The scenery at Gas & Shop, at 17th and South Van Ness in San Francisco, evades explanation. Especially at 3 a.m.
Mystery car fluids stain the Mission District gas station’s parking lot, and bits of anonymous trash — McDonald’s cups, crushed Aquafina bottles, shattered plastic forks — dot the gray surface. Three individuals loiter in front of the entrance, hunched over at the waist. A black SUV, parked by the farthest pump, blares “The Box” by Roddy Ricch from its bass-boosted speakers, and one customer, wearing black-and-white Nike Dunks, hits a C-Walk on his way through the mini mart’s double doors.
Aside from the gas, people mainly come here for one thing: chicken. Nestled inside Gas & Shop’s mini mart is a Krispy Krunchy Chicken, a fried chicken chain with several San Francisco locations. Few call this particular Krispy Krunchy by its proper name, as it appears on Google Maps. For most, it’s just “gas station chicken.” Say the words to a discerning Mission District resident, and they’ll know what you mean.
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The case of chicken at Krispy Krunchy Chicken, located in a gas station on the corner of Van Ness Avenue and 17th Street, on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
This gas station, which is open all night long, offers San Francisco’s best 24-hour meal. I should know, because on a recent Saturday night, I tried as many of them as I could.
Alexa, play ‘Day ’n’ Nite’
Some cities never sleep. San Francisco, meanwhile, swallows an Ambien at sunset and slumbers until its 6 a.m. Barry’s workout class. By 9 p.m., most of the city’s restaurants are closed, and by 2 a.m., so are all the bars, as required by California state law.
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As the city’s shop lights blink out, a small handful of 24-hour businesses remain lit up through the night. There’s the Castro’s 24-hour Walgreens. There’s Corgi Cafe, a coffee shop for techies in Union Square. There’s a smattering of convenience stores. A few spots stay open until 4 a.m. on weekends, like Cocobang and Grubstake. And then there are the 24-hour restaurants.
Pinecrest Diner, on the corner of Geary and Mason, around midnight on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
They’re disappearing. In recent years, the Denny’s on Mission Street closed, as did the Lynchian Silver Crest Donut Shop. By my count, around 10 24-hour spots remain, a mix of chains, local diners and one revered gas station chicken spot.
After a certain hour of the night, San Francisco’s late-night meal traffic is funneled into these pinch points. This turns each of them into a sort of crossroads, a place where a handful of strangers and drifters appear, refuel and disappear again into the night.
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In an attempt to rank the city’s 24-hour spots, I made a list of five, and bounced between them all on a Saturday night, between midnight and 4:30 a.m. I was accompanied by a photographer and a rotating cast of friends, who popped in and out of the crawl as the night wore on.
In around four hours, we hit Pinecrest Diner, in Union Square; All Star Cafe, on Market Street; Orphan Andy’s, in the Castro; Krispy Krunchy Chicken, in the Mission; and Jack in the Box, in the Richmond.
These spots seemed like the most obvious choices, but there are several honorable mentions. According to Google Maps, there’s another 24-hour Jack in the Box on Bayshore Boulevard, as well as a 24-hour McDonald’s on Ocean Avenue and a 24-hour Carl’s Jr. in Union Square. There’s also a place called Halal Burgers & More, on an unhappy stretch of Sixth Street.
You could also count Polk Street’s Bob’s Donuts and Noe Valley’s Happy Donuts. For simplicity’s sake, I excluded donut shops from my list and stuck strictly to meals.
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I had an ulterior motive in my crawl. San Francisco, as a city, is small, manageable, easy to understand. I wanted proof that there still were corners of the city, late at night, that didn’t make sense. I wanted to watch lost souls stumble out of Ubers, wash my hands in unpolished diner bathrooms and tune in to the low whine of a fume hood.
This mission began with a plate of French toast.
The sign for Pinecrest Diner, on the corner of Geary and Mason, on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
Midnight: Pinecrest Diner
At midnight, a mostly toothless woman in an Eminem hoodie stands idly beneath the Pinecrest Diner sign. She’s not a customer, she tells me; she just likes the blinking lights.
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Even early in the night, there’s a healthy cross-pollination here. A young couple share a strawberry milkshake, and a balding man in a brown suit eats at the counter. One couple, apparently fresh off a flight, stash their roller bags in their booth seats.
