Archive:   May-Jun 2011   Jul-Sep 2011   Oct-Dec 2011

Restaurants Alexis Baking Company 1517 3rd St, Napa, CA, 707-258-1827 Angele 540 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-252-8115 Asia Cafe 825 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-224-0840 Avia Kitchen 1450 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-224-3900 Azzurro Pizzeria 1260 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-255-5552 Bistro Don Giovanni 4110 Howard Ln, Napa, CA, 707-224-3300 Boon Fly Cafe 4048 Sonoma Hwy, Napa, CA, 707-299-4870 Bounty Hunter Wine Bar 975 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-226-3976 Brix Restaurant 7377 Saint Helena Hwy, Napa, CA, 707-944-2749 Bui Bistro Napa, CA 94558 707-255-5417 Butter Cream Bakery & Diner 2297 Jefferson St, Napa, CA, 707-255-6700 C Casa 610 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-226-7700 Ca'momi Enoteca 610 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-257-4992 Celadon Restaurant 500 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-254-9690 Cielito Lindo Napa 1142 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-252-2300 Cole's Chop House 1122 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-224-6328 Curbside Mediterrnanian Cafe 1245 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-255-3412 Cuvee Restaurant 1650 Soscol Ave, Napa, CA, 707-224-2330 Downtown Joe's Restaurant & Microbrewery 902 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-258-2337 Eiko's Napa 1385 Napa Town Ctr, Napa, CA, 707-501-4444 Farm Restaurant 4048 Sonoma Hwy, Napa, CA, 707-299-4882 Filippi's Pizza Grotto And Fine Italian Food 645 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-254-9700 Firewood Cafe 3824 Bel Aire Plz, Napa, CA, 707-224-9660 Fish Story 790 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-251-5600 Fridas Mexican Grill 1533 Trancas St, Napa, CA, 707-252-3575 Fume Bistro 4050 Byway E, Napa, CA, 707-257-1999 Gotts Roadside 644 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-224-6900 Grace's Table 1400 2nd St, Napa, CA, 707-226-6200 Kitchen Door 610 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-226-1560 La Crepe 610 1st St, Napa, CA La Toque 1314 McKinstry Street, Napa, CA, 707-257-5157 Mammarella's 630 Airpark Rd, Napa, CA, 707-256-3441 Mini Mango Thai Bristro 1408 Clay St, Napa, CA, 707-226-8884 Moore's Landing 6 Cuttings Wharf Rd, Napa, CA, 707-253-7038 Morimoto Napa 610 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-252-1600 Mustard's Grill 7399 Saint Helena Hwy, Napa, CA, 707-944-2424 Nation's Giant Hamburgers 1441 3rd St, Napa, CA, 707-252-8500 Neela's 975 Clinton St, Napa, CA, 707-226-9988 Oenotri 1425 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-252-1022 Pearl Restaurant 1339 Pearl St # 104, Napa, CA, 707-224-9161 Red Rock Cafe 1010 Lincoln Ave, Napa, CA, 707-252-9250 Ristorante Allegria 1026 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-254-8006 Small World Restaurant 932 Coombs St, Napa, CA, 707-224-7743 Soscol Cafe 632 Soscol Ave, Napa, CA, 707-258-8707 Sushi Mambo 1202 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-257-6604 Trancas Steakhouse 999 Trancas St, Napa, CA, 707-258-9990 Tuscany 1005 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-258-1000 Uva Trattoria Italiana 1040 Clinton St, Napa, CA, 707-255-6646 Villa Romano 1011 Soscol Ferry Rd, Napa, CA, 707-252-4533 Zinsvalley Restaurant 1106 1st St, Napa, CA, 707-224-0695 Zuzu 829 Main St, Napa, CA, 707-224-8555

