Now, the club was a legit charter of the United States Croquet Association (USCA), an august governing body overseeing the tournament game which is an entirely different animal from the backyard version.
In those days, although my game was weak, my dues were welcome because I was one of the only members who actually lived in 90210, and the BH Parks & Rec department didn’t love providing services (and devoting an entire erstwhile lawn bowling court) at Roxbury Park to nonresidents wielding mallets.
I loved my Saturday morning matches, being able to walk to the park from my BH lean-to (I thought I looked so hot strolling down Rodeo Drive in my white togs, wicket-ly on a mission), to embarrass myself on the court.
During my tenure, I’d play against or, less frequently, with, members including Hollywood actors Cesare Danova and Maurice Marsac; Rhys, a published author who, at the time had just completed his manuscript documenting the search for Judy Garland’s “Wizard of Oz” ruby slippers; J.D. Salinger’s son, Matt; a good ol’ boy who lived in a trailer in Malibu, a la Rockford; and Bob, my fave partner, who made me a custom croquet mallet which I cherish to this day. R.I.P. Bob.
Now, know that almost all of these folks had dough. The number of times I heard them talk about USCA championships being held up in Northern California at regulation croquet courts at Meadowood in Napa, or Sonoma-Cutrer in, interestingly enough, Sonoma, had this Toronto transplant shrinking into the background faster than a drive-shot peel.
The other day, Kathy and I had an appointment for winetasting at Sonoma-Cutrer. And if the fact of multiple Chardonnays and a Pinot Noir, in beautiful stemware, on the patio at 10 a.m. doesn’t put you ball-in-hand (It’s a croquet term; whaddya think we’re running here?), the view overlooking the croquet courts should.
Cesare was right: none of Scorsese’s “Mean Streets” were in evidence at this oh-so-civilized venue. I so wanted to trot down to play some “hoops,” but was more than content to partake of some of the most distinctive, designated Chards to hit the glass. And, at price points in the $20s and $30s, there was absolutely no sticker shock. I’m already dreaming of our next visit to Sonoma-Cutrer. And I’d never thought that I’d say that the wonderful wine was a bonus.
Onward to Rochioli, a favorite Pinot producer which always sells out of its specialty bottlings of same to mailing list clients, but always has a couple of thangs at the tasting bar. It can be a dice-roll, and today featured, among a couple of other varietal bottles, a Valdiguie red which had recently been widely classified as Gamay until a visiting winemaker from France hipped them to their misnomenclature. Fact or fiction: I mean, it would not stop anyone from making the leap to Cru Beaujolais. Wrong grape, but still, what region: Brouilly? Julienas? Roll dem bones.
OK, so we’re off to downtown Healdsburg, a vibrant town square full of boutiques and boutique wine tasting rooms. A while back, we dropped in to what was once the Gallo tasting room; on that visit it had been transformed into a sparkling lounge, i.e., a “sparkling” lounge, featuring bubbles from the Boisset family.
It all came into perspective last fall, when Wine Spectator featured a cover story on scion Jean Charles with his wife, Gina Gallo, entertaining at their San Francisco joint.
We had a great tasting with attendant Jesse, bantering chez “JCB.” We bought $50 worth of Cremant. And then, Jesse had the Gaul to honor the 2-for-1 coupon. Whether it was Kathy or me, one of us got charged an $18 tasting fee based on the 2-for-1.
We may not have learned a lot while tasting and touring, but one thing that does slip out is that the folks behind the stick can do whatever they want to do: wave or waive. Just wish that JCB could have TCB.
That little bit of dosage would have ensured a return visit from us, and extended our history of purchases at the lounge. Two-fer or not, we may just walk on by.
Hit garagiste Roadhouse, a small Pinot Noir joint with a tasting room a few doors down. Glad we did: These guys are doing the do.
We left downtown to head a few miles west, to make our appointment at A. Rafanelli, a shrine to Dry Creek fruit. Man, this day we have never seen the pews so full: There’s a gate code that you must punch in; we did, and promptly had to back up for previous tasters leaving. Rafanelli has only two or three wines anyway; they’ll be the first to wonder whassup. A couple of head-on collisions on their driveway might figure it out.
On to Unti a mile away. Ran into Kate, who recognized us when she was pouring at Nalle a couple of years ago. Just goes to show that Tony being obnoxious and repetitive about his wine lore just might not doom Kathy and me to the back of the tasting bar. Again, they were packed, and we overheard a discreet staffer mutter, “Oh, they finally showed up.”
CSI: Sonoma.
So we check in to the Super 8 motel that we usually bed in. Look, whoever recommended visiting four wineries WITH a designated driver never did this right. Pal, we live two hours from this region; if you have to fly multiple hours to “Wine Country,” wherever that may be, you need just a cot and an ice machine.
We check in, and then hit a crazy tasting room north (North? We’re already out of das tasting loop!) of our Cloverdale Super 8.
Ulises Valdez has been tending vines, consulting on same, managing wine properties and, I’m only guessing here, wondering why he couldn’t do his own thang.
He did. And you don’t enter the biz without good grape sources.
This cat knows everybody: Watch his label. He’s wired.
No comments:
Post a Comment