Summertime and Livermore’s Easy

So many seasonal festivals everywhere, and nowhere more so than in California, a state larger than most nations.

Our neighboring city of Brentwood just had CornFest; our ‘hood of Oakley celebrates the annual Almond Festival. There are county fairs, street fairs and weekly Farmers Markets. Chambers of Commerce and nonprofit societies statewide sponsor fundraising weekends. Hell, even the city of Martinez, a mere olive’s toss west of Oakley, celebrates its putative history as the birthplace of a classic cocktail, with the annual Martini Festival.

Lots of diversity in theme, lots of range in terms of vibe, but one festival constant: Bring cash. Plastic frequently ain’t no good at these clambakes. Greenbacks buy you scrip or raffle-type paper tix from the roll. Sometimes you even trade your scrip in for tokens, which are then accepted in exchange for your wine pour.

But gotta tell ya, a glug from a bottle of Sauv Blanc pulled from a bucket of ice water and free-poured into a plastic cup on a 90-degree cloudless Sunday afternoon can easily elucidate our funky U-Pick, Gnarly Vine, Bad-Bocce Playing, Previously-Neglected-Model-Home existence. Three years running, soon. And here we are.

Down south in Livermore, home to, if you’ve read Kathy and me before, the wineries that fuel our semi-annual Fall and Spring “Port Run's, and holiday open houses of their own device, we ventured farther west toward downtown to attend the “Art Under the Oaks” shindig.

Held at the Alden Lane Nursery, and cosponsored by the Livermore Art Association, it was a cool little fest celebrated over a quarter-century, offering wares from local artists and winemakers, as well as spotlighting a huge array of flora for sale at the gorgeously appointed nursery, laid out in concentric circles with paths interspersed to live music.

As Kath’s photo may suggest, the “Oaks” in “Art Under the Oaks” are the full-meal deal, shielding more than a couple of our fave Livermore winery tasting tables. We dipped into some nicely unusual varietal stuff from familiar stops on our Livermore tours. Rodrigue Molyneaux was offering a case special of Pinot Blanc and an outrageously minty Cabernet for pickup at the winery close by. Before heading off from Alden, we toured the citrus circle. Man, grapefruit growing in pots! Exotic oranges! Buddha’s Hand fully formed!

My envy was as green as our tiny Meyer lemons in the backyard here in Oakley.

OK, no particular order, but we got to RodMoly to buy the case of wine. Again I say OK, but when one has announced the intention to buy a case of wine (albeit for a deep discount of $100), would that one be expected to pay the winery tasting fee? As one may say at the London Olympics, “Gob smacked, mate!” Years ago, I talked about “Fee Creep.” Apparently, it’s here, too.

Did not hurt that the Steven Kent winery, umbrella to the Pinot-centric La Rochelle (the only Livermore wine club to which we $ubScribe), allows us to taste gratis. SK’s “Barrel Room” is an oh-so civilized respite: It’s intimate, yet a host leads you to a wood-topped tasting board atop a barrel, and you are looked after by a professional staff fully capable of pulling a few “extra” bottles out of their collective sleeve. Have not had a bad tasting there yet. Never would have thought that spendy SK could be our $afe harbor when trying to escape tasting fees.

Sometimes, that same little joy that you get at a free festival is worth the journey. That citrus was really green. But, with a smile on my face, I say so was that Sauvignon Blanc.

And I say so with taste buds that are more palimpsest than palate.

RIP: Rich Pato

Richard V. Pato, local Oakley grape grower, died July 10, 2012.

I would like to say that I interviewed him for the local CoCo blog, I have to say that a self-effacing phone call and a tractor-side handshake were all that I got from a local cat who grew the do, and told me that the widening of Empire Road, adjacent to his vineyard acreage, into a suburban thoroughfare was “a pain in the neck.” Yep, he actually said “neck.

Rosenblum Cellars, owned for years now by drinks giant Diageo, has committed themselves to vineyard-designated sites up and down Cali. “Pato,” in our burg, Oakley, was just one of them. I have a call in to Diageo to see what happens now.

McGruff & Me: Take a Sip Out of Crime!

Hi guys! Our latest wine tasting adventure took us out of CoCo County to get our passports stamped a bit west in Alameda County.

It was our second year attending the Alameda Meals On Wheels Wine Tasting Fundraiser. And, planned to perfection by Kathy (exercise at the gym, our annual trip to the only IKEA in the East Bay), we were able to arrive at Rock Wall Winery’s barrel room, the event’s venue, just after post time.

We had a blast last year, and this year was just as memorable, if not for slightly different reasons: mostly good, mind you.

