Aw, Shucks!

Yep, it happened again.

A few times every year, Kathy gets a jones for fresh oysters on the half shell. The other weekend, when we were strolling past a bistro on the downtown Sonoma Plaza, K skidded to a stop in front of the posted menu. It featured raw oysters, and she was almost prepared to drop over 30 clams to share a dozen with me.

Figuring that that sum would buy another bottle of wine for the cellar, she wisely decided that that may not have been the most prudent use of funds. As last week’s post noted, we moved on to another tasting room. Or two.

But the next week, Kath was jonesin’, man, and the ‘Nam flashback of Seattle-area seafood was, well, not “seared” into, because that’s not how we like our bivalves, but certainly on-the-half shell-shocking our brains.

Not sure if you remember, but here in CoCo County, far East Bay, any retail seafood available is “previously frozen for quality.” We’re not in the Pacific Northwest anymore.

Last Christmas, when Kathy and I needed to scratch our mollusk itch, we drove the 16 miles from Oakley to the eastern end of our BART rail line to arrive, an hour later, into San Fran for a bacchanalian feed of raw oysters from, among other West Coast beds, California’s Tomales Bay. Expensive, but a perfect week-before-Christmas sojourn. Get thee behind me, Heat Miser!

And then, the week before Labor Day, Kath suggests that, for oysters, we go to the source. She hits Google Maps and the next thing I know, we’re on the road to Tomales Bay Oyster Company on California Highway 1.

Tomales Bay is very much like Puget Sound in WA state: People think that they’re at the Pacific Ocean, but there’s an entire western land mass jutting out to protect you from, oh, I don’t know: sneaker waves, tsunamis, salmon attacks?

Very reminiscent of the two-lane highway, twisty-turny roads that Kathy and I have encountered on WA’s Olympic Peninsula, Napa-to-Sonoma’s Oakville Grade or Highway 128, and yes, the route to oysters.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that Tomales Bay Oyster Co. was the coolest joint. I can not begin to describe the oyster experience, but that will not stop me from trying.

OK, first, cash only. Kathy and I made sure to arm ourselves with five 20s from the Oakley ATM. We left the house at 9 a.m., expecting a 2-hour drive west toward Bodega Bay because the facility opens at 11 a.m. I guess not on holidays. We arrived at 11:02, were able to get a picnic table, and watched as folks arriving 30 minutes later were asking if we’d be leaving soon, and, if so, would we let them know.

Look, I know that the last paragraph sounds pathetic, but you have to know how we, as first-timers, dug this. Frankly, I have never seen Kathy so happy. She kept repeating how cool everybody was. Almost every picnic table was positioned in front of a BBQ grill. The head of a family of eight came over to tell us that they were done with it, and that we could use it. The guys beside us had a case of Ashanti beer and one bottle of Chablis, but they forget the corkscrew. It was not until I remarked, “Wow, you guys have the right idea,” that he said that he saw that we had an opener. He was not even going to ask to borrow our corkscrew, until we actually offered.

Check it: K, upon arrival, does recon: find one table, hold, find one better. And that’s what happened, and that’s why other folks wanted our table. Now, you all can see the photo and check the bayside vibe at Tomales Bay Oyster Co. I can not explain it, but can this be a Labor Day tradition?

Just gotta say, Kathy had the sense to get me to pack the picnic basket with a couple of plates and wine tumblers, oyster shucking knives and gloves. To dine, and I say “dine” because that is what Kathy and I did this midday, is one of the coolest things that we have ever done together. She packed a separate insulated bag with cubbies for a couple of bottles of crisp Muscadet Sur Lie, and we made short order of them and a mesh bag of 50 Tomales Bay bivalves. The whole scene was very busy, packed and high energy, but the whole crowd was very civilized and friendly. Oysters, wine and a well-behaved crowd: Heaven.

Another highlight of the day occurred on the highway. That section of Highway 1 in Marin zigs and zags pretty severely, with only one lane in each direction. Some bozo in the car behind is riding our tail. Although we were obeying the speed limit, we, and the several cars ahead of us, obviously was making him impatient. We watched in shock as this doorknob proceeds to cross the double-yellow lines to pass every vehicle, one by one. Kathy and I were aghast, and uncharitably wished that we’d see him in the ditch up ahead.