Wine Bars, Etc. 1313 1313 Main, Napa, 707-258-1313 Backroom Wines 1000 Main St., 707-226-1378 Bounty Hunter 975 1st st., Napa, 707-255-0622 Carpe Diem 1001 2d St., Napa, 707-224-0800 Ceja Vineyards 1248 1st St., Napa, 707-226-6445 District Four 1405 2d St., Napa, 707-204-9522 Gustavo/Thrace 710 1st St., Napa, 707-252-8665 Hope & Grace 6540 Washington St., YVille, 707-944-2500 Jessup Cellars 6740 Washington St., Yville, 707-944-5620 Maisonry 6711 Washington St., YVille, 707-944-6889 Napa General Store 540 Main St., Napa, 707-259-0762 Olabisi and Trahan Tasting Room, 974 Franklin St., Napa, 707-257-7477. Oxbow Wine Merchant 644 1st St., Napa Page Wine Cellars 6505 Washington St., YVille, 707-944-2339 Savour 649 Main St., St. Helena, 707-968-5445 Stonehedge Winery 1004 Clinton St., Napa, 707-256-4444 Tamber Bey 1234 Adams St., St. Helena, 707-968-5345 Taste @ Oxbow 708 1st St., Napa, 707-265-9600 Uncorked @ Oxbow 605 1st St., Napa, 707-927-5864 Vintners' Collective 1245 Main St., Napa, 707-255-7150

The A-List

Exploring the Pleasures of the Napa Valley.
And Stuff I Like.

by lucius bb

---

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Went up to St. Helena with friends last Sunday night, for a movie at the Cameo. As usual on these jaunts, we ate at the Mexican place on the corner, the Armadillo; excellent chicken mole, and some of the best salsa around.

Then there was the film. Nice to go to an old-fashion movie house, kind of like time-traveling walking under the marquis to see actual movie posters, a little lobby where they sell snacks without the Disneyland-like twisting line confronting a small army of counter folk muddling your order between the numbers of cokes and popcorns, with or without butter. And while all movie snacks tend to be pricey, at the Cameo it's simple and straighforward, no elaborate formulas or designations that result in a "small" soft drink that comprises a quart and takes two hands.

They sell coffee, tea and cookies, btw, all reasonably priced.

The Cameo also shows the lesser-known movies that you never see at the multi-plexes, as well as promote themed cultural events, movie style. This month there's a chef, food, movie thing going on; I forget the details but it sounds fun.

So we saw Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, a story rooted in the events of 9/11, the death of a father in the towers, and the problems his 12-year-old not-quite-autistic son has in dealing with his loss. Based on a novel by Jonathan Foer, the movie starred Sandra Bullock and Tom Hanks as mom and dad, with Max von Sydow and John Goodman thrown in for full measure.

What a beautifully acted work, what a cleverly told story, and the kid who plays the kid was excellent.

God, how I hated that movie.

For whatever reason, popular literary fiction--is that an oxymoron?--loves to wallow in varieties of common human misery. I don't read these books, but for many years I was married to someone who did. Several times a week she'd be sobbing herself to sleep over these sad books, and I'm sure I failed the husband sensitivity test when I suggested that she just not read them.

I don't know why people want to read stories about characters who live lives pretty much like everyone else, but with some weird quirk or perversion or illness thrown in to demonstrate how miserable we all are. Or how all apparent happiness is just illusion masking horror. As often as not, they seem to be rather plot light, as well. Maybe people embrace that literature just because it is so much like regular life, and our lives seem pretty good in comparison. I dunno.

This story did have something of a plot, a mystery with a twist, so it doesn't fully qualify within my vague categories of dislikes. I have no interest, however, in how someone deals with grief at all, let alone a contrived variant with a mentally disturbed kid at the center. Yikes! The very idea makes my skin crawl.

Some of us have already had our shares of death, grief, family derangements and child tragedies in the real world; there is no need to indulge these pathologies as entertainment. But that's just me.

Excellent movie, though. Even if I did want to slash my wrists.

Despite my ragging on multiplexes, the staff at the Cinedome seems always accommodating, helpful and friendly. My truism that such places gravitate toward big mainstream movies is true enough, but I got something of an eye-opener on my last visit, to see Warhorse.

