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Herb agreed, and then suggested that the safest place to engineer the
changeover would be Bernstein's Fish Grotto, over on Powell street.

Now, I can't explain my astonishment perhaps, but, to my mind, if a
couple of plotters wanted to meet in secrecy somewhere in San Francisco,
the last place in the world that seemed sensible would have been Moe
Bernstein's seafood palace in the center of downtown San Francisco. This
place was a real, genuine San Francisco tourist trap. The restaurant
fronted on Powell Street a block or two north of the cable car turnaround
on Market Street. The front entrance of Bernstein's was built like a bow
of a ship, a kind of replica of Christopher Columbus's flagship Santa
Maria. And the tourist customers would come lurching up Powell Street
and enter the grotto through a couple of doors that were cut into the
galleon's bow, about where the anchor chain hawse holes ·are normally to
be found. Bernstein's was a popular tavern; the food was good.

Anyway, Herb and I did indeed keep our clandestine assignation at
Bernstein's, and, as I expected, this meeting was about as secret as a
World Series ball game. Moe Bernstein, the dapper proprietor, was
obviously excited and honored to have Herb Caen on his premises, and he
greeted Herb as if he were King Ferdinand himself coming on board to
inspect Columbus's flagship after he had discovered America. So much for
top secret negotiations. (However, Moe Bernstein wouldn't have known me
from the King of England . ) Herb and I started working out the future of
San Francisco journalism in the belly of Moe Bernstein's Grotto.

Herb had his Examiner contract with him, and gave it to me. Both
Herb and I knew instinctively that he would not--and absolutely could
not--make his change and come back to his home on the Chronicle simply
for the taste of money. Herb was ready to leave the Examiner because he
was homesick--it was as simple as that. However, I was still petrified
that something might go wrong with this grand undertaking, and I told
Herb we would match his salary, and that would also include a good
salary for his assistant, Jerry Bundsen.

You must remember that I was still thrilled with it all. I still
had not mentioned all this to anyone else--Ruth was up at Lake Tahoe with
the kids, and Charlie was also up at the Lake with his family at their
summer cottage. So , I told Herb that I would have Dolly copy his
Examiner contract exactly , simply substituting the word "Chronicle" for
"Examiner" and changing the dates . And at lunch I tried to press Herb as
to exactly when he would sign this magic new contract. I was still
somewhat nervous that somehow this projected Chronicle contract might
land in Charlie Mayer's lap and the Examiner might outbid us and the
whole affair could blow up.

I said, "Well, Herb, when can I pick up the contract?" And he
casually stated, "Hey, Scooter, what are you worried about? I'm coming
back. I'll just mail the contract to your home address," which was One
Hill Road, Berkeley 8 , California. So we slinked--or slank or slunk--out