Four years later, after taking a few more knocks and learning a few more lessons about people, I made a serious decision to give California another chance. This was not my idea, though. I had made no plans to extend the hand of mercy to the Terminator’s turf. Instead, the trip itself was a graduation present for my friend, Kellen, who was my roommate in school for a time. He chose a trip to wine country in lieu of cash, a car, or all the other material accouterments that grads sometimes ask for. His mother, Christa, to whom I am also endeared, suggested that I accompany them. Several other people were invited but, to our disappointment, did not find the external circumstances in their favor. But no matter. Fun, as we saw it, would not be viewed as a variable; it was only a question of how many spades and spades and spades of fun we three would have.
The trip was planned with an emphasis on skeletal details. My propensity to overplan would do no good here, thank God. For once, I was actually looking forward to having a relatively large block of time in which I would only know my approximate geographical location. You must understand that this is huge, coming from he who begins mulling over what to eat for dinner soon after swallowing lunch.
As Christa began to extrapolate the options of our adventure, it emerged that we would stay in San Francisco instead of Napa Valley. The idea being that, this way, we would have access to nightlife, more restaurants, and more to do all around. Wine country, only about an hour north of the city, is easily accessible by car, so we would just lop off that part of our itinerary with a few day trips.
On Tuesday, 20 May, I landed in San Francisco, and Christa was already there waiting for me at the Applebee’s just above baggage claim. With the time change, it was nice to reclaim three of the hours I’d just spent hurtling through the air in a narrow metal cylinder. Kellen had missed his flight that morning, so Christa and I decided to make our way into the city to drop our bags and wait upon our third member’s arrival.
Now, if you know me, you know that I hate tourists and that I am loath to be one. Having grown up in Lancaster, then living in New York, hating tourists is one of my Pauline thorns of the flesh, a unique product of my environment and makeup, and it’s something I have to overcome every time I travel anywhere. But, just a short time after arriving at most destinations, I give in and begin taking photos, at the very least, or refrain from diving into an alleyway or bathroom stall just to pull out a map. There are still things I still refuse to do, though, like finding the busiest corner of a city and bringing five obese friends with luggage to block it, or eating at Hard Rock Café, or buying kitschy souvenirs (unless, of course, there was a good story affiliated with it), or stopping a car in the middle of a two-lane street to peer at some remotely interesting obscurity that may or may not be unique to the present locale.
I am very pleased that I managed—with some help from Kellen—to take over two hundred photos. I could have taken more, sure, but taking too many photos can quickly cross over the border from eager-to-document to somewhat-creepy-and-should-maybe-chill-out. One could also say that my aim (no pun intended [NPI]) was to take photos for myself, giving no consideration to what would look particularly cool on Facebook in order to impress whoever.
Other details: the hotel was very nice. Centrally located in the Union Square area at Sutter and Powell streets. I had sort of forgotten about the fabled hills in San Francisco. Well, they certainly are there and eager to make the pedestrians’ passage as difficult as possible. I watched trucks strain from the get-go at green lights, the driver literally shifting every two seconds; I felt my own over-caffeinated, over-fed heart bristling at the sudden demand to pump even more oxygen; and, in true accordance with the maxims of human nature, I began planning hill-less routes to certain destinations before the dusk cracked upon day two.
Day two was a day of orientation. We did really nothing, which was great, although I’m sure I started getting restless. In the morning, we located the nearest Peet’s Coffee (the greatest coffee ever: www.peets.com), and I walked there every day subsequently to bring back coffee for my still awakening comrades. If I lived on the West Coast, the fortunes of Peet’s would surely increase (for however long I lasted, anyway). That afternoon, we just sat in the sun in Union Square reading and drinking lemonade. I wore sunglasses the whole time, and I got one of those ridiculous raccoon-style tans with a prominent white spot across the bridge of my nose.
In the evening we went to a burrito place in the Mission, called Tacqueria Cancun. It was absolutely delicious and astonishingly cheap.
Overall, I found that the food in San Francisco had a lovely emphasis on freshness and fine
flavor. If hard pressed to come up with specifics, I would say that Friscans have probably developed a cleaner palette than is found among the general population because—another conjecture—of their easy access to huge amounts of locally sourced fish and produce. In fact, I only had one disappointing meal, and that was in a French restaurant near the hotel. Indeed, Café de la Presse was lodged so far up its own butt that it couldn’t even serve me bad replicas of French food. Bob Evans-style Eggs Benedict with virtually unseasoned “home fries” is what it is; calling it Ouefs Benedict on the menu and seating me next to homesick French people will not cut the mustard. I could go on and on, but I’ll save it for tripadvisor.com.