A poster in the lobby advertised Leonardo Live, a one-night presentation for this Thursday at 7 p.m. Described as a first of its kind, it is, essentially, a PBS-style documentary on the painting of da Vinci based on an exhibition at England's National Gallery. The theme is on his painting techniques and desired goals, all explained by most eminent art critics and historians. The exhibition claims to have an unparallelled assembly of da Vinci's painted works, including pieces from private collections that the public never sees.

It's interesting to note that da Vince developed his reputation as the world's greatest painter on the heals of the Dutch and Flemish masters preceding him whose hallmark was the excruciatingly rendered detail. But da Vinci's work seemed somehow more lifelike.

Due to his experiments with light, vision and optics, he figured out something that evaded the others: sfumatta. Unlike with the more precise painters, there's a softness of lines in da Vinci's work. He realized that when you're looking at a person at close quarters, the only part of him in clear focus is that point at which you're looking. All the other lines of demarcation are in reality slightly out of focus. This is a subtle thing not easily noticed; when you shift your gaze to another part of the figure, it automatically comes into sharper focus, and the previous detail affects that fuzziness at the edges. Unless, of course, you look back at it, and presto, it's in focus again.

Knowing just what to delineate how sharply was da Vinci's gift, and that's why the infinitely more detailed Dutch canvases look unreal. You never see a whole person in perfect focus as portrayed in those precisely rendered paintings.

Rembrandt, of course, was a Dutchman, and he's one of those perennials compared favorably with da Vinci as one of the greatest painters, and I'm sure some parisans would take him over the Italian. Rembrandt seems to have intuited the same realization about tricks of the eye. He emphasized the clash between darkness and light, however. But his paintings still look more Italian than Dutch, and that's why. In my opinion.

Also on Thursday nights--lately, anyway--the Slack Artists' Collective opens the studio up to guests who can admire the art created there. Always an interesting range of work by undiscovered locals, some of it very well-executed. But it's the crowd, as often as not, that makes it most interesting. A couple of weeks ago, met a guy there who's into bootlegging. A few years ago, he became ever-so-slightly interested in brewing beer, and a local brewmaster invited him to watch. The guy kept going and watching, and subsequently spent a small fortune on his own home equipment.

At some point, he realized that brewing and distilling were very similar, except that you could distill liquor alot faster. So now he's bootlegging liquor, for personal consumption. Coincidentally, a month or two earlier, a woman passed through whose husband had a similar interest. She was handing out tastes of a grappa-like liquor with lavender overtones; her man seemed to be making all kinds of interesting concoctions. And one of the young regulars at the Collective is endlessly experimenting with beers, ciders and brandies.

The latter's name is Ian, and he tells of a pear brandy he made with fruit from Max Bonick's orchard out in the Carneros. Max is a great jazz pianist, I'm told, who studied music at UCLA. He plays with Colin, on bass, and their Modern Jazz Quartet is slated for a date at Silo's on 22 February.

Heard some funny stories from Max about his UCLA days, and he's impressed me with his wide-ranging knowledge of the arts. I got to know him through encounters at the Oxbow Farmers' Market last year, where he sold the Bonick Family Orchard pears. But I met him at Paul Slack's Collective, and it turns out that Paul supplied the pear trees for the orchard some years back. Paul's subtle influence is just everywhere.

And speaking of people met at the Slack Collective, Alex Bader has become an interesting new addition. Bader's in his mid-20s, and he's running for City Council; forget whose vacated seat. A graduate of Sacramento State, he studied government. don't know much about his platform--he does talk about the need for decent jobs around--but he's a smart, personable guy.

Heard on the Street, from a husband to his wife, on exiting the highly acclaimed movie, The Artist "...Well, that was just stupid...just stupid..."


Tuesday, 7 February, 2012

On Friday nights, Backroom Wines does a tasting featuring wines reflecting a theme. I got a twofer when I stopped by the other evening; an art exhibition and sparkling wines.

Elizabeth Bush provided the art, in this case close-up photographs of old trucks in rustic surroundings, all digital. According to the artist's statement, she worked in film until she discovered digital cameras and never looked back. So to speak.

