Why California’s Bay Area is America’s natural wine hub

“You can’t beat a good sandwich on a Sunday afternoon,” Dennis Cantwell says as I squeeze a mortadella-filled hoagie roll, trying to compress it into something my mouth can negotiate. “The wine helps too, of course,” he adds, flashing a grin from beneath a baseball cap, pulled low over long hair. He pours another glug of skin-contact wine — made from white grape juice fermented without removing the skins — and I watch as the amber liquid swirls in the glass. 

Alongside his wife Monica, Dennis is co-owner of Palm City Wines, a laid-back natural wine bar and hoagie joint in Sunset District, San Francisco’s westernmost neighbourhood, where the skyscrapers of the inner city soften into low-rise homes. It opened during the pandemic as a takeaway, but it’s since turned into an eat-in magnet for locals and visitors alike, who come for the pairing of low-intervention labels with hefty Italian-American sandwiches. 

We’re sitting at a large table, beneath shelves lined with bottles. I bite into the hoagie: the cold cuts are pillowy, while the rocket is fresh and crunchy; a smear of nduja sauce cuts through with a warm kick. It’s wrapped so tightly that the loaf coils in on itself, pressing the mortadella into a spiral. Meanwhile, the unfiltered wine is Vini Jabroni, Palm City’s own label, produced in collaboration with nearby Les Lunes Winery. It’s slightly cloudy, and unfussy in a way that mirrors the sandwich: it’s far better enjoyed than analysed. 

This sort of pairing might raise eyebrows in traditional circles, but in California’s second city, it feels entirely — and literally — natural. Since the 1950s, San Francisco has been a bastion of counterculture, acting as a haven for Beat writers, hippie activists and queer communities. Natural wine makes sense here because it’s the product of another counterculture. First emerging in the Beaujolais region of France in the 1960s, it’s the result of anti-conventional farming, made with no or little chemical additives and fermented with the grapes’ own yeast.

It’s this yeast that’s responsible for its reputation as being almost barnyardy in flavour. Like a pungent cheese, it’s much more of an acquired taste than your conventional bottle. Yet, for the past decade in San Francisco, it’s been at the heart of refreshingly unassuming pairings.

The reason has less to do with trends and far more with community. The Bay Area, the surrounding coastal region of the north of the state, includes the powerhouse vineyards of Napa and Sonoma, lending it a familiarity with wine. Yet, unlike the polished tasting-room circuit of Napa, the wine scene of San Francisco plays out primarily in neighbourhood joints, shaped by a preference for organic produce and farm-to-table habits.

Not demanding white tablecloths or a sommelier’s approval, natural wine here can show up practically anywhere. You’ll find it accompanying pizzas, tinned sardines or indeed hoagies, at poetry readings, live DJ sets or large bar tables made for lingering. 

By the people, for the people

When it comes to natural wine, there have been many pioneers across the Bay Area. But ask around for its local origins and most fingers inevitably point to Oakland, San Francisco’s neighbour across the bay, and Ordinaire, a natural wine bar that opened in 2013. The next day, I join founder Bradford Taylor, a literature graduate with a gentle voice, on a mezzanine overlooking the main floor, where guests are busy quizzing staff on producers and vintages.

When he opened the space, he tells me, he hoped to bring the people-first spirit of Parisian caves à vin (wine cellars) to California. “I wanted to replicate that regional focus, where the caviste [who works in the cellar] has a connection with the producers,” he says. For his team, that meant spotlighting small-scale, independent farmers, who often champion organic practices. “When we first opened, we were an ‘all things for all people’ place. Over time, we moved to hardcore natural wine.” 

We head into the small cellar upstairs, where crates are piled on the floor and shelves burst with wines. Bradford pulls down a bottle of La Lunotte Les Rossignoux by Christophe Foucher and pours the chamomile-yellow sauvignon blanc into my stubby glass. It’s fresh and acidic, with flashes of tropical fruit and a tang of unmistakable natural sharpness.

Downstairs, warm light washes through the industrial space, where more wine bottles fill floor-to-ceiling shelves and become as much a part of the decor as they are the inventory. Visitors are dining on French cold cuts and bar snacks — though tonight, a few are here for a pop-up from chef duo Two Bellies, who are serving a menu of brothy clams and oeufs mayo. Each bite is accompanied by more questions to the staff. “People here have a long tradition of curiosity,” Bradford says, “and the politics of natural wine resonate with them.” 