Actually, I will go on. The restaurant had a European style newspaper rack inside the door, which, true to form, had the current papers from all over the world. I took a San Francisco Chronicle to my table and glanced over it. While walking out, I placed the paper back on the rack, but the snippy little host behind the front desk snatched it from my hand from behind me and sneered, “Next time, the papers are for purchase oooonly.” I ignored him and left, but I think he already knew where he could shove his paper.
Anyway, assuming that the burrito did not count as a full, sit down meal, the first of such a one that we did have was at Mama’s on Washington Square. It’s a rather famous breakfast and lunch venue that is open from 8 AM to 3 PM daily. The ordering process is unorthodox. After standing in line, which you will surely do, the staff directs customers to order and pay at the register, as though ordering a Subway sandwich, whereupon customers are then seated. I had the Eggs Benedict with corned beef. I like Eggs Benedict. I could give you some pretentious crap about judging an establishment by how well they cook eggs or by the temperature of their hollandaise, but no. They used a high quality corned beef, which, as I expected, was perfectly salted, and the Bloody Mary was nuanced and refreshing. All for only $15 servis non compris. It was very fine, and I always relish the opportunity for a big, hearty breakfast.
Since Mama’s is not too far from the northern waterfront, we walked over there to the eastern outskirts of Fisherman’s Wharf, which is basically the Coney Island of San Francisco. There was a sea lion and seal reserve there—really just a swath of wooden decks for the wretched, yelping creature to congregate upon and sun themselves. They had best never get too comfortable though, for they were bound to have a strange encounter with a neighbor’s underside smooshing and slapping on their face en route to the water or the other, equally crowded, side of the deck; be chased off by a grouchy gramps; or be berated by a series of fishy blasts from the nearest neighbor’s orifice. It’s got to be tough being one of those things.
Now, every city has its upsides and downsides. The most irksome things about San Francisco are two particular things I am scarcely subject to, which probably accounts for my protests: a surfeit of cash-only establishments, and a nearly universal closing time of 10 PM. I think I visited the ATM for substantial withdrawals twice during the first two days, and I was aghast more than once at the prospect of spending an evening out at the 24-hour Walgreen’s across from the hotel. Okay, it was only nearly that bad. Even the hotel bar closed at the time of evening when I normally haven’t even taken off my socks. By the last evening, we resorted to seeing a first-run film at Regal Cinema (come to think of it, even that place had excellent food) on a Saturday night. This may seem trivial, I know, but, in New York, practically nothing closes before 11 PM on weeknights, and a 12:30-2AM closing time is common for the majority of restaurants on weekends. I can’t explain the cash-only thing, though. Maybe the super-socially-conscious San Franciscans carry gobs of cash to peddle to their huge, overtly aggressive homeless population. Now I’m just being snide.
Wine Country
On Thursday, after another round of glistening coffee drinks, we packed the portable GPS (Maggie, short for Magellan), water bottles, and headed for the Hertz. We waited. For a long time. Finally, we got our car, which turned out to be a brand-new Mercedes C-Class. I named her Mercredi, which is French for Wednesday and has absolutely nothing to do with the car except that, spelled out, it resembles the word Mercedes.
We joined the traffic on Van Ness that eventually spilled out onto Lombard Street, and wound our way to the Golden Gate Bridge. The traffic was extremely easy. Good old Maggie, our pretend friend who guided us faithfully, said that I would be at Buena Vista Vineyards in about 27 minutes, which meant 27 minutes to a toilet. The kidneys apparently do marvelous things to glistening coffee drinks.
At Buena Vista, the oldest continuing vineyard in Sonoma County, we met Corki, a native Californian with the tan to show it, who was long-time friends with Christa from god-knows-when. Corki’s sister and brother-in-law, Candy and Rick, from Davis, California, are wine lovers who trek out to the vineyards nearly every week and had actually cleared their schedules to lead us on our very own wine tour. Corki, bless her, does not drink, and explained winsomely that this solution would lead to a more prolific wine experience than she could attempt on her own.
Rick and Candy were very engaging. They both work in real estate, if my memory serves. The six of us all ate lunch at the Rutherford Grill, adjacent to Beaulieu Vineyard on Highway 29. The food was so wonderful and fresh. Rick chose a chardonnay by Frank Family to accompany the meal. I am not a fan of chardonnay, but was pleased with it, anyway. He told us that Frank Family was local—nearby, in fact—and that we could visit later.