Printed on metallic paper, the pix displayed a vibrance better than real, and looked as much like impressionistic paintings. Nice effect, and I liked the subject matter. I never managed to identify the artist, but I did run into Lorenzo Mills, who's becoming as ubiquitous as his sculptures. I seem to be running into both all the time lately. His faux bronze ceramic busts are on First and Main, in different venues. He'll be taking over the Gordon Heuther monopoly any day now at this rate.

Heuther, btw, was recently featured in that oversize Napa/Sonoma magazine put out by the people in Walnut Creek, Diablo Publications. Highlights his efforts on behalf of public art in Napa..

But I was talking about Backroom Wines. Proprietor Dan was pouring sparklers from Italy, Spain and France, the first two white and crisp, the last a true Champagne, but with a little blush and hint of fruitiness absent in the other two. He handles somewhere around nine hundred different wines, he tells me, and all he cares about is value: how the wine tastes, and are you getting the best quality for the money, whatever the cost.

I noted quite a few inexpensive wines, and, of course, he has pricey selections as well. The tasting notes for each wine are impressive, going so far as tell you how long to let the wine breathe after opening. His colleague informed me that they sample something like 5,000 wines a year, they've been doing so for quite some time, and they've developed an instinct for such things. That's what makes them experts, I suppose, but I am endlessly impressed by the detailed information that spouts forth from such people. A few weeks back, I was visiting another wine bar, and someone asked a question about a semi-obscure appellation in France; the guy behind the bar knew the major land owners, their histories and myriad other things.

With Dan, I raised that issue of terroir versus manipulation, and he conceded that the science of wine making has reached the point that even he can't keep up with all the things going on in the wineries, garages and labs. Now, there are more ways to manipulate the wine in the making than even the experts know. Different experts, after all, have different kinds of expertise. And the new tricks of production keep mounting.

For Dan, it all comes down to the final product, regardless of other factors. How does the wine taste?

We moved on from wine when I inquired about his father-in-law, Paul Krassner. Back in the '60s, Krassner published a little magazine called The Realist, a masterpiece of absurdist social and political commentary capable of outraging anyone for some reason. I first encountered it in the Haight-Ashbury in 1966, and devoured a copy, along with its semi-obscene little line drawings, which could not begin to compare with the coarseness of the printed words.

He reached the heights of notoriety with a picture of LBJ doing something indecent to JFK's corpse after the assassination; not a photograph, btw. Thank god. Do I need to add that the event recorded in those inky lines never actually happened?

And then Dan reminded me of another piece of art that got Krassner some fun and trouble: he commissioned an illustration of the major Disney characters engaging in a variety of bawdy relations. A classic of its sort.

It was shocking to hear he's 80 now, though it shouldn't be; I'm old too. Anyway, according to Dan, Paul's working on his memoirs. Just like me. Meanwhile, Paul's daughter, Holly, was showing off their new baby, just a month old. Dan is adjusting well to the adventure, he says. I forgot to ask his new daughter's name, but I welcome her into our world.

Also made some stops into Silo's over the weekend; on Friday night there was a Johnny Cash tribute, Saturday night it was Patsy Cline. Great performances both, and Susan, owner Keith's right-hand person, made me stay a little longer than usual with her hospitality. There for Johnny Cash was her husband John, whom I've come to know over the last several years. He's a retired construction management type, and he may have been involved in the building of the Napa River Inn, which houses Silo's. He got bored in retirement, and started driving limos.

How's that working out, I asked. Ever get a hard time from your clients?

No, he said, they come to Napa to enjoy themselves, and they're in a good mood, conducive to looking on the bright side of things. And they tend to be high-end customers, as well, who know how to treat people.

He drives people on winery jaunts, says that after the third or fourth visit they inevitably decide he's the best driver they ever had. Some, I'm sure, probably decide he's their best friend, too. At least until morning. Anyway, John drives for Napa Valley Tours, and he knows his way around. And he can just about always get you into Silo's.