We needn’t have wished for an injury: The only cop we saw on our road trip that day had already pulled Passing Pete over, about a mile up the road.

Champenoise and a Checkered Flag

So, last Sunday was our little exercise in vinous multitasking. Cline was hosting a club members’ party to pick up the latest selections, but since it didn’t start until 2 p.m., Kathy and I thought that we’d, to paraphrase Frank’s rendition of “Nice and Easy,” make a few stops along the way.

We thought that it would be oh-so-civilized to begin the day just past Cline to sip a flute of sparkling wine at Sonoma’s Gloria Ferrer; they’re a participant in the VISA Signature complimentary promo, but the last time we pulled up, they were hosting a special event and the tasting room was closed. This last weekend was magical chez Gloria.

But first, we had to run the Highway 12 cones at Infineon Raceway, this weekend the home to the Indy Grand Prix of Sonoma.

Now, Kath and I used to live in San Fran 13 years ago, and we’ve made this trek many times. Hell, in the 2 years we’ve lived in Oakley, we’ve made this trip, from the opposite direction, as many times. But this is the first time that we’ve hit the highway on race day.

California Highway Patrol is directing traffic into the various gates, as everyone, whether attending or passing through, is backed up on the drag; all traffic signals are set to flashing red. Actually, we’ve endured more frustration on our local Highway 4 than this semi-ordeal. And, hey, Helio Castroneves was competing. Today, as a driver, not on “Dancing With the Stars.”

So, Kath and I eventually get to Gloria Ferrer and its majestic facility. And the experience was both wonderful and hilarious. It’s a different experience, in that it’s more of a wine bar than a tasting room. One can get a teaser taste or two, but it’s primarily a joint at which to order a flute, sojourn to the patio and chill.

The patio overlooks the sloping vines, and on this gorgeously sunny ayem (see photo), we sipped our bubbles as the pitter-patter of INDY GRAND PRIX wafted over us! Kathy and I just had to crack up. Table service on the terrace didn’t hurt, either.

Our next stop, for the first time, was the downtown Sonoma Plaza, a quaint place that we’d tried to visit previously. It’s home to lots of tasting rooms, but the free diagonal parking disappears by morning, so every time K and I have tried to drop in, we’ve ended up circling the square, then abandoning the search in favor of continuing up 12 (the same main drag, BTW) toward Glen Ellen or Kenwood for other wineries up the Valley.

This time, we got here earlier, got parking, and got to experience many of the tasting rooms that have opened outposts downtown. Kinda liked we talked about a few weeks ago about the Walla Walla Woodinville tasting rooms. As usual, some places were more welcoming than others; again, the staff sells the show. Does not hurt when the winemaker is on site. Such was the case in the Plaza chez Westwood, our last stop downtown before hitting the Cline clambake.

Now, Cline has the wildest wine club. They have multiple tiers: reds, whites or mixed. But one can substitute anything on their roster for anything else. And one gets the same 25% discount. And that’s what happened when we showed up for our first party.

Great time: lots of wine, servers with silver trays and tons of people who want to share your table. Seriously, very cool.

Our Dinner at Tess’

A few weeks ago, Kathy and I were shopping for produce at the Saturday Farmers Market in neighboring Brentwood, and after Kath had her ration of pickling cukes, herbs and vegetables for the coming week’s recipes and culinary projects, she asked me if it would be wrong to go into the Co. Co. County Wine Company for an adult beverage. They open in the morning on Saturdays, specifically for the Farmers Market crowd.

Hey, as far as I’m concerned, it’s 5 a.m. somewhere.

Winemaker Becky Bloomfield of Bloomfield Vineyards owns the joint, and this particular ayem she was behind the stick making Mimosi and Bellino to order. Becky chatted us up a bit about a fundraising event that was upcoming, and to which she was donating some wine.

Before finishing our bevies, we took an event flier; later that afternoon Kathy had us take a flyer on the upcoming event: the Second Annual Fundraiser for Tess’ Community Farm Kitchen. Online reservations were made; soon, tax-deductible 501(C) 3 tickets were received by mail.

