Sonoma Summer Nights

The farmers' market sells pure small town...for now.

They packed the bar at the Sonoma Wine Exchange, one of the few such places we know that claims a local clientele of regulars who come in for a drink after work. Old friends greeted each other, trading jibes and wisecracks as they ordered their preferred vintages or beers, while the more transient customers betrayed the earnest enthusiasm of the wine country tourist. The easygoing atmosphere encouraged conversation among strangers, and the couple from France, the shop girl from down the block and the winery worker from the outskirts of town mixed it up thoughtlessly, the uptightness so often evident in these climes notably absent.

We visited with our friend Gary as he poured for the other customers, ordering when our turn came a flight of several wines, indulging in the opportunity to taste, rather than merely drink. This is how it's supposed to be, we mused, as Gary told us about the various wines and where they came from; no stuffy, over-dressed metrosexuals or their ambitious female counterparts condescending to display their superior knowledge, no effete attitudes to navigate. The proprietor, Dan, worked the other end of the bar, dispensing the same informally helpful service.

He's maintained the location on the town square for a decade-and-a-half, and he seems to be thriving on the various aspects of his business--off-the-street sales, mail-order shipments and the wine bar scene. One of the things we especially appreciate about the latter is the ability to partake a glass or two of wine without feeling plundered by a rapacious staff; they don't blind-side you with $15 or $20 dollar recommendations just because they can, unlike so many establishments. That, of course, explains the presence of regulars.

Then we noticed, for the first time, the vintage absinthe posters on the wall, reflecting all the belle epoque allure of Toulouse-Lautrec's Paris. The great sheets measured roughly four by six feet, and the rich colors delivered dramatic images of fashionable men and women or fanciful devices and logos promoting the much villified nectar. They bring to mind all the tantalizing cliches of the era--the Moulin Rouge of late-night debauchery, the Can-Can's under-garment flashing choreography, the Chat Noir Cafe where Parisian bohemians planned their next assaults on the literary and artistic establishments.

While it took the First World War to bring an end to that life, absinthe died a messy death around the beginning of the 20th Century. Containing the essence of wormwood, the vertigris-colored liqeur therefore imparts a certain psychedelic quality to the alcholic high; getting drunk on it tended to encourage behaviors rather more bizarre than usual. After a couple of incidents in which inebriated individuals butchered their families, a hysteria swept Europe, leading to the banning of the "Green Fairy." It seems not to have occurred to legislatures of the time that the problem at hand had to do with lunatics rather than booze. Even so, it is undeniable that many succumbed to the pleasures of the drink and its rituals, essentially wasting their lives while sitting mute and staring at the milky green liquid.

In recent decades, many countries reconsidered the ban, and absinthe has become available again. We first encountered it in London, finding it delightful. We regretted not being able to drink it properly, with the ice-cream-soda style glass, the perforated cake-cutter-like "spoon" sitting atop the rim with a cube of sugar, water run over it to dilute and sweeten the anise-flavored drink. We just sipped it slowly out of shot glasses, and later, from our small bottle. The effect was almost magical, and we considered that if so many people hadn't gotten blind-drunk on it, there would have been little complaint or tragedy.

Dan acquired his stunning collection some years ago for something of a bargain, but even so, it must have been rather costly. But now the posters are worth many thousands of dollars apiece, and whatever the initial investment, the array must have far transcended it in value. Regardless of monetary considerations, however, the display begs a viewing; there may be nothing like it anywhere, we believe, on the Continent.

The same might be said of the town of Sonoma.

That's a sweeping statement, of course, but we do know there's nothing else like it in the California wine country, and there's nothing else like the California wine country anywhere. Founded in 1827 by Spanish missionaries following in the path of Junipero Serra, the little town starred in the early days of the state and before. As seat of government under General Mariano Vallejo during Mexico's brief ownership of the region, Sonoma served as the small. provincial stage on which some of the great events of the world played out. Originally estalished to prevent the Russians on the nearby coast from expanding inland, it soon became the intended barrier against Yankees encroaching from the east. From here Vallejo sent soldiers up and down the great northern valleys to subdue the indians, from here Vallejo kept watch on the empire-building of John Sutter around what would later be called Sacramento. When Yankee rebels feared being driven from the land by Mexican authorities during the war of 1846, it was to Sonoma they went to declare the foundation of the California Republic. Mexicans and Americans rode the great meadows approaching the town in efforts to seize the territory, and along the way they seized each other as well. Though the skirmishes were modest, the cast small, the stakes were huge; it was California and the desire to own it, after all, that led to the Mexican War and the defeat of Mexico and its popinjay dictator, Santa Ana. Most relevant of all, however, is the fact that Vallejo started the wine industry here, as well as the first glimmerings of the fine life that went along with it.

The historical legacies abound all around the town square. Just across the street from the mission church sits the dun-colored Bluebird Inn, where William Tecumseh Sherman used to stay, and on the far catacorner of the square where the Bank of America now presides, George Derby, precursor of Mark Twain, frequented the Union Hotel. The Vasquez House, hidden behind storefronts just down from the Sonoma Wine Exchange, once served as a residence for Joe Hooker; presumably, this was after he was evicted as a squatter from land owned by the Napa Valley's George Yount. He became a noted Union Army general during the Civil War, distinguishing himself initially for a bout of mental paralysis in the heat of a great battle, and later for behavior that resulted in his family name giving birth to a euphemism for prostitutes.

