San Francisco’s “fertile crescent,” the band of tourism that curves west along the Embarcadero to the Golden Gate, is a sham.

Many have called it the lynchpin of the San Francisco economy, a rich garden that feeds a huge portion of the city’s income.

But to me, a three-year resident of the city’s Fisherman’s Wharf neighborhood, the drab piers, clam chowder and so-called chocolate factory of the San Francisco waterfront are just the sad, paraded corpses of industry long gone.

Once upon a time, the ports of this city opened their arms to the duty of accepting the goods that came through the Golden Gate.

It was a proud job, and it led to the creation of one of the most powerful unions in the country.

From those seafaring transactions, the city grew in infamy. The arrival of port vessels offered a tangible connection to distant lands for the West Coast and beyond. The exchange of goods fostered the excitement present in all of the world’s old port cities.

That excitement was a selling point.

Now, while riding one of the internationally-sourced streetcars of Muni’s F-line, I see workers replacing the modern stucco edifice of an old pier warehouse and catch a glimpse of the aged, honest wood underneath.

Instead of offering the telling, rich textures of the real structure, planners who renovated the area decided to wrap the buildings in the same dimpled enamel as the neighborhood Burger King.

It is an example of a city that cakes on makeup to hide its age, San Francisco’s secret transition to a rich suburb for Bay Area power commuters while hiding from the looking glass that reveals Oakland as the modern-day Bay Area port city.

But the spongy facade works. Visitors have the impression that these old piers are still hubs of commerce, much like they are led to believe that the polluted bay’s bountiful seafood provides the daily banquet on sale at Fisherman’s Wharf. They arrive in droves and they spend in excess, and a big chunk of the city’s paycheck depends on that racket staying intact.

When I worked at Ghirardelli Square, I dreaded giving daily speeches explaining how “Ghirardelli Chocolate Manufactory” actually means “repurposed mall selling expensive crap” and that the high-tech doppelganger in San Leandro doesn’t give tours. Instead, weary travelers could enjoy the dusty display of old machinery in the back of the shop that, when functional, would push around a mysterious brown sludge all day long.

But I would look forward to taking out the awkward garbage cart, piled high with the remains of overpriced Dreyer’s ice cream, so I could take a special shortcut through the old factory’s horse stables. Following the oily lights down the damp corridor, I’d think about Tony Bennett.

True, Bennett’s heart was probably left somewhere much more glamorous.

But in my mind, that damp hallway represented what was left of the San Francisco that inspired him.

There are still reasons to come to San Francisco-—a beautiful, modern city. But for the tourism industry to trick visitors with false edifices of gone or waning industry...that’s just plain rude.