Behind the counter, cooks in Giants hats dunk a row of fryer baskets into hot oil. The wood in the booth tables is fake, and the counter is so shiny that Tabasco bottles reflect off its surface. Beneath the sound of sizzling oil, I hear the faint rumble of a cumbia bass line from the kitchen.
Food cooks on a grill and is plated across from the seating counter at Pinecrest Diner on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
Bruce, a regular at Pinecrest Diner, sits at the counter on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
SFGATE reporter Timothy Karoff prepares to eat the Pinecrest Special on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
Watery coffee flows freely. The French toast comes caked in cinnamon, and the chocolate milkshake is just thin enough to slide up a plastic straw. The eggs, which I ordered poached, are perfectly runny on the inside. The finger-sized breakfast sausages are possibly frozen, but salty enough that it’s hard to care. We didn’t order a can of Pepsi, but one appeared on our table anyhow, which is OK.
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As we eat, one puzzled-looking man — a professional, by the looks of his clothes and glasses — walks past Pinecrest Diner four or five times, peering through the window at our booth as he passes. Finally, he makes up his mind and steps inside.
Category: Celebratory
Ranking: Second
12:53 a.m.: All Star Cafe
At night, a table blocks the doorway to All Star Cafe. It’s to keep out people who are looking for a fight, says Gustavo Castillo.
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SFGATE reporter Timothy Karoff stands at the entrance to All Star Cafe, at Market and Van Ness, on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
For a 24-hour business, All Star Cafe’s location is a challenging one. The intersection of Market and Van Ness is not the happiest. Castillo, who works the counter, has watched street fights unfold outside the cafe and seen a pedestrian crossing Market Street get hit by a driver. The late-night customers are a mix of unhoused folks and partiers, he tells me.
“It’s a crazy place, but at the same time, it’s a fun place,” Castillo says.
It’s worth mentioning that Castillo is a musician who was shortlisted for a Latin Grammy. He goes by Tavo Man, and his top song has 1 million YouTube streams. At night, though, he takes orders at All Star’s counter.
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Gustavo Castillo, aka Tavo Man, poses for a portrait in All Star Cafe on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
SFGATE reporter Timothy Karoff tries All Star Cafe’s cheesesteak on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
At Castillo’s recommendation, I try a cheesesteak. It’s heavy on the mayo, and the bread is a bit thick, but the steak is good. It’s probably better than the cheesesteak at Whiz Burgers. My companions are equally impressed.
Aside from the table blocking the door, there are no tables in All Star Cafe, so we eat standing up. Aside from one to-go order, we’re the only customers inside. I’m reminded of “Nighthawks,” the Edward Hopper painting of a late-night diner. All Star is similar in shape to the cafe in “Nighthawks,” except tiles on the floor are cracked, and there are no counter seats.
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As we wrap up our meal, a woman knocks on the glass window and asks for some cash. She lost her wallet, she explains. I am not sure this is true, but I hand her a few dollars and wish her a good night.
If there were ever a liminal place to eat, it’s All Star Cafe at 1 a.m.
Category: Bleak
Ranking: Third
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The entrance to Orphan Andy’s in the Castro on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
1:40 a.m.: Orphan Andy’s
Broadly speaking, there are two types of late-night haunts: the celebratory kind and the bleak kind. Orphan Andy’s falls into the former.
The best compliment I can pay Orphan Andy’s is that it’s fun. It’s something of an open secret that the food here is not spectacular, but that doesn’t seem to matter to most. At 2 a.m., the diner catches the spillover crowd from the Castro’s gay bars. As I enter, a man in a white undershirt and sunglasses asks a waiter in Spanish to take his photo, and then he poses for the camera. The tables are full, so we snatch the last four seats at the counter.
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When I think of the food at Orphan Andy’s, I think of Pinocchio. Pinocchio wished to be a real boy. I get the feeling, eating here, that the food on my plate was once something inanimate that wished really hard to be food.