A decade ago, Brentwood business attorney (still practicing) Barbara Frantz purchased a 10-acre parcel of agricultural land near Discovery Bay (BTW: Kath recently brought home word of the dates for the next semi-annual Disco Bay Country Club wine event, which we’ve written about before.), with an idea to nurture the land, educate folks to the value of fresh produce, and to serve as a resource to local farmers, many of whom can lose a literal ton of fruit to the ground if the big boys (supermarkets) aren’t in the mood to buy this year.

[Sidebar, Your Honor: Several months ago, I overheard one very successful local farmer admit a fact that, in theoretical reality, made perfect sense, but that, in my touchy-feely-buy from-the-source-and-pay-a-premium-sometimes reality, kinda stung. It seems that super-high-end markets, such as Whole Foods and the like, want only unblemished, perfect-looking fruit. Agricultural acne of any kind will not be tolerated. Any produce exhibiting a minor blemish (and I emphasize “minor”; it’s not like these farmers distribute rotten fruit) is the stuff that goes to CSA subscribers and B-to-C walk-ins, at least in the case of this operation.]

It’s almost reminiscent of the wine biz: In what other world would the price be higher at its source (the winery) than off-site (the supermarket)?

But back to business: A big part of Barbara’s mission is to show how growers don’t have to lose that valuable fruit to the worms; culled fruit can be made into jams, sauces, vinaigrettes, pastries and other goodies that, as she notes, “last on a shelf a lot longer than on a tree.”

The Tess’ Community Farm Kitchen event definitely put the ‘fun” in “fundraiser.” Named for Barbara’s mom, the locale (and similarly named organization) served as a wonderful backdrop for the mission, as local farmers, vintners, retailers and restaurants donated goods and services to make for a very civilized late afternoon/evening of al fresco dining in the orchard. Didn’t hurt that all of our tablemates were a hoot, but when one of them is a beekeeper, that’s all I need to listen enrapt over one more cup of Chardonnay.

I talked for a long time with John Papini Sr, honcho of Papini Farms, a place Kathy and I have visited for the last two springtimes in order to get the jump on their U-Pick fruit. This man is the real deal, articulating the vagaries and the challenges of keeping the generational farm operating in the face of today’s business machinations, but at the same time he’s garrulous, hilarious and all kinds of good “ous”es one would find only in the dictionary. Check out our photo of John’s mobile grillmobile, at which he tended the corn, the chicken and the ribs, all donated from local farms and restaurants.

And what a menu! Multiple courses featuring heirloom tomatoes, organic figs, sweet potato dumplings with local honey, grilled zucchini, mixed greens with a white Balsamic, lemon cupcakes with lavender frosting, and the opportunity to grab a paper bag and scissors to snip off bunches of grapes in the vineyard to take home!

Our carte came with a list of donors, and it read like an Oakley, Brentwood, Disco Bay, Antioch and Byron “Who’s Who?”: Olive oil from our pals Dawn and David at Brentwood Olive Oil and Spices; peaches from Frog Hollow Farms; wines from Becky’s concern and Hannah Nicole Winery, beer from Schooner’s, a cool brewpub out west by the Vold-Mort (sorry, Wal-Mart). And gotta love that a couple of local Safeways and a Starbucks gave the love.

Which sort of seems to be the point of Tess’ Community Farm Kitchen.

Counselor Barbara A. Frantz, may I have you ask for a continuance, at least until next year?

Charles R Us

Sorry if I get all “stream of consciousness” on y’all, this week was actually pretty funny.

Kathy and I get lots of e-mails from lots of wineries, and one in the in-box indicated that one joint in Livermore, just south of us in Oakley, had space for their “August Moon” dinner. And like Lon Chaney Jr. in the iconic Wolfman pix, Kath bit. Arroooooo!

Now, for us to eschew Snappy Hour at the house on a valuable weekend in order to do the do south in Livermore, well that’s a commitment from this couple. Glad we did.

Couple of things about Charles R Winery: they very recently lost a family member/winemaker. The fam closed down for a bit, but then regrouped in the original spot to let the beat go on. We first discovered them December of 2009 during the holiday fest; we were knocked out by their unoaked Chardonnay. They’ve since become a go-to destination for the varietal, and when a special event appeared on their calendar, we took the proverbial plunge.

Guys, our “August Moon” dinner could not have had better tablemates. Kath and I chatted with Terri and Mike in the salon, commenting (favorably) on the unoaked Chardonnay. They shared table space with us, as did Darren and Gina.