That day we visited the wine shop coincided with our first foray to the farmers' market, held in that square that held so much history. A Tuesday night tradition during the summer, the market brings out not only locals looking for fresh vegetables, but large measures of the whole community. Clans composed of members by the dozen stake out picnic tables for al fresco banquets as other groupings cluster their blankets for reclining feasts. Vendors hawk cotton candy and carnival foods while others sell pasta plates; our personal favorite is the Caribbean guy who dispenses ribs and jerked pork, served with a side of rice with beans. Music usually accompanies the fare, and this particular night the little amphitheater featured a band fronted by a couple of Dave Brubeck's sons, the legendary local jazz great passing on his legacy to a new generation.

People mill about for hours, gossiping with friends as they twist through the tables of fresh fruit and vegetables arrayed about the Spanish-style City Hall sitting in the middle of the park; gaggles of teenagers alternately laugh or squeel in little clusters. Unlike many farmers' markets we've encountered that attract produce sellers from areas far afield who often buy from wholesalers, Sonoma's version seems exclusively local, and our nosey inquiries could reveal no one who seemed to have traveled more than 10 or 15 miles. Not only were they very local, they also grew the stuff themselves, marshalling the most painstaking efforts to create organic foodstuffs with pride.

On buying tomatoes from one Germanic gentleman, we found ourselves being begged not to put them into a refrigerator; That will cause a chemical reaction that stops the ripening process, he explained with passion. If you want the true flavor, don't go near the refrigerator!

There's a first-rate knife sharpener who will elucidate the finer points of creating a good edge and keeping it, and a couple of women who make fabulously rich chocolate candies.

We've known this square for 50 years, and memories always drift into our consciousness. The chess tournament in the early '60s, in which we took third in our small category; the jug of red wine we drank with teenage friends one winter evening after an outing to Jack London's place in Glen Ellen; the rooster that attacked our son and taught him a lesson about animal territories and stopping when his parents said Stop. We always find it comforting to elicit those memories with those trips to the square, because so little has apparently changed, at least on the surface. San Francisco and the Napa Valley, on the other hand, we often find unrecognizable, and disturbingly so.

It was about this time of drifting thoughts that someone called our name, and we turned around to encounter an old college mate we'd avoided for years. After sharing a few classes some 30 years ago, he developed a deep resentment for us because we excelled while he didn't. A once superficial friendship degenerated into an ugly little rivalry in his head, masked by insincere expressions of goodfellowship. That negative relationship crystallized visibly one day when we first crossed paths a few years after college.

We had not traveled far in our publishing career when we landed a job in Century City, a glitzy high-rise deal-making center in West Los Angeles where the business of Hollywood really transpires. Circumstances had evolved such that we were doing lunch with one of the biggest developers in Southern California, along with his minions and a few other movers and shakers. Despite the cliches, all of Los Angeles does not suffer from smog, and Century City's site about five miles from Santa Monica Bay blesses it with ever-freshening gentle breezes, and none of the dismal springtime coastal overcast. The sun shone pleasantly on our outdoor table on the terrace of the Avenue Saloon, and we nibbled on the fresh-baked sour-dough rolls while considering the wine list with our betters.

Then our waiter appeared, and we looked up to see the old classmate. Our eyes locked in recognition, though we said not a word at the time; his face visibly flushed. A trip to the restroom gave him an opportunity to approach us, and he wanted to get together for a drink. We did so, and the general tenor of the meeting descended into his attempt to discover what kind of scam we were pulling off. It never seemed to occur to him that perhaps we worked a bit harder than he.

Such chance encounters seemed to occur once every decade or so, and that time had come again.

He dabbled in real estate, and had bought a house in Sonoma about six months earlier; it had appreciated almost half-a-million dollars since then, and his inordinate pride in this characterized our conversation. We were only too happy to let him claim ultimate success, to let him win this time, as he pontificated about his wise judgments, growing bank account and all-round excellence.

We dabble in real estate ourselves, so we were not averse to discussing the topic, especially with someone who by now knew much more about it. When we speculated about where things might top out, he quickly came to the defense of Sonoma, contending that unlike most places in greater America--and California--which might suffer a slump, Sonoma was still a bargain. Our own calculations generally agreed with his, and a belief that land in the Bay Area--and Napa and Sonoma specifically--would outstrip most other places just because of its desirability and limited amounts.

Anymore, we suggested, places like these transcend local market forces; when the wealthiest people in the world want to live somewhere, the conventional rules do not apply.

This line of speculation warmed his heart, and he mentioned that within the last year a particular local event had attracted legions of jet-setters from Aspen and Vail, who were even then beginning to stake their claims; thus the appreciation of his own house's value, some 50% in half-a-year.

Strolling as we conversed, we approached in passing a pair of pretty 18-year-olds, one eating a corn dog. Our acquaintance asked if the corn dog was good, using it as an opportunity to engage them in conversation; while he talked to corn dog girl, we talked innocuously with the friend, discerning that the youngsters came from families of substance in the Napa Valley. And then we became aware of the fact that our companion was hitting on this girl less than half his age. We were amused at the scene while appalled that we were party to it; an attempt to disengage seemed appropriate, the attempt made.

At which point the boorish acquaintance asked corn dog girl for a date; the other three of us stood stunned. And then corn dog girl responded with the sweetest smile and said, But I'm too young for you.

Our two pairs continued in the initial different directions, and the classmate carried on as if outraged at his spurning; we could only muse at how kindly the girl was, emphasizing her youth rather than his age.

As soon as possible, we made our good-byes, and, lying, said we'd be sure to get in touch with him in the future.

Mulling things over in the fading light, we found the encounter profoundly disconcerting. Sonoma, no doubt, is destined to change, but our preferance would be for later rather than sooner. The prospect that the likes of our odious old colleague would be aggressively pimping off the place in order to add to his bragging rights and assets sickened us. He'd already done enough damage just moving to the neighborhood.

~ ~ ~


Copyright WineMerchant.com 2006