Then there was the Jarvis Conservatory's monthly first Saturday event; singers and performers of classical pieces, new and old. Heard a young woman play a lovely Chopin nocturne on piano, another sang an operatic piece, and a young man did the same. Both of the latter performed contemporary works.

I respect these youngsters more than they know; there's not a lot of peer pressure to perform classical pieces, and I suspect they get little positive feedback from most kids their age. But they've embarked on a course of discipline, excellence and tradition seldom indulged these days, and they're all the more admirable for it. And the venue is wonderful; intimate and professional all at the same time, the little theater a jewel box for performance.

Over the summer I dropped in on several performances associated with the Festival del Sole--young musicians the specialty--and each was a treat. The place also hosts some excellent film selections.

The house manager was a nice Russian guy named Vlad Pomonorov. He always made me feel welcome, and he couldn't have been more friendly when we encountered each other around town. Last time I saw him was at the Oxbow a while back.

So I was stunned on Saturday to discover that the evening was devoted to Vlad, who'd recently passed away at the age of 35. Sorry to see him go; he was a real gentleman.

Heard on the Street, by Starbucks, among women affiliated with a local school: "...Well, they're all working, alright, they're just not working on our project..."


Friday, 3 February, 2012

Last time around I wrote about a book signing at the Tyler Florence store, fine wineries the subjects. I mentioned that the first winery I thumbed open to was the Hess Collection; an excellent choice for such a book, one of my favorite wineries.

Well, on Thursday afternoon, I was sitting in the Coffee Roasting Company, and a guy with an accent inquired of the counterperson as to the best winery in Napa. That's a loaded question, and the respondent didn't know what to say. It called for an intervention.

The guy's name was Igor, and he was from Croatia; his girlfriend, Donya, came from Montenegro. Turns out that Igor was really interested in Zinfandel because the varietal apparently originated from his locale on the Adriatic coast. I suggested he go to Grgich Hills Winery, near Rutherford; Mike Grgich is a Croat, one of the early winemakers who came in the '70s. Igor was appeased.

It was too late to get up there for a tasting that day, though, and Igor wanted to go to a winery. Like now. I suggested he check out the Hess Collection, and before I knew it, we were headed out towards Mt. Veeder.

One reason I love sending people to Hess is because it's close to town--a 10-, 15-minute drive--but it's also otherworldly. I think Redwood Road is one of the prettiest country byways anywhere, and one minute you're driving by the suburbs on the edge of town, the next--literally--you're in forested mountains with a creek tumbling alongside the road.

The winery itself is housed in a stately, old stone building, and its courtyard is full of sculpture, a harbinger of the art inside. The Hess Collection includes many masters of modern art, and regardless of whether you like modern or contemporary work, it has a nice selection of the best, ranging from representational works to abstract and conceptual pieces.

The giant portrait of the beautiful blonde is a wonder to behold, and the Francis Bacons are enticing in their weirdness and precision. And since my last visit a few years ago, they've installed a couple of works by Andy Goldsworthy, the environmental artist famous for using heavy earth-moving vehicles to fashion his art. These were more modest; an arrangement of artificial stones--I presume they're artificial, anyway--and a screen made of twigs, with a circlular void in the center.

Meanwhile, the gallery director was taking a tour through, and we got the occasional benefit of his stories; the trouble he went through to finagle the Goldsworthy's to Napa, the dilemmas inherent in arranging the stones just right, as the artist wanted, while allowing a clear space for walking through. There were worries about the twig curtain, especially; it looks more delicate than it is, and appears ready to self-destruct with a random breath blown in its direction. The gallery director assured us it was a rugged piece, Mr. Goldsworthy had even given it a couple of good shakes, without ill effect. We couldn't exhort him into a repeat performance, though.

Igor and Donya expressed their pleasure and surprise; art was the last thing they expected that day.

We closed the gallery, then scurried down to the tasting room before it shut down.

Hess took over what used to be Christian Brothers Winery, and they in turn had built on the legacy of Theodore Geiss, the German who first planted vines up there. Consequently, Hess still has some very old vines of varieties that you seldom see much anymore.