Where else does one find a half-dozen people sharing a table; memories and menus a la carte? K and I had a very nice time at the dinner; the centerpiece was the flank steak marinated in a Zin reduction, but a lot of laughs au gratin. Chef Jim Thurman from Smokey’s Kitchen apparently is in great demand catering Livermore wine events, and it’s easy to see why: His easy hand on the ingredients, and his ease at articulating the structure of each course before it was served was a very nice touch.

And a full moon, visible at dusk as we finished our main course al fresco, tied it all up with literal lunacy. Perfect!

Oh, and check this out: I have never won a raffle in my life. Three filled-out tix were to be drawn, and since my tablemate Mike one the first prize, I thought that was that. My name was called next! And even though someone at a distant table immediately cried, “He’s not here!,” I actually scored a bottle of wine, just before they were going to pull another ticket, believing that mofo.

I finally got the loot, and, dude, it was tastay. The Charles R 2006 Livermore Valley Cabernet Sauvignon had a nice deep purple-black look. Lots of nice plum on the nose, and a spicy bit on the medium finish.

Whiskey-A-Goo-Goo

Hey, y’all.

OK, that’s what happens when the National Public radio signal quits out on the rental car, and one finds out, pleasantly enough, that the vehicle just happens to be equipped with Sirius/XM. Not quite the commercial-free radio deal promised a decade ago, but listening to “Blue Collar Comedy,” even with the interstitial ads for adult toys and DVDs, was a saving grace for the dozen total hours we drove on our Washington state adventure.

Uh, I drove. No cruise control on the rental. Weeks later, my right foot still cramps up.

We had a surprisingly great time at K’s 30-year reunion BBQ (actually a wonderfully catered event on alumnus Kevin’s acreage). Lots of laughs, lots of memories.

When we left the BBQ, early, there was a dodgey group of dudes drinking from a Cuervo bottle. And not the Anjejo, We always read in the newspaper about some folks infiltrating a house party, and trouble ensuing. We split, and set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. to be on the road the next morning by 7:00.

It was several hours later when we met our good friends and wine-tasting pals Susan and Derek in Woodinville, the suburb just north of Seattle where every winery seems now to have an outpost. Ya can’t grow vinifera on this urban side of the Cascade mountain range, but the truth of the matter is that if you want to sell your stuff made from grapes grown on the other side, you often need to truck the tonnage over the hill and hook up a tasting room where the market is. The market is Seattle, and we could not believe what we saw in Woodinville, two years after selling our little White Center/West Seattle house.

First off, virtually every Walla Walla tasting room in the far east of WA state has opened a tasting room outpost in Woodinville. My increasingly not-so-funny joke was that they all rented a moving van to come over together. The story that we heard, at more than one new tasting room, was that a lot of their wine club members didn’t want to pay for shipping. So, to paraphrase the old expression, Mohammed came over the mountain.

We saw lots of tasting fees, too, though (for now) refundable with purchase. Apex Cellars has a nice wine lounge, with board games on the center table. I’d be Sorry! if they, and others, went to nonrefundable fees, though I’m already seeing some evidence of this happening around Woodinville.

OK, enough about Susan and Derek; let’s talk about Derek and Susan. These cats are the coolest, most game/up-for-anything folks we know; totally everything I am not! One of the coolest messages we ever received when we lived in Seattle was “Wine Tasting This Weekend?” in the subject line of an e-mail from Susan.

So, here we are, two years after seeing our pals, at the same Park&Ride at which we’d meet them, and 750 days just melted away. Oh sure, we tasted and we toured, but S&D hipped us to the new WA state vibe: distilleries. Dry Fly in Spokane was the first one in WA since Prohibition to get papers (As a Canuck, I still scratch my head at this “Great Experiment.”); in Woodinville, Susan and Derek hooked us up with at least two more new, completely legal distilleries in our wine-tasting burg of Woodinville. Welcome to the ‘90s” Washington state, even if it is the 1890s.

So, Susan and Derek present to us, upon our arrival, a fave 2009 Efeste Feral Sauv Blanc, fermented solely with wild yeast. Then, they hit us with a bottle of Single Silo Vodka from the new Project V Distillery. We visited Project V that afternoon and purchased another bottle of Vodka that comes with an aromatic spice packet and a Mason jar, in order to craft a wildly infused Chai-like Vodka spirit. After steeping for a mere two-and-a-half days back home here in CoCo, the spicy amber concoction is ready for sipping!

