After 117 years of filling prescriptions, doling out advice, and serving as the neighborhood’s unofficial confessional booth, Central Drug Store has closed its doors—leaving an entire San Francisco community wondering whether the era of the family pharmacist is gone for good or just hiding behind the counter, waiting for a comeback.
At a Glance
- Central Drug Store, a family-owned pharmacy, operated in San Francisco’s Excelsior District for 117 years.
- Its closure marks not just the end of a business, but the loss of a community hub woven into generations of neighborhood life.
- Owner Jerry Tonelli retired voluntarily, but cites industry pressures squeezing out independents citywide.
- With 51 San Francisco pharmacies shuttered since 2015, some neighborhoods now face pharmacy “deserts.”
A Century of Cures, Community, and Cannoli
Central Drug Store’s story begins in 1908—a time when San Francisco’s Mission Street was more horse-drawn than hybrid and when a handshake sealed more deals than a legal pad. The shop found its long-term home at 4494 Mission Street in 1918, and by 1949, Dino Tonelli—a returning WWII vet—entered the scene. Dino wasn’t just a pharmacist; he was a neighborhood institution. He eventually took ownership in 1965, cementing the Tonelli family name into the store’s very DNA. By the time Jerry, Dino’s son, started working there (as a teenager, naturally), the place had already survived more chain stores than you could shake a pill bottle at. Jerry’s mother worked behind the counter into her 90s. If you had a sniffle, a heartbreak, or needed advice on everything from medicine to marinara, Central Drug was the place.
As the years ticked by and the neighborhood changed, the Tonellis watched chains like Walgreens, CVS, and Rite Aid sprout up across the city. While many independents folded, Central Drug Store soldiered on—dodging economic downturns and big-box buyouts with the stubbornness of an old-school pharmacist who refuses to stock grape-flavored cough syrup (“Kids should learn to suffer,” Dino probably would have said). The store’s secret weapon wasn’t just its prescriptions, but its people: generations of regulars who came for their meds and stayed for the banter, the advice, and the sense of belonging. It’s no exaggeration to say that for many, Central Drug Store was the beating heart of the Excelsior District.
A Farewell on Their Own Terms—But Not Without Warnings
In June 2025, Jerry Tonelli announced the store would close for good on July 15. This wasn’t a forced exit or a tale of bankruptcy—Jerry made it clear: “I am pleased to say this is my choice and I am leaving on my own terms!” Retirement after 50 years behind the counter is hard to argue with. But beneath the pride in leaving voluntarily, Jerry voiced concerns that echo far beyond his own shop. He pointed to the slow, relentless squeeze of pharmacy benefit managers (PBMs) and the retail giants who negotiate drug prices and reimbursement rates, often leaving independents with little profit and less hope. Since 2015, 51 pharmacies have closed in San Francisco alone, a trend Jerry called existential for the little guys. His warning: unless something changes, Central Drug’s story may soon be everyone’s story.
Customers, some of whom had been coming since childhood, flooded in to say goodbye, share memories, and lament the end of an era. The Excelsior community didn’t just lose a pharmacy—they lost a gathering place, a local landmark, and, for many, a lifeline. Elderly and vulnerable residents now face longer treks and less personalized care. The closure is more than a business statistic; it’s a deeply personal loss for hundreds of families.
A National Trend With Local Consequences
The fallout from Central Drug’s closure reverberates far beyond Mission Street. Across America, independent pharmacies are vanishing, casualties of an industry where scale and bargaining power matter more than neighborly service. PBMs and mail-order services chip away at margins, while rising costs and shifting habits push the smallest out of the market. Some say it’s the natural order—progress marching forward, and all that. Others argue it’s a warning flare for healthcare equity, especially in neighborhoods where big chains fear to tread. When the last mom-and-pop closes, who will know your name, your allergies, or catch the early warning signs of a serious illness?
Health policy experts warn that pharmacy closures hit low-income and elderly residents hardest. Urban economists mourn the loss of businesses that anchor neighborhoods and foster resilience. In Excelsior, the debate plays out in real time, with neighbors wondering whether anything will fill the void left behind. Jerry’s departure is voluntary, but the trend is unmistakable: as independents disappear, healthcare deserts grow, and the city’s character fades just a little more with each closing register drawer.
