Some old bars are notable because they have a historical quirk: They were a legendary bordello during Prohibition or the site of the first-ever internet transmission. We’ve got several bars that vie for the distinction of being San Francisco’s oldest, plus longtime watering holes with open-mike nights that inadvertently serve as breeding grounds for budding music stars. There’s a bar in Colma, our own necropolis, that swears it’s haunted.

But some old bars are notable simply for the company they keep. O’Keeffe’s, a 45-year-old Irish bar at Fifth Avenue and Balboa Street in the Inner Richmond, is neither the oldest bar nor the smallest bar nor the weirdest bar in San Francisco. It’s an old-school bar, one that has blissfully sat out the mixology era, and a no-nonsense bar. It’s a neighborhood spot, a ritual for its regulars.

There are other such bars in San Francisco. In fact, there are other such bars in the Richmond (see especially: Hockey Haven). What makes O’Keeffe’s unique — what makes it great — is its longtime proprietor and leading lady, Annie O’Keeffe. Thanks to her, O’Keeffe’s is a home, and like any home it has its own unrepeatable idiosyncrasies and personalities.

“Annie is the informal mayor of the Richmond,” says retired Richmond District police Capt. Richard Correia, who first came to O’Keeffe’s in 1982.

Petite and perpetually sporting an amused grin, O’Keeffe can usually be found sitting in a rolling desk chair behind her bar. She knows her customers and their dogs by name and frequently offers treats to both. A box of chocolates is a common offering, unless it happens to be the birthday of one of her regulars, in which case O’Keeffe will have picked up a cake at Schubert’s Bakery for the occasion.

Weekday afternoons see the first wave of folks, who come in every day to read their books and pass time together. “They bring in cold cuts and cookies,” says O’Keeffe. On Friday nights, a group of 30-somethings comes in to play darts. In an earlier era, O’Keeffe’s was a haven for overworked Chronicle columnists — Herb Caen and Warren Hinckle were fixtures, O’Keeffe says — and police officers just getting off the day watch.

“They’d ask for a 7Up, and you’d know to dilute it” with some alcohol, O’Keeffe laughs.

O’Keeffe’s is a bar for retired bartenders. Kevin McGovern, who used to bartend at the Philosopher’s Club, comes in at least once a week. “I come here for Annie,” he says. “It’s home. You don’t find a bar like this in the city anymore.”

Carol “Fuji” Fujioka retired from bartending at the Hearth, just a few blocks up on Geary, 11 years ago. A resident of the neighborhood for more than 50 years, she first came into O’Keeffe’s at the suggestion of one of her Hearth customers. Now, she and her dog, Lani, can be spotted at the bar most days in the early evening — a Gentleman Jack on the rocks for Fuji, and a water bowl for Lani “with just a dash of beer,” she says.

Bobby Correia, Richard’s son, walks over to Fuji and hands her a shot of Jameson. “Are you gonna make your potato salad for Super Bowl Sunday again, Fuji?” he asks. She is. He swears it’s the best potato salad he’s ever had.

McGovern recalls a Van Morrison sighting several years back. “Oh yeah, he’s been in a few times,” O’Keeffe confirms. What was Van Morrison like? “Same as he is now — bollocks!” she laughs, walking away.

What about the bar has changed since the ’70s? “Not much,” O’Keeffe says, “except there was none of this fancy Tequila.” Pointing to a bottle of Fernet, she says, “I’d never seen one of these until a couple of years ago. Apparently people love it.”

You can order a shot of Fernet Branca or Cazadores, but don’t ask O’Keeffe for a margarita: She refuses to make anything that could be construed as a cocktail. “I’d be worried I’d screw it up,” she says. Better to stick with shots and beers.

“A woman came in once and asked for a ‘sex on the beach,’” O’Keeffe says. “I told her to take the 31 Balboa out to the ocean.”

Another thing you can’t get at O’Keeffe’s: draft beer. “It just seemed like too much legwork” to deal with kegs, says O’Keeffe. In addition to the standard domestics (Coors Light, Budweiser) and imports (Corona, Stella, Pacifico), however, you can find IPAs from Drake’s and Lagunitas. All bottles are $4.

O’Keeffe is the steward of this community, but she didn’t create it by herself. The bar was founded by her husband, Tim, who died of cancer in 1997. He remains present: The dimly lit, hand-painted sign outside still reads “O’Keeffe’s Annie & Tim,” and a photograph of him hangs on the wall behind where O’Keeffe sits in her desk chair.

The O’Keeffes met in the mid-1970s, when Tim came into Crocker Bank, where Annie was working. They had one fundamental thing in common: Both had emigrated from Ireland. Annie was born in County Leitrim, Tim in County Cork. She arrived in San Francisco in 1972 to attend her brother’s wedding and never left. (Of her 11 siblings, seven relocated to San Francisco.) When she met Tim at the bank, he invited her to come to his bar for a drink. He’d recently taken over the space that had formerly been Hennessy’s bar and was transforming it into a proper Irish pub.

By 1977, O’Keeffe was working at the bar herself; the couple married four years later. They dedicated themselves to the cause of Irish independence, hosting fundraisers and meetings for the Irish National Aid Association. In 1994, the Board of Supervisors formally recognized the couple’s work on behalf of the local INAA chapter with a certificate of honor. That certificate is still posted to the wall behind the bar, though it’s dwarfed by a large poster depicting the plight of Bobby Sands, the Irish Republican Army member who led the major 1981 hunger strike.

More Information To order: Beer ($4) Where: O’Keeffe’s, 598 Fifth Ave. , San Francisco; 415-751-1449 When: 2:30 p.m. to 2 a.m. Thursday through Saturday and Monday; 1 to 9 p.m. Sunday. Closed Tuesday and Wednesday.

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In fact, the walls are so crowded with old newspaper clippings, beer advertisements, photos of O’Keeffe relatives, maps of Ireland and other paraphernalia that it can be hard to know where to fix your gaze. These are not the collectible curiosities of Specs’; they’re Irish aphorisms rendered in bright-green shamrocks, or promotional materials for the IRA. The likenesses of John F. and Robert Kennedy appear throughout.

“I never take anything down,” O’Keeffe says. Instead, she layers new paraphernalia on top of old — a palimpsest that tells the story of her and Tim’s evolving world, and evolving worldview, over the decades.

As I wander around the bar, it seems to me that the walls also constitute a kind of mausoleum, not only commemorating Tim but also the whole story of Ireland in the 20th century, a history marked at every turn by tragedy, struggle and loss.

O’Keeffe says she will probably retire in a year or two. She hopes to pass the bar along to one of her regular customers. What will she do in retirement? “Go on a cruise,” she answers, maybe to Mexico or Hawaii.

The elder Correia shakes his head knowingly. “Who are you kidding, Annie? You’ll still be here all the time.”

Esther Mobley is The San Francisco Chronicle’s wine critic. Email: emobley@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @Esther_mobley Instagram: @esthermob