Oh, and then D is working on his latest project: He purchased a whiskey kit from another new area distillery, the Woodinville Whiskey Co., pictured above. The kit consists of two whiskey-tasting glasses, a bottle of colorless blond whiskey and a small oak barrel to age it in, all packaged attractively in a box. The idea is that Derek becomes his own whiskey cellar master, making his own decisions as to how long to let the booze age in barrel, imparting color and wood flavors as he sees fit. Oh, so civilized. Derek promises us whiskey ageing reports from his “barrel room” as the project progresses.

And what of our spicy Chai Vodka project? Well, this tasty little shot exhibits an unfiltered amber color with hues of burnt orange. On the tongue it’s all spice box: cardamom, cinnamon, peppermint and clove; it’s like those Christmas “Storybook” assortments of rolls of LifeSavers candy. There’s a slightly sweet edge to the spiciness, and no alcohol burn on the long finish.

BTW, we came back home with all three of our empty Styrofoam wine shippers filled with almost three-dozen bottles. We cracked up when we claimed our checked boxes at baggage claim in Oakland: Two of our shippers had been resealed with packing tape bearing the Department of Homeland Security seal of the Transportation Security Administration. Inside was a friendly preprinted card from TSA appreciating our “understanding and cooperation” in their physical search of our stuff for prohibited items.

All Vodka and Viognier was present and accounted for. Cheers, federal agents.

Omak Daddy

So, we pull out of the Lake Chelan AVA, on our way northeast to Omak, Washington, the site of Kathy’s 30-year high school reunion. We’d checked in three empty full-case Styrofoam professional wine shippers, and we’ve already filled up one with tasty treasures from this newly official wine region.

Stopping in Chelan was a great way to break up the 5-hour drive from Seattle, but I could sense the dread that Kath was feeling as we approached Omak.

The reunion was set up to be informal, to say the least. I’d accompanied Kathy to her 10-year, 20-year and now this one; previous reunions were held at restaurants or hotel ballrooms. Per previous clambakes, festivities began with a Friday night no-host mixer on the back patio of (one of) the downtown pubs.

Days before, Kathy had taken her 1981 high school yearbook to work in an effort to bone up on facial features of classmates 30-years hence. CSI: Omak.

We pulled in to Omak late afternoon, checked in to our Best Western that hadn’t existed a decade ago, freshened up, and then hit the main drag down the hill for the Class of ’81 Reception.

The mill has long-since closed, and the Dairy Queen at which K worked has relocated. We drove by her old house, the high school (expanded!), and Gene’s, the grocery store that would cash your checks. And Kath told me that there never was any home mail delivery in Omak; everybody picked up their mail at the post office downtown.

We were hungry as we parked the rental car on the main stem, but it took a Reuben and a couple of splits of Fetzer Chardonnay before K and I were ready to head back to the three-decade, nametag-free zone.

And 30 years melted away instantly. Elisa was first to shout, “Siggy!” (a diminutive of Kath’s maiden name); “Chatty” Cathy was there; we chatted longtime with Troy, whom we narrowly beat out at the 10-year for “farthest traveled to attend”; at the time he lived in Pasadena, CA; we lived just west, in Beverly Hills.

It was actually really fun to hang in the background, and to hear old nicknames, probably unheard for decades, bandied about. Especially fun was the anguish that former classmates experienced at not recognizing same, from a class of just over 100 graduates. Troy, in particular, just could not wrap his head around a fellow grad sporting a few more El-Bees and a lot less hair.

The best were the 1981 HS alumni who actually copped to “wasting 20 minutes talking to” a supposed-graduate, only to discover that “they were only a SPOUSE!”

Befitting the unstructured reunion framework, Saturday was a mishmash of self-guided activities. Omak’s Rockwall Cellars (no relation to Cali’s RockWall) was expecting alumni throughout the day; one could take a stroll through the old/new high school; and it would all culminate for a BYOB BBQ chez alumnus Kevin.

Kathy and I were the party poopers from Friday’s mixer (BTW, that’s assuming that we ran into anyone who, when ordering a cocktail, asked for any mixer). We made plans to meet some folks at Rockwall when they opened at 11 a.m., knowing full well that we’d see them, for the first time tomorrow, that night at Kevin’s BBQ.