The cavernous space is tricked out with perimeter tables offering vino from producers small and large, local and farther-afield-Cali, interspersed with tasty offerings from restaurants based from Oakland to Walnut Creek. It’s a great graze-and gulp vibe, but the thang is to be cool. Sure, we saw some exponentially bad tasting room behavior one would find only this side of a Napa bachelorette party, but for the most part, ‘twas cool.

Yeah, I thought that the pours were skimpy, but no one was keeping score if one (or one’s partner) went back for another shot of high-test.

The “silent auction” tables comprised the core of the floor. You write your name and contact info beside your bid, then check back periodically to see who wrote their name on a line, i.e. higher bid than yours. We love it, but Kath got pissed: Written bids end at a certain time, and the same turkey vultures that we find in CoCo swoop in to Alameda at 3:59 p.m. to write in the final twenty-five dollar bump.

Bitterly, I can only say, “Enjoy your $325 water crackers with Earl Grey sachets, mofo.” But, of course, that comes from a place of love.

We are sitting out on a former US Naval base tarmac, under an event tent, sharing a table with a retired Brooklyn firefighter, doing recognizance for two more pours. An outrageous big band, “3 O’Clock Jump,” is hitting on all valves and reeds. And kids, sans footwear, are throwing their stuffed animals around.

How can this get more goofily wonderful? Well, at a break, I chatted with 3 O'Clock’s bandleader to ask him if what finally twigged in my head, that the opening hardcore brass-heavy theme was from “The Naked Gun.” He was delighted. It ain’t Lalo Schifrin; it’s Ira Newborn. Imdb does nobody justice.

Daddy knew that, and this was the swinginest opening to any set; how did these charts get into anybody’s gig bag? That’s all I ask.

Kathy and I chill, do the wine recog. I bask in the glow that has our tablemates loving my purple argyle socks.

Our tablemates split. We do, too.

PS: As we walk to the Lisa Marie, we see cops cruising the lot, then handcuffing someone.

PPS: McGruff, what’s up? I have never seen this before, though, I must admit, I cannot understand why cops are not stationed outside of wine tasting rooms. But here was a charity event, with piss-ass pours, and this is where the hammer comes down?

Corn on the Sob

Oh, man. Yeah, Kathy and I try to do our little weekend adventures, but she took some vacay days to address home improvement.

Ya know how they say that there is no such thing as a $50 car repair? Daddy, that’s the hookup we are finding out with 3.5 bathrooms in the joint we’re living in right now. All brass fixtures, all da time. As mentioned, this house was built 2000, but looks 1983. I love a welder-chick-by-day, dancer-by-night as much as the next straight guy, but what a feeling. I am music now.

But we gots Bryan Brizendine to do the do; all bathrooms non tricked out to chrome. I call him BB King. That’s what I’m talking about.

But we got to the annual corn festival in neighboring Brentwood.

Little blind kitty. OK, I digress. Just read a piece in the local about a feral cat who, after several months of feeding, turned out to be sightless; a second feral kitty jumped up and became his guide, waiting patiently while the former finished his food, keeping him safe from the pool, etc. That’s why I get sucky. Man, I can get weepy reading newspaper Page 2.

So, Kath and I head down to Livermore to p/u our new Pinots from a vineyard way up north in Alexander Valley (where France’s Roderer Estate decided to establish their New World outpost), then hit CornFest.

Yeah, yeah: lots of merchants. Cheesy rides. And fire-roasted corn that may have seen five seconds of a safety match. Gotta love it. We could not believe how much fun we had at, and spent time at, the music bandshells. Rock dudes who looked to be about 5 years of age jamming (and they had a merch table (!), and banners exclaiming that they won a Los Angeles muso competition). But when we headed over to the West stage, we could not be prepared for complete strangers falling into line, kickin’ it synchronicity style, and mouthing the lyrics to, literally, boot.

Kickin’ it, or kitties; corn husks or the Conzelman Vineyard: festivals are us.

Wine Upon the Waves

Ah, the siren call of Discovery Bay. Kathy and I were just there last weekend for the “Paddle for Fame,” which set an authorized world record for largest amalgam of nonmotorized watercraft. And last Saturday afternoon, we were back at the scene of the sunburn (we’re both still peeling), namely: the Discovery Bay Yacht Harbor, this time for a 2-hour BYO-wine cruise of Discovery Bay aboard the “Rosemarie” piloted by Captain Frank Morgan.

Yep, Capt. Morgan.

The idea for this little wine&brine jaunt is that every passenger brings an unopened bottle of vino, in order to share sips, stories and general schmoozing, as cruise the residential waterfront maze that is Disco Bay.

