a road under spotlights two by two and hope that the authorities don't spot you. Clamber up a ladder through a doorway covered with a sloppily nailed piece of plywood. Up multiple flights of stairs in the dark, until you find yourself in a room with the most unbelievable panoramic view of the Bay. You'll find, after all of this, that you're starving. You're also overwhelmed that a thing like this still exists in San Francisco, a place that's derided for its disappearing sense of wonder, art, and mystery in the face of shiny, tech-funded skyscrapers.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. When I first receive this phone call, I know next to nothing about what I'm in for. This is half the point for the aforementioned Eugene Ashton-Gonzalez, whose connection to the Signal Room stretches back to the beginning of 2015. Mystery, the romance of the forbidden, and the lore of pickpockets and con artists is what drives the self-described storyteller and "experience-creator."

Ashton-Gonzalez was born and raised in the Bay Area, and had recently moved back from New York when he stumbled across the tower. He had been working as a stand-up comedian; participating in rogue pop-ups (like the Night Heron Speakeasy, a sort-of bar that ran for seven weeks in an abandoned water tower in Chelsea) and hoping to do the same in San Francisco.

"I spent about 45 minutes getting into the building with a multipurpose tool," he says of this first discovery. "I got to the top and was… overwhelmed. Of course, I was also a little terrified once I learned that there was a Coast Guard station right there."

Trepidation aside, Ashton-Gonzalez knew he'd found the spot for his own San Francisco underground party. He spent about four months getting over to (and in) the tower, ripping out the moldy carpet, rebuilding the bar. He tarred the roof during San Francisco's Fleet Week (an annual display of military might featuring the aerial acrobatics of the Blue Angels), when he correctly assumed that the Coast Guard would be a little busy. F18s flew overhead as he and members of San Francisco's longstanding avant garde artist community worked in the sun. They also helped him drag two pianos up the dark, dusty staircase.

But something Ashton-Gonzalez hadn't counted on, other than run-of-the-mill avoidance of authority, was the fact that Yerba Buena Island had been slated for redevelopment, and everything, including the tower, was scheduled to be razed to the ground.

What's more, residents of Yerba Buena Island—many of whom depended on the island's accessible, affordable housing—were being relocated.

This project is rife with political issues and subtleties. In addition to stirring a new sense of purpose with his parties, Ashton-Gonzalez now had to come up with significantly more convincing excuses as to why he was on the island, in the dark, often with ten to 20 other people in tow.

"I've been 'caught' ten times, but have talked my way out of all of them—including one night when we got stopped three times," he says cavalierly. We're talking nuts and bolts about a week after the event I attended, sitting, appropriately, in a sort-of secret garden (requiring a passcode to enter) in the Mission. Ashton-Gonzalez is wearing a feathered fedora, making his Orson Welles-like delivery of his exploits all the more effective.

"Tell them a story they want to hear," he says. Or: don't give them a reason to get you in trouble. So far, he's accomplished this with a couple of increasingly curated "personalities" and a sense of whom he's talking to. If he runs into the Coast Guard, he says he's an agent from the development agency. If he runs into the private security guards, he claims he's a member of the Coast Guard (helped by a vintage, costume naval jacket and an earpiece, used in conjunction with the two-way radios he and his fellow party-throwers use).

These personas, and continued honing of the route from the pickup spot by the churro stand, doesn't necessarily mean that things will run smoothly—particularly when undertaking a dinner party for the first time.

Gonzalez-Ashton has thrown about 30 parties in the tower. Most have involved some kind of performance: spoken word, piano performances, or similar. All have included some drinks, usually BYOB. Occasionally, there would be snacks. But he had never undertaken a full meal, in part because it all seemed like too much in addition to leading a group of newbies up a hill in the dark. What's more, the space hadn't been sanitary enough for him to feel comfortable doing it in the first few months.

But Ashton-Gonzalez started to think that it might be possible after inviting Wes Rowe to a party late in 2015. Rowe arrived with a party-sized portion of rich, still-hot spiked cider on his back. And he'd been late. And he'd avoided the cops, all while crawling through the bushes in the rain.

"I'd definitely say that I found something of a kindred spirit in Wes," Ashton-Gonzalez says.

