R.I.P., Silver Crest Donut Shop

And so it has finally closed, the portal to another dimension, the 24-hour purveyor of eggs and cigarettes and baked goods that claimed to be donuts, the David Lynch film come to life right here in San Francisco.

I’m talking, of course, about Silver Crest, the donut shop on Bayshore Boulevard that improbably stayed open for over 50 years, becoming a San Francisco institution. Along the way, it also became a restaurant and bar, a hangout for drunks, a set for photoshoots and at least one music video, and a late-night “Heyyy, you wanna see something really weird?” double-dare for area teenagers.

As the San Francisco Chronicle reports, Silver Crest was boarded up Monday, seemingly for good. My immediate reaction was conflicting feelings of shock that such an institution could ever close and wonder that it lasted so long.

You see, I actually went to Silver Crest, at least when I was in the area. I never ventured into the bar in the back, but I regularly sidled up and bought a donut to go. Like the Old Clam House just down the boulevard, it seemed like a place that deserved support while it was around, instead of mourned when it was gone.

If you also went to Silver Crest, you already know the ambiance. A fading menu, posted above a formica lunch counter with fixed seats. Usually empty. “CASH ONLY” signs. Countertop jukeboxes that didn’t work. Five wooden 1950s pinball machines against the wall that amazingly did work.

And to the left, tended to by an older woman who’d eventually emerge from the bar area: a cash register, a row of cigarettes, a sad houseplant, and a display case of donuts.

Were they donuts, though? Those five-inch-diameter puffs of dry bread, topped with a tart glaze that only made them taste weirder?

Just last week, on the way back from SFO, I suggested to my wife that we stop at Silver Crest. “I don’t like donuts,” she said. “You know that.”

“Oh, but these are not really donuts,” I replied. “In fact, I’m not even sure if Silver Crest is a real place that exists on this Earth.”

I couldn’t talk her into it, the way I talked other friends into visiting Silver Crest with me, always late at night. The owners, George and Nina Giavris, routinely said in interviews that they lost the front door key years ago. The neon sign out front still boasts — at least until someone steals it — “WE NEVER CLOSE.”

Well, Silver Crest finally closed. It may not have been as popular as Tommy’s Joynt, or as enduring as Red’s Java House. But it did feel like a misunderstood runt of that particular family, and San Francisco will be a little less surreal without it.