Among these was the Gewurtztraminer, so I tried a glass; not sweet as the Christian Brothers made it in the old days, but light and fruity. Also tried the Petit Syrah and the Malbec. Coincidentally, I liked the Zinfandel most, vinted from grapes from Sonoma's Dry Creek area; there was something very French about it.

Igor was new to the whole wine thing, but he wants to learn; he's decided he wants to make wine back home on the family properties, and he has his dad almost convinced. He explained that lots of people grow grapes in his area, but not many people make or drink wine; they're into slivovitz, a clear brandy-like drink made from any kind of fruit, from cherries to plums. The grapes, he says, are sold to Germany. A wasteful crime. So Igor hopes to do for his patch of Croatia what Robert Mondavi did for Napa.

Right now, he's a construction engineer and project manager, but he's planning to take six months off sometime soon to work at any wineries that will have him.

Pouring our wine at Hess was a retired airline pilot named Slice; he got the wine bug after flying some friends to a business meeting in his private plane. He killed time playing golf and visiting a winery. It became a habit, especially the winery visits, so he eventually moved to Napa and went to work at the tasting room. Or something like that.

He was an excellent host, friendly and knowledgeable, and he left Igor and Donya suitably impressed.

Speaking of wine, just saw a Facebook post by Mike Bolen, Remax realtor; it seems his brother Eric won kudos for making a wonderful Merlot, among the best in the world. He didn't start out all that long ago, I don't think, and his background wasn't much different from my new friend Igor's. Something construction oriented, I believe.

And speaking of real estate, Igor tells me that all the good land deals along the Adriatic are mostly gone. After the Brits and Germans worked over Majorca and the Spanish beach cities, they took their real estate development deals to Croatia when the civil war ended. Then Russian zillionaires came along and bid everything into the stratosphere. Alas, the twenty-thousand dollar lot across the street from the beach in a town just four hours south of Venice is no longer available. Shoulda bought it when I could back in '05. Such bargains no longer exist.

And speaking of new money from old Communist countries, I heard some interesting tidbits about Chinese nationals buying wine. Heard tell of a couple from Hong Kong who said they wanted a box of wine for their little store back home. Further discussion revealed they really meant a pallet, or some 36 cases of very expensive bottles. And another anecdote has a couple walking in at closing time, much to the dismay of a tasting room staff ready to go home. Someone took pity, gave them a tasting and sold two cases of hundred-dollar-a-bottle wines. They were so pleased they brought friends in some days later. They dropped several thousand dollars on wine themselves. And then the two couples continued buying lavish amounts of wine through the wine club.

Heard on the Street, from a young man in front of Downtown Joe's yelling across the street to a couple of hotties who had just left: "Hey, girls, come back over here...I am so worth it...honest..."


Monday, 30 January 2012

So there I was at the Tyler Florence store Wednesday night, sipping wine, looking at winery books and talking to a friendly author named Tom Silberkleit. He's created a series of coffee table reference books called the California Directory of Fine Wineries, each featuring a different region and its most distinctive establishments. Good wine we can take for granted; he wants to highlight the wineries that make for a special experience beyond the palate.

Beautiful photos and a couple of pages of text sum up the subjects, and he's got a sensibility after my own heart. The Tyler Florence store hosted this release party for his latest edition, devoted to Northern California; he also had editions of his last work, on the Central Coast. The first winery I came on when I flipped open the latest book was the Hess Collection, one of my personal favorites since it was my first winery back when it was owned by the Christian Brothers. First winery I ever entered, and the property has long enchanted me, all the more since Hess took it over and installed a world-class modern art gallery. And that's the kind of place Tom highlights in his book.

My next random pick turned out to be the Frank Family Vineyards, north of St. Helena; I discovered it's rated as having one of the most popular tasting rooms in the country. It's also one of the most locally historic; Lillie Coit once owned the property and vineyards there, sponsoring one of the finest salons in the state. It is said she helped influence poet Joaquin Miller adopt that winning western style that made him the toast of the Bohemian world for 10 minutes back in the 1870s and '80s.

