Night of the Mustard Wars

Yes, you can have too much of too many good things

We wandered disconcertedly up and down the street in front of Copia, trying to figure out if we had the right night. The Mustard Festival awards for the most interesting concoctions were to be passed out this evening--presumably--but the area looked deserted except for the cars in the parking lots. They seemed to indicate an affair of some magnitude, but there were no people anywhere, and the universal darkness did not imply an evening of festivities.

The entrance to Copia, a long walk from the street, looked closed, and the array of empty tents awaiting the next two days'outdoor events did little to add to a sense of welcome. Perhaps the affair was over there, somewhere.

We pondered surrender and retreat, but before we could leave, several couples appeared and walked toward the uninviting suspect doors regarded earlier. We followed, and much to our surprise discovered that there was, indeed, a party going on inside the Napa center for food, wine, and all things sophisticated.

Copia is an interesting venue, a product of high-tech architecture mixing concrete and corrugated metal into what could pass for a modern factory. The interior does nothing to diminish the effect, and the refrigeration sounds of the deli cases in the market suffuse much of the ground floor. We can't help thinking of it as a culture mill.

That early March Friday night Copia ground out unrelenting quantities of food and wine, overwhelming the unwary, and encouraging the worst sorts of over-indulgence. Events of this nature--events dispensing great varieties of excellent comestibles--demand planning in order to be most properly enjoyed. You limit yourself to just a sip of a wine, rather than the half glass typically proferred, and you do not go back for a second taste of some tidbit until you've already tried everything at least once. Following these simple rules affords the opportunity to sample an encyclopedia's worth of unique flavors, which would otherwise be impossible.

It's much too easy to eat and drink wildly, without restraint, in an orgy of disorganized gluttony. Even so, the evening will have its pleasures.

We distinctly remember the ceviche-like thing with hints of mustard, the arugala salad with hints of mustard, and the sausage--was it duck?--slathered in mustard. We encountered a champagne from Mumm's that tantalized with hints of sugar, and a pinot noir from somewhere that teased with hints of spice. Most of that happened downstairs.

There was a band, Eddy and the Boppers, attired in white dinner-jackets, who played a genre of vintage music consistent with their name, and an awards ceremony at which many ochre ribbons and golden medallions were generously lavished on the winners of the many categories. People from around the world seemed to have entered, and a man from Japan may have traveled the farthest to participate. Most of that happened upstairs.

Which is where Copia keeps its galleries, most significantly the one with the changing shows. The present exhibition displays photographs of people from around the world and the foods they eat. The large format prints--three by four feet, say--are perfectly composed, perfectly exposed and perfectly crisp. It's quite revealing to see the contrast between an African family in their cooking yard with edibles consisting of unprocessed grains and fresh vegetables, and the American version in the Formica kitchen with packaged convenience foods.

Sated, we finally left, ambling uncertainly along First Street toward Main in the pleasantly neutral temperatures of that evening's air. The difference between the party's conviviality and the deserted street of old homes begged attention, and a sliver of moon seemed to smirk at the beings below. Just short of downtown, we came upon the Napa Wine Train discharging passengers following the dinner run. The massive diesel engines idled and sputtered at the edge of First, while the debarkation was effected a half block behind.

As we stood and gaped at the great machine, the engineer joined us, and explained that the diesels now consumed clean natural gas rather than foul smelling oil. Given that the engine sounded completely out of tune, the man felt compelled to explain that the change in fuel dictated adjustments that created the rough idle.

He beamed during this telling, and continued to glow with pleasure the more he talked of the train. A retired engineer for the city, he operated the behemoth just a day or two a week. We presume he received some sort of salary, but he revealed every indication that he'd be willing to pay for the privilege of running that train up and down the valley.

You oughtta see it after dark, he said. You just roll through the valley like you're the only one out there.

The smile never left his face, and his eyes never left the train.

Then the conductor intruded to tell his colleague that they'd emptied the rolling stock and it was time to head into the railyard up the road. The engineer offered his good-bye, climed into the cab and slowly pulled on the handle that set the train in motion. It gathered speed and rumbled off, the interiors of the antique cars flickering by at an accelerating pace, and then it was gone into the night.

Oh, lucky man.

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