I grew up in North Beach from 1946 through the late ’50s. I was the oldest of three sons born to an immigrant family from Sicily, a few years before Carol Doda’s breasts became institutionalized at the Condor Club, titillating tourists with silicone implants and watered-down drinks, catty-corner from City Lights Booksellers & Publishers, still generating the restless rhythm of the Beats.

Every time I cross the Golden Gate Bridge to anywhere in San Francisco, like a salmon going back to its spawning ground, I can’t help but drive down Columbus Avenue through my beloved Italianita (Little Italy), recalling childhood memories, especially Christmas dinner with my family crowded around a table full of delizioso Italian food.