And the Frank Zinfandel Tom poured made it that much better. Rich Frank, btw, is a former president of Disney, and he's continued to make sparkling wine, a more recent tradition set by Hans Kornel after the 1950s.

The store of course features the chef's signature condiments and food-oriented products, but it's also one of place where you can find that classic white ceramic ware you take for granted in France--the Cordon Bleu line. They also featured some tasty cooking chocolate at the opening. As for what's happening with the restaurant, the store employees were vague except to say they were just refining things a bit, and hoping, perhaps, to put in a firepit. Elsewhere, however, I heard they intended to build up there infrastructure so as to be able to offer more food choices of every sort, and a liquor license too.

Subsequently, I made the rounds of the Riverwalk Complex, and talked to some of the neighbors. Visited Michael Holmes's design place, Liken. Noted the big faux bronze busts by Lorenzo Mills; the latter, btw, also has a storefront art installation on First Street. Liken specializes in big, interesting objects: a large concrete ruin of a Greek inspired statue, antique Mary's and a Jesus or two, and a nice collection of paintings for sale, ranging from bold abstracts to sweet tromp l'oiel creations.

And then there are Helen and Scott Lyall, the mother and son who sell fine fashion. Helen, I hear, has a clientele of women ranging throughout the West; her taste and collection are thought to be exquisite. Scott's apparently doing the same by providing men with equivalent clothing.

Coming soon to the complex? An Italian-inspired cafe not unlike Il Fornaio, with fine coffees, pastries and gelatos. Also, another women's store, selling hip, casual styles.

There also seems to be a lot happening every time I walk into the Oxbow Market lately. Thursday evening it was some kind of pageant of the master's project, with kids from the Blue Oak School, charmingly dressed like French peasants--I presume-- posing within the bounds of picture frames, for photographs. Laguna Beach south of LA is famous for a like event, but that's so over-the-top it transcends kitsch. Anyway, it was fun, crowded and interesting, with well-mannered children enjoying themselves not in front of a screen.

Yesterday I walked into a Chinese New Year celebration hosted by Tillerman Tea, including a wonderful collection of dim sum dispensed by Gianna, and at a low table proprietor David supervised a tea ceremony.

Not that Lilly, an Asian goddess in red and blue silk, seemed to need any supervision as she elegantly performed her tea ritual.

The Oxbow seems to have taken off this last year; it's more crowded than ever, and I mean that in a good way. At least there's somewhere in town that you can always find some kind of life. Especially on rainy days, not that we've had many lately.

Friday I went by the Cinedome to check movie times, and who should walk out but Mark Pope, founder of the Bounty Hunter. Asked him about rumors that he was looking to sell. Well, he said, he's always willing to sell when the price is right. Until then, he's satisfied continuing to run a first-class institution, and he's excited about the whiskeys he now gets to serve.

But I was talking about movies, and I saw Iron Lady, Meryl Streep's role as Margaret Thatcher. Yikes! So convincing I sometimes felt I was watching a creepy documentary...and creepy just because it was discomfiting to see Margaret go a little dotty through its course.

Also saw Warhorse and The Artist over the last couple of weeks. Warhorse was your run of the mill feelgood epic; I enjoyed it, but when I'd heard it was based on a book, I presumed it was a true story. So even if it was corny and sentimental, it doesn't matter. It's true!

But as the credits rolled, I noticed it was based on a novel. So a made-up emotionally manipulative novel got turned into a made-up manipulative movie. I felt used. Especially because I liked it. Thank you Steven Spielberg.

The Artist is some kind of magnificent, though filmed in black and white and silent. All kinds of clever references to other movies, all executed very well. But at times I found it tedious without the sound. I just wanted to yell at the screen.

Say Something! Please!

But I got over it. A great film, not to be missed.

Perhaps the new Valley film festival had something to do with it, but there is new movie life around town. The Opera House has a classic series hosted by Richard Miami, and now there's another track called Seldom Seen Cinema, presented by Terrence Ford, a filmmaker-type who teaches at the college in Angwin. Check EventingNapa for schedules.