Patrons wait in the entrance to Orphan Andy’s in the Castro on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
A cook at Orphan Andy’s pass-through window on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
The ceiling of Orphan Andy’s covered in spinning disco balls, LED fixtures and colorful kites.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
Maybe it’s my fault for ordering the chicken fried steak, which cost $25. The waiter recommended it. The outer crust stuck to the caps of my teeth, and the steak inside looked more like a patty of ground beef than any discernable cut of meat. The gravy was good, if a bit thick. The home fries were solid. They came with bell peppers mixed in, which were undercooked and still crunchy.
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Others in my group enjoyed their food more. One friend, who was sober, claimed Orphan Andy’s minestrone soup — who knew? — was the best she’d ever had. She praised its “depth.”
The chicken fried steak at Orphan Andy’s.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
Between bites, at least, it’s hard to have a bad time here. Orphan Andy’s is an overwhelming experience. In terms of decor, it’s a cross between a diner and a candy store. There are five different types of LEDs attached to the diner’s walls and ceiling, which combine to bathe the counter in a pinkish light. I didn’t count how many disco balls there were, but they spun faster than they should.
To get to the restaurant’s bathroom, one must walk through the kitchen, past the bag of frozen sausages resting on the metal counter and down a flight of stairs. The room is illuminated by a single glaring light bulb, bright enough to blind someone facing the toilet. A vase filled with real flowers sits on top of the tank.
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Category: Celebratory
Ranking: Fifth
2:51 a.m.: Krispy Krunchy Chicken
At 3 a.m., I worry that I can’t eat any more. Then I try my first bite of gas station chicken.
The chicken at Krispy Krunchy is premade. It’s kept warm in a sort of heated glass case. The menu is on a TV screen, and the cashier is bored, which, given the scenery on South Van Ness, is impressive. The food — two pieces and a biscuit for less than $10 — comes out immediately. There’s no option to tip. There’s no seating, either, so I eat standing up in the parking lot, watching cars cycle through the pumps.
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This place is something of a low-tier local legend, and for good reason. The chicken, marinated to the point of saturation, doesn’t need sauce. It’s spectacularly tender, just moist enough, and peels off the bone with ease. True to the chicken’s branding, the breading is Krispy, and laced with flecks of black pepper.
SFGATE reporter Timothy Karoff tries the wings outside Krispy Krunchy Chicken on July 12, 2026.
Theo LaBrusciano-Carris/For SFGATE
This Krispy Krunchy is a tight operation. Every two minutes, a new customer walks out with a Krunch box. Nobody speaks to one another; I try to interview a Lyft driver, but he doesn’t want to talk. This isn’t what they mean by a “third place,” but it’s special in its own way.
Category: Bleak
Ranking: First
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3:42 a.m.: Jack in the Box
I’d like to believe that at 4 a.m., the bathroom mirror of the Geary Boulevard Jack in the Box — not to be confused with the Geary Street Jack in the Box, which is located across from Pinecrest — magically distorts faces, deepening lines and recessing tired eyes. Probably not. Either way, I look terrible at this hour of the night, and my stomach does too.
I know I should buck up and get a burger, but I take the coward’s route and order a Jack Wrap with grilled chicken. Plus a side of mini churros.
When I pick up my food at the counter, the cashier apologizes for the wait, even though the food took less than five minutes.
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Time, generally speaking, seems to move differently here. The speaker system plays Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle,” with the bass frequencies distorted into a dull crunch, and one teenage boy wears an “I Heart Boobies” belt, the kind they used to sell at Zumiez, with a Vlone hoodie on top. Two young men sit at the window, eating their cheeseless double burgers at an impressively slow pace. I try to listen in on their conversation, but the words don’t register.
Outside, two men smoke cigarettes and converse in Korean. One holds a to-go bag, although he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. They were there when I walked into the restaurant, and they were still there when I left.
Category: Bleak
Ranking: Fourth
Digestion
The next morning, I don’t eat. I wait until 2 p.m. to scarf down a bowl of plain white rice, which is the only thing that sounds good. As I eat, I idly review my notes from the night before. Some of it makes sense. Some I find hard to believe.
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Did a man really crip walk into that gas station? Did I really see a teenager wearing Vlone in 2026? Was there a Waymo strapped to the back of a tow truck on South Van Ness, or was I hallucinating?
My notes say so. But am I certain? For all I know, these details popped out of the ether and vanished into a thin mist the moment I turned away.
There’s some comfort in that. There are parts of San Francisco that are unknowable. At the very least, the chicken makes sense.
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