I drive north through Berkeley, home to Chez Panisse, which opened in 1971 as America’s first farm-to-table cafe, moulding California’s approach to seasonal, local food. My destination is El Cerrito, a hilly district where dining is relaxed and spontaneous. I’m here for Banter Wine, a bar opened in 2023 by former Chez Panisse staff Devin Hohler and Claire Sullivan. 

The couple first envisioned a wine bar during the pandemic, craving the sort of gathering space and casual hangouts that felt so far removed. Today, Banter feels like the living room of a creative friend with a fondness for the 1980s. Small Panasonic box TVs play grainy films on mute. Shelves are stacked with VHS tapes, the edges lined with Polaroids. Neon tie-dye mufflers hang from the ceiling, and shroom-patterned wallpaper lends a distinctly Californian, slightly psychedelic aesthetic.

At the counter, Devin, sporting a moustache and sharp undercut, is pouring a glass of wine for a gentleman in his seventies. Beyond him, a group of middle-aged hipsters sample dishes from pop-up duo Rucolina — delicate squash tartine and braised Wagyu with red wine jus.

El Cerrito isn’t wine-bar central, and Banter isn’t located on a street with much foot traffic. People don’t just stumble in — they come deliberately. As Devin steps away to flip a record, hitting the fade perfectly, I sip a glass of a 2019 barrel-aged Stagiaire, a silky red made from carignan grapes. “We prefer wines that are natural but not ‘natty’,” he explains, using the slang for the natural wine movement. Still organic, still low-intervention, but “nothing too funky, nothing too out there”. It’s cleaner on the palate, and welcoming — just like the bar itself.

Waste not, want not

That evening, I head back to San Francisco for dinner. Local friends have pointed me towards Shuggie’s, a Mission District favourite with a no-waste mission. 

I walk in expecting the usual wine bar outfit — bare wooden chairs, dripping white candles, maybe a rustic oven glowing in the back. Instead, I’m met with a carnival of colour. The dining room is drenched in green, with Hulk-hand-shaped seats, sculptural furniture and abstract wall art. The open-kitchen room glows in oranges and yellows. Everything is upcycled, vintage or DIY.

Once known as Shuggie’s Trash Pie, the restaurant began in 2022 as a pizza-only project. Last summer, it started offering a full menu built around food-waste reduction — paired with live jazz. It’s Sunday, and tables are piled with tray pizzas and salads. There are vegan feta slices, finished with radish-top chimichurri, and an indulgent pepperoni, its edges extra crisped. Meanwhile, the ‘green goddess’ arrives skewered in a ceramic pot like flowers in a vase, garnished with gooseberries and blistered shishito peppers.

I sit down with co-founder Kayla Abe, who runs the restaurant with her chef partner David Murphy. Both embody the room’s energy: Kayla uncorks a bottle in orange leather trousers, while David is carrying crates to the back dressed in a floral shirt, cowboy hat and boots. “We aim to be the most extreme example of a restaurant,” says Kayla. 

She tells me they started Shuggie’s as a way to use up excess farmers’ market produce, reducing food waste while celebrating unsung ingredients. The couple work directly with more than thirty producers across the Bay Area, building menus around what can be used. On any given night, that might mean heirloom crookneck squash or boar tenderloin. And this world view, of course, extends to wine. “Pre-industrial cooking, eating off-cuts, making use of harvests… It’s the same ethos as enjoying natural wine,” Kayla says. 

Her words linger as a jazz band takes to the stage. Music fills the orange-lit room, and I catch its vibrations rippling across the surface of my glass, seeming to bring it to life. The community around natural wine seems to have reached a simple conclusion about how it should be enjoyed: without ceremony, in company and, above all, with joy.

Best natural wine spots to try

1. Verjus

This natural wine hub with a classic French backbone serves some of San Francisco’s best bistro dishes, like cheesy omelette au Boursin. The restaurant’s wine menu focuses on small, independent producers.

2. Snail Bar

Oakland’s current place to be, where the city’s cool crowd meets thoughtful cooking and a colourful array of low-intervention wines. The menu changes weekly, featuring inventive dishes like squash tostadas or snails with cashew miso.

3. Golden Sardine

Try this gem in San Francisco’s Chinatown for excellent wine, pickled fish — and poetry. Named after a title by Beat author Bob Kaufman, the bar hosts readings and often welcomes creatives.

4. The Punchdown

This is one of the trailblazers of Oakland’s natural wine scene. Inside, a high-ceilinged room reveals a glass-walled wine cellar, and a wooden bar counter for choosing bottles from the James Beard-nominated wine programme.

5. Bar Part Time

Groovy music meets funky wines in San Francisco’s Mission District. This bar turns natural wine into a late-night affair, complete with DJs and dancing.