So, we hit Omak’s winery, Rockwall. Great space, nice wines, but they are struggling with estate stuff. Turns out that the summers are nice and hot, but the winters are brutal; they’ve had to replant at least three times, to hybrid varietals that give me a ‘Nam flashback to the 1970s of Canada’s winegrowing, such as Marechal Foch. Omak always had apples; vinifera may just have to take a little longer.

We’d arrived at Rockwall at opening time, only to see a gent wheeling cases out to his truck. I thought that this was either a zealous restaurateur or some mofo collector. Turns out that it was family, transporting cases for a tasting event in which they were participating up north in Oroville, WA.

Now, you have to understand that Kathy had already 'googled' some wineries up north for us to check out. We had already visited Omak’s Rockwall, but when it became apparent that all of Oroville’s wineries were going to be at “The Toast of Oroville” in the park, we had to get directions and do one-stop shopping.

Guys, “Das Toast” was wonderful. Small time, small town, big memories.

First, Kathy had knit herself a beautiful green mini-dress, from a “wool” that was spun from corn fibers. She packed it in her reunion luggage, but couldn’t bear to wear to any “official” reunion event. She wore it during the wine tasting in Oroville, and got raves, not the least of which was from the outrageously welcoming woman who sold us our admissions to the “Toasting.” (See photo: this is what welcoming strangers is all about!)

Even on the main street, we couldn’t divine the right park for the event; the Chamber of Commerce, in the old rail depot, was open, and they were outstanding.

We tasted, we ate and we bought some wine. Surprise.

We had no directions, no address, and no nothing to get to Kevin’s domicile. Partly is that a lot of Omak is on Native American land, so addresses mean, well, pretty well dick. We happened to drive down the roads when party organizers were tying the balloons for the correct turns.

Lots of fun, y’all. It was BYOB, so Kath and I brought some mid-level screw top so as not to burden the host. But this was no franks/pre-formed patties on das grill: This was a fully catered, more food than necessary full-meal deal. Beef, pulled-pork, cornbread, potato-, macaroni- salads.

Ya gotta be a special type of person to plan something for a group of other people. People who don’t even know all the other people.

Nobody thanks you when you are the event planner. Hey, you took that on; you know what’s entailed. Yeah, right; nothing but gratitude.

Many thanks. See you at 40. But if you don’t want to do it, we fully understand.

Shalom, Chelan!

Hey, guys, we just got back from Kathy’s 30-year high school reunion in Omak, Washington. This is a burg at the far northeast of the state, an hour from my Canuck border into Penticton, British Columbia.

When we lived in the little house in Seattle, we were minutes from SeaTac airport; Kath on a biz trip could phone me at the house to pick her up, and I’d be there as she wheeled her carry-on to the arrival curb.

Not here chez Oakley, mein friends. One hour minimum driving to get to a Park&Ride lot at Oakland airport, then the livery gavotte to TSA humiliation.

Kathy’s brilliant plan (no sarcasm; she has brilliantly researched it), is based on prices. She had been watching one-way flight segment pricing, trying to hook up with the best fare. At a certain time, one must pull das trigger. Kathy done good.

Flying closer to the reunion would have cost much more; renting a car at the airport would have cost $100 more. And we wanted to go wine tasting, which, if we wanted to buy, would have cost us mofo in shipping.

Southwest! The one last airline that allows one to check 2 “bags” free of charge. We checked 3 empty Styrofoam professional wine shipper boxes on the flight up to Seattle (between the two of us), with the intention of shipping them back full.

We get the car off-airport-site, in Georgetown and, in an effort to break up the 5-hour drive to Omak, we stop to taste around Lake Chelan.

Lake Chelan is a real region: multimillion dollar vay-cay residences. But damn if the surrounding wineries did not band together and petition for a distinct American Viticultural Area (AVA). For AVA status, one must prove to the feds that your soil, weather, moisture and sun exposure differentiates from a neighbor.

And I am so envious that Oakley can not get it together like this. Farmers, unite! (Even if you have to hire a winemaker).

We tasted some old faves on this leg, such as Tildio, but could not believe this model of lake, vineyards and view, all at Lake Chelan AVA. Sigh