Rowe acknowledges that Ashton-Gonzalez seemed, "a little impressed" by this "big-ass thing of cider" he'd hauled up the hill. "He basically said [that] if I ever wanted to co-produce an event, that he was open to that idea." Rowe was similarly impressed when he attended a second time (this time with a large amount of boozy hot chocolate), and saw Ashton-Gonzalez talk their group of 20 past a couple of cops. A partnership was on.

For Rowe, any event with his involvement would need to be food-centric. The Texan-born food photographer and chef has made a name for himself in San Francisco with his weekly "WesBurger" pop-ups—so much so that he's opening a brick-and-mortar restaurant this month. His food, which ranges from Velveeta-based queso to meticulously smoked brisket, is a tasty balance of nostalgic Americana with creative cultural influences (e.g. Korean burgers topped with kimchi and bulgogi bacon).

The Signal Room's location involved a fair number of logistical challenges. All of the food would have to be prepped in advance; there was no way to safely set up any kind of open flame in the tower. Any kind of outside cooking would draw attention. All of the prepped food, and equipment from which to serve it, would have to be hauled up the stairs. Guests would be eating in the dark, more or less, with limited seating.

For whatever reason, this all led Rowe to the idea of a Mediterranean-esque spread; smoked lamb shawarma pita, saffron rice, a variety of salads and pickles, plus hummus, tzatziki, and harissa. The lamb was smoked for four hours and quickly stashed in an insulated cooler to keep it warm. The sauces were prepped and sealed for easy serving. Rowe and his chef de cuisine rented a car, planning to drive up to the tower and haul everything up with an hour or so to spare.

Of course, things didn't go quite as planned. Local brewery Almanac Beer Company was set to donate large-format bottles of their new beers to the event, but the brewer got sick and wasn't able to make it. This meant Rowe had to turn around, pick up the beer, and head to the island in rush-hour traffic. He arrived at 6:30 PM, only to find that there was no ice. He threw the car keys to Ashton-Gonzalez to drive down to a small convenience store on Treasure Island (right near our meeting point), while Rowe began hauling everything up the stairs.

The dinner party was quickly taking on the appearance of a caper flick. Ashton-Gonzalez was already in his sort-of Coast Guard uniform, racing down the roads of Yerba Buena Island to Treasure Island. He ran into a friend who was attending the evening's party, and borrowed a $20 bill off of her date. The ice was located in a cooler filled with fish.

"I'm dressed like a crazy sailor guy, smelling like fish!" he says, laughing. "I drive back up the hill, throw the ice in the foyer, and sprint back down the hill to meet you all. And I arrived… right at 7."

That's where I come in. Unaware of the chaos preceding us, I'm waiting by the churro stand, eating a little pre-dinner snack (they're cream-filled, and delicious), sipping whiskey from a flask. Strangers have begun talking, recognizing that we're all probably here for the same reason. When Ashton-Gonzalez arrives, the energy is high—his jacket and beat-up attache case lead to giggles and whispered speculations (the case is for our cell phones, as there will be no Instagrams of the Signal Room). This is when we begin our journey up hills, across beaches, and up the ladder.

The moment of arrival can only be described as surreal. It's an unseasonably warm February night, and we're all sweating as we climb the stairs; as we ascend, piano music filters down (courtesy of local performer, Kitten on the Keys, who plays the score from Twin Peaks, in case this wasn't weird enough). We're greeted by Rowe and his crew who are remarkably collected, considering they'd finished setting up about five minutes before our arrival.

I'm handed a cold beer; the room is rich with the smell of smoked lamb. And after some words from Ashton-Gonzalez and Rowe, we feast, sitting on the floor, talking to each other while we eat with our hands and exclaim over, well, everything. Maybe it's the harissa, but the Mediterranean food makes sense—it feels like we're a bedouin tribe, on the outskirts of the familiar, sitting around low tables and singing David Bowie along with the Kitten. We're some kind of tribe, anyway.

Ashton-Gonzalez takes a chance during the lull in our chatter to tell us about the tower, and the upcoming plans to demolish it. This is an essential part of these parties for him now.

"We forget that speakeasies were a response to an unpopular political situation," he says. "I started this to be a fun secret clubhouse, but now, people who come and get it are advocates, too." He's been in talks with artists, architects, and historical societies in the hopes of rallying them, and us, to "hold on to the heart of our city."

Rowe appreciates Ashton-Gonzalez's drive, but advocacy isn't his jam in this instance. He's just glad he got to be a part of this, even if it's fleeting.

"I mean, we got to do that, to be there," he says. "That's something in and of itself."