No kidding: Within DB proper lie dozens of smaller manmade inlets, coves, baby bays, curlicues and twisty-treats along the narrow waterways, most lined with residences on either side. It was an amazing tour, sipping wine, waving and raising our glasses to passing boaters and landlubbers lounging on their waterfront patios.

Under cloudless blue skies, the California vibe was complete, as Venice, Santa Monica and Beverly Hills mashed up here in Contra Costa County. Million-dollar+ properties jostling next to weekends-only fixer bungalows; teak-trimmed yachts and inflatable loungers, construction design ranging from over-the-top to under the radar: It’s a fascinating side of CoCo that Kath and I could only have seen from the water.

Now, if the cruising aspect was inspired, the wine aspect was, uh, not so much. As newbies (or as my idiot neighbor across the street once called me and Kathy, “Nubians”), Kath and I took the whole “bring a wine to talk about with others” thing seriously. We packed a pair of Cline Zinfandels into the padded wine luggage to take aboard: Big Break and Bridgehead vineyard designates, from sites right here in our Oakley ‘hood. We thought that these local sites might provide some light conversation, should anyone be mildly interested in the juice.

OK, don’t get me wrong here. Our fellow passengers were unfailingly nice and sociable; we shared plenty of laughs. But the uneasy feeling that began when we spotted the first Safeway bag, turned in to downright resignation when it became apparent that many, if not most, of the cruise-goers purchased their offering at a supermarket mere minutes before setting sail.

And swapping $58 worth of old-vine Zin for a swig of Barefoot Cellars, Crane Lake or Woodbridge was, well, enough to put the “Oy!” in “Ahoy!”

But we’ll know better next time.

Raucousness, Rays and Rafting Up

Kath and I spent one of the zaniest Saturday afternoons we’d ever spent since landing in CoCo County almost three years ago.

The “6th Annual Discovery Bay Paddle for Fame” is a gonzo event that almost defies description. But I’ll try.

Held in the spacious lagoon just outside the moorage area of the Discovery Bay Yacht Club harbor, the Paddle for Fame invites one and all to float their nonmotorized seagoing vessel, be it paddleboat; kayak; boogie board inflatable pool lounger; canoe or inner tube, out into the briny in an effort to break the world record for “rafting up”: the formation of a contiguous mass of self-propelled watercraft.

Last year’s record, set at Disco Bay and acknowledged by the international body that governs such things, was 492 boats or boat-like flotation devices, as evidenced by aerial photographs snapped at a predetermined moment and scanned by sharp-eyed officials.
This year, the fly-over photos were to be taken at 3 p.m., and participating paddlers started gathering and hitting the lagoon at 10 a.m. Let the party begin, Gilligan!

By the time Kath and I arrived a bit after noon, the clambake was splashing with vendors on the green, motorized yachts cruising the blue, paddlers launching from the wharf, the funk band starting to unload equipment by the stage, and kids running and taking deadly aim with Super Soakers.

Now, you have to understand that Kath and I both thought that we’d spend 30 minutes tops at this thing. You know, stroll the grounds, maybe have a glass of wine, and, despite bringing our low folding chairs just in case, would no doubt bail long before the aerial flyover.

Four hours, a few drinks, and, we discovered that evening, two cases of extreme sunburn bordering on sunstroke later, we discreetly made our exit, sometime between the 10-piece “Touch of Class Band”’s covers of “Disco Inferno” and “It’s Hot in Here.”

The wine was individual varietal servings of Copa, a proprietary brand of resealable 187-ml portions featured on our new guilty television pleasure, “Shark Tank,” in which five filthy-rich entrepreneurs mercilessly grill would-be inventors seeking investment funds.

But it was the people-watching and –listening that kept us there soaking up unhealthy amounts of outdoor ultraviolet. Whether it was the slacker dude turning to his buddy to remark “Lotta plastic surgery around here, bruh,” the would-be paddler heading to the wharf and sporting a truck-size inner tube that had to have been 40% duct tape, or the inappropriate-age-for-a-bikini-clad woman (to paraphrase Raymond Chandler: “She was pushing 60 so hard she nearly broke a wrist”) with skin so tanned that she could send both Coach and Kate Spade into a bidding war, the atmosphere was outrageously festive. OK, the mortgage broker leaving her booth to offer complimentary chair-side Margaritas may have had something to do with it, too.

We ended up staying for the skydivers, the flyover photo and a booty-shakin’ dose of funky R&B. A glorious afternoon of surprising fun in Disco Bay.

BTW: Kathy found out on Monday that they broke the 2011 record, with well over 600 craft “rafting up.”