By the way, it is worth telling, from my perspective, that I had by now begun piloting my new best friend, Mercredi, around the Napa valley. Hardly anything makes me happier than driving around a car full of people on a fine occasion. And, I dare ask, what could be a finer occasion than bouncing from fine restaurant to fine wineries in beautiful country with a vague recollection of what day it is?
We crossed the street after lunch to the Rubicon Estate, a Coppolla-owned thing that reminded me of the Disneyland of wine. It was beautiful, but we didn’t bother tasting there and left within 30 minutes to speed along to our next destination, Frank Family, some distance north in Calistoga between 29 and the Silverado Trail, that famous stretch of wine highway.
This establishment is so low key that it reminded me of the family-owned greenhouses where my Mother buys her potted flowers every spring. In fact, my only photo of the place reveals low ceiling crowned with fluorescent lights, an in-wall A/C unit, and cheap Marilyn Monroe prints. But the wine and the people were both highly commendable.
Immediately, upon entering, we were hustled with mock seriousness to the first tasting bar to try their bubblies. I think we tried four sparkling wines, with the most notable being a champagne-style sparkling wine fortified with 19-year old Cognac. It was formidable and I longed to buy it, but I didn’t dare risk a cork explosion in my luggage with a $60 bottle. When I spoke this protest to the gregarious taste-dispenser behind the counter, he feebly reminded me that that’s what the glass bottle and wire retaining harness around the cork are for. Hmm.
At the end of a narrow hallway by the sparkling wine counter, visitors will find a mid-size room filled with happy tasters and headed up by a knowledgeable staffer who was always fighting for control of the room’s collective focus. It seems to me that there must be some incongruity in dispensing wine generously and expecting a rapt audience as a result. Be that as it may, they ought not change a thing.
It was here, under the gauzy leer of Marilyn Monroe, that I fell in love with a good chardonnay. After one sip, the warm complexity of fruit and butter rushed onto my palette, and I remember being incredulous that anything so good could possibly be a chardonnay. I have long dismissed California wines, in general, as too expensive, too overblown, and chardonnay as the evil sibling of the equally evil white zinfandel. Now, my extravagant opinion is augmented, although I still don’t understand why they cost so much. Very good bottles of pretty much anything are available from $12-$20 dollars from France, Spain, Central America, and Australia. At the places we visited in California, hardly anything went for less than $30 minimum, except the Rosé I bought later. I snapped up a bottle of the Frank Family 2006 Chardonnay for $35.02 with tax. With the wide availability of aforementioned great, inexpensive wine, this was probably the priciest bottle I’ve ever bought outside of a restaurant. Tasting it first, twice in the same day, made a difference to me, though, and it was a pleasure to buy directly from the producers.
Puis, we hustled into our cars and made off like a messenger to Rombauer Vineyards on the Silverado Trail, south just a short distance in St. Helena. It was nearing 5PM, the near universal closing time in the world of wine (and pretty damn near the whole state, if I may kvetch), and we still had two places to go.
Rombauer had a muted driveway entrance; it emanated the sort of confidence that knows its visitors will expect only the best from them—no elaborate signage or other lures were necessary. Other visitors might wind their way gently through the beautiful driveway, between the redwood trees and impossibly green foliage, but we applied a bit more torque, so to speak.
Now, Rick and Candy, as I said, go to wine country a lot. Many people know them. Most vineyards charge anywhere from $5-$20 for a series of wine tastings, which is just the sort of fee that is easily waived for friends and family of the staff and loyal customers. Rick and Candy are, so we did not pay. Not only do I love keeping the extra cash, but I love the idea of being in the arena with people with associations.
We put ourselves under the charms of our hostess, who dispensed a Zinfandel I could not leave without (the only California grape I’ve ever sworn by). For $30.98, it was certainly among the better Zinfandels I’ve bought, but still up there price-wise. The views from this place were magnificent. It was docked on a lovely perch overlooking vibrant mountains offset by dry rows of vines, There was a picnic grove nearby, according to Rick. I could’ve spent hours here, and it was my overall favorite place of the entire tour. Here is a place I will certainly visit again.
This time, we hustled to our cars with slightly more urgency, and raced down the Silverado Trail for a while to Chimney Rock, which seemed familiar to me, but I cannot say for sure if I’ve ever drunk their wines.
