A $14 Chinatown meal that renewed my faith in San Francisco

Hon’s Wun-Tun House is a Chinatown legend. The small space has been in operation on Kearny Street since 1972 — an ancient restaurant age that very few others (save for the century-plus Sam Wo around the corner) can claim. It doesn’t have the pizzazz of a neon sign or the focused social media following of some of San Francisco’s other classic restaurants, but that’s OK. 

Instead, Hon’s Wun-Tun House has something better: a killer bowl of Hong Kong-style wonton soup, an incredibly crispy scallion pancake, and that indefinable sense of belonging that makes a place matter not only to its community, but to its city.

I admit that I haven’t spent much time in San Francisco. Before joining the SFGATE team a couple of months ago to lead an expansion of coverage into Southern California, I mostly stuck to Los Angeles (my home) and all points south of, say, Paso Robles. I had heard of Hon’s in passing, mostly as part of a string of Chinatown restaurants on someone’s “must visit” list. San Francisco, though, is all over the national news these days. Everyone from my small-town family to big-deal podcasters and tech types seems to be discussing the fate of San Francisco, and what is or isn’t working for this city. At Hon’s, I found none of that hand-wringing, just a faith-restoring scene and some amazing soup, perfect for a cold weather day.

In my prior years as a California food writer, I’ve often found myself pulled in by well-worn places that specialize in a single dish. So, on my first trip north in several years, I popped into Hon’s. I wanted to see the action from the window, watch the steam rise from the soup cauldron stationed right at the front door. I wanted wontons too, of course, dashed with chile oil and served alongside what I’d heard could be the best scallion pancake in town.

Early on a recent evening, I scored the window seat up front all to myself, perusing the tall, laminated red menu as the sun faded slowly outside. Aging photos of menu items ring the interior and pop on the menu page, pulling customers to signature dishes like B10, a wide bowl of soup with thin noodles, hefty wontons and chunks of stewed beef brisket. Aromatics are sparse, mostly rounds of sliced scallion set against a ruddy brown-orange broth that’s dimpled with floating circles of fat and collagen. Chile oil and other mix-ins hug the end of the table, ready for service.

Taking a wander through the warm, fortifying soup means slurping up thin rice noodles, tugging on the thick wonton wrappers to reveal the meaty interior, and pulling out deep, soft chunks of beef. You spend a lot of time just poking around in the bowl, mixing in more spices and creating different best-bite iterations for yourself. Every good soup shop is really just a room filled with people hunched down over a bowl, enjoying the food too much to look up.

When I did manage to extricate myself from the aromas, I found a restaurant at peace with its place in San Francisco’s dining ecosystem. Sure, Hon’s Wun-Tun House has found its way onto those must-try lists and even been visited by the governor, but its backbone is still that gigantic soup pot. It’s as if the restaurant has been built around the cauldron itself; all other action happens in its orbit, from the customers checking out at the register to the workers pleating wontons by hand at a nearby table.

Nearly 30 people stopped in during my 45 minutes at the window table. Some stayed to dine; many others just grabbed takeout and disappeared into the growing evening light. The room flowed with delivery drivers who spilled out of double-parked cars or hopped off scooters, but nobody seemed in a particular hurry — least of all a cook at a back table, still wearing an apron while reading a Cantonese newspaper.

As an outsider to SF, I hear the national noise about the city’s supposed “doom loop,” its ongoing housing and homelessness crisis, and the skyrocketing price of just about everything. Hon’s told me a different story. This resilient restaurant continues to show up for a thankful city, serving serious noodle and wonton soup bowls for under $14. The clatter of car horns and multilingual chatter wafts in from the open door, but inside, the restaurant is anchored to its serene purpose, to serve anyone that comes in, even if they’re taking out. It’s a far cry from the sensory nightmare of some of the city’s other famous restaurants. Frankly, I could have sat at Hon’s Wun-Tun House all night, just watching the steam rise from that giant pot of soup.

Instead, I left, ready to curl up the edges of my jacket against the beginnings of winter as I walked back across Chinatown toward my hotel. I had to bend sideways in the door frame to let an older municipal worker pass inside. Someone else was coming in for an affordable, delicious meal, just as I was exiting with a warm belly and a new connection to this vibrant place.