Here, we were greeted by Joan, an iron-witted woman in her sixties who entertained us just as much as the excellent wines she served us. I was smitten with the Rosé of Cabernet Franc, and the $16.99 price tag caused me no remorse. This establishment is known for its Elévage, a blend of their own varietals that changes yearly. Rick told me later that the blend is chosen in an annual contest at Chimney Rock, and that he and Candy had devised the winning blend in 2005! A marvelous distinction, I think.
That settled the first day’s wine tasting. It was now 5PM, and we were invited to the home of Corki and Candy’s parents, in Davis, for dinner. It took a while, but we made it there, and so much enjoyed the company of the family. Their charming, kind parents made us an enormous dinner, and we had a lovely time. After dinner, Mercredi brought us back to the hotel in just an hour, and we plopped in bed ready for round two in wine country the next morning.
On our own for the second day, we decided it would be most fun to point our finger on the map and have Maggie show us the way. What we ended up doing was a more pragmatic variation of the same concept: we called people in the know and asked where to go. Then we plugged in the coordinates and Maggie led the way. It was free-spirited leisure at its American best. Using cell phones to get advice, then using satellite technology to show us how to get there—all without getting off our butts. It’s the way to go.
The first place we stopped was Artesa, which was stunning from top to bottom. We didn’t taste there because it was still too early, but it was astounding to look at, and the views were magnificent. Please see photos.
Then it was lunchtime. We stopped at Mustard’s, which Corki had pointed out the day before. It is yet another thoroughly delicious, well-priced establishment oozing with God’s bounty, which is to say that the Garden of Eden could serve as a stand-in exemplar for this class of restaurant. Everything tasted so clean and real.
We visited a number of places that afternoon, including Sterling Vineyards, Sattui, and Opus One, among others that I’ve completely forgotten. It became clear that Rick and Candy had given us a tour that showcased some very fine establishments that, on our own, would have taken perspicacity and a long process of elimination to discover. I just can’t wait to return, now, and start that process anew.
On Saturday, back in San Francisco, I took Saturday morning easy and went to the Ferry Building (www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com) on the Embarcadero.
It is a restored building that hosts a farmer’s market and many small shops, along with some larger, better recognized ones, like Sur La Table. I bought coffee beans from Peet’s, browsed the wine shop, and bought a bottle of California olive oil from Stonehouse Olive Oil. I discovered later that they have a location in New York, so I could have forgone the risk of overpacking my luggage.
Our final quest, at least on the part of Kellen and I, was to eat lots of oysters for presumably much less than what we would pay in New York. I had staked out the Ferry Building that morning and was satisfied that the Hog Island Oyster Company was what we were looking for. We called them later and understood their closing time to be 8PM. We arrived at 5:57PM, and a harried waitress managed to tell us that they were closed. We were furious, panicking that the oysters we had anticipated were now out of reach because some restaurant wanted to close at 6PM on a Saturday night. We made a stink and spoke to the manager, who was kind enough to direct us next door to Ferry Plaza Seafood, which, according to their manager, only closed “around 6:30 or so.” We had little choice and endeavored to enjoy what we could as quickly as possible.
The oysters were, of course, fantastic, and fairly priced at $23 a dozen. We were seated at a glass wall that directly overlooks the water and the enormously grand Bay Bridge (I don’t know why the Golden Gate gets all the attention).
We were very happy with what we got, and set ourselves strolling up the Embarcadero to Fisherman’s Wharf, because Christa knew that the Ghirardelli Center was somewhere nearby. We walked for a good forty-five minutes, with dusk settling in as we got there. It was our last night, and I was beginning to settle with the idea that I would be leaving the next day. Luggage, airport, home, work.
I got an earlier standby flight on Sunday, despite having to give up an aisle seat in an exit row on my original flight. I was just not interested in returning home too late after dawdling about alone in San Francisco with packed luggage and my companions already gone.
The trip was an enormous pleasure mostly because it completely surpassed my expectations. The scenery in wine country was overwhelming, and it frequently reminded me of the south of France, for which I still experience great nostalgia one year past. I suppose that Napa Valley was such an affecting experience because it was a close integration of two places that I love so much: America and France. The south of France’s food and wine culture, the empty sky, and endless rows of vines blended for me with the things I love so much about America: familiarity, freedom, cars, being able to speak the common language, and having the resources to experience such things with people who are worth it.
I am sure that juxtaposing France and California made the trip so affective, most of all because, unlike France, California was shared with gems of people like Kellen and Christa, and with the delightful company of her friends. I am anxious to return, but it will be for a new experience, for this one cannot be replicated.
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