Heard on the Street, from a group of teenage boys at a burger joint: "...didn't he have some idea to get rich by killing people? How did that go again...?"


Thursday, 26 Jan 2012

It was just getting dark, the river reflected the last of the light on its glassy, surface, and the Napa River Inn began to light up for Saturday evening. Keith at Silo's supervised the sound check for the evening, Carlos Reyes the performer. Caught his show a couple of hours later, a big man wearing red shoes, a white hat, brandishing a blue violin. He ripped it, with a back up band matching his riffs. So interesting hearing familiar songs and familiar instruments brought together in ways not usual.

A million times I've heard the song Bessa Mi Mucho--I think it means Kiss Me Alot, but I'm no more sure of that than I am of the initial spelling--but here it was different because of that violin. Later, he played a harp that sounded like marimbas. Reyes, it turns out, comes of Paraguayan parents but he grew up in Contra Costa County. His father and grandfather were famous guitarists, so the musical bug was natural, even if he suffered a different infection.

Often the case at Silo's, the room was at capacity, a rollicking night club. A rarity in Napa.

Now, finally, it really can claim to be a Night Club since Keith and Silo's have gotten a full-range liquor license. At that encounter earlier in the evening he explained that some customers just don't want to drink beer or wine when they're out clubbing. They want whiskey and vodka and exotic cocktails. Now he can serve what they want, and everyone's the happier for it, though Keith concedes it's more difficult mixing drinks than opening a beer tap or pouring a glass of wine. But he doesn't mind at all.

People want to dance, too, and Bistro Sabor offers that in the form of Salsa lessons. By 9:30 the crowd was gathering, and the floor was all but stuffed with pretty girls preparing to shake it; if I were a younger man, I'd learn how to dance.

I can't believe how busy the Ceja's are; besides the salsa night on Saturdays, Ariel's Bistro Sabor does DJs some Fridays, and a popular trivia night on Wednesdays. Absolutely no room there last night.

Ariel's mom Amelia and sister Dahlia are busy as well. I see Amelia's Facebook updates regularly, and she has more fun than any three of us. Christmas jaunts to Yosemite, a 49ers party the other day with Linda Cordair, whose art gallery is across the street from the Ceja tasting room in First Street. Dahlia seems to hang with her mom on some of the latter's adventures, and on her own she publishes a blog on what's happening out and about. And Pedro, paterfamilias, recently put in some bocce ball courts at the Carneros winery.

Stopped by Bounty Hunter the other day, had a nice little conversation with Jake, one of the servers. Told me they're busy with special events, and they, too, now have a liquor license; just started serving their first whiskey, a special Bounty Hunter selection from the Four Roses Distillery. The Bounty Hunters picked their favorite barrel, bought it and bottled it. Eventually, they intend to add more to the selection.

And I ran into Mike Bolen, too, a week or so back. The Remax realtor who used to work from the office at First and Main, he also staged some great art exhibitions in the space. Works out of the other office now. Asked about the real estate market, was surprised to hear that there aren't enough houses to go around, saleswise. Seems that the bargain-hunters with cash snap everything up when available. Mike says there should be 900 to a thousand houses on the local market, but it's fewer than 300.

Don't Miss: Tomorrow night is the Napa Culinary Crawl; organized by a Bay Area group, they get four or five restaurants to participate. Comfort food is the theme, and I notice Bui Bistro and Gott's on the agenda tomorrow evening.

Also, Meet the Makers at Mumm, in Rutherford. Celebrating food artists, along with 40 photo portraits.

There's also a benefit for Brian Stow, the Giants fan who got beat up in LA last opening day. At The Uptown, Saturday night. Check out the EventingNapa link for more stuff to do.

Heard on the Street, this exchange between two men by the Starbucks at Trancas and Hiway 29: "Hey, it's the guy who doesn't respond to my emails or twitter feeds..." ..."Hey, it's the guy who makes 700-dollar-a-bottle wine..."


Sunday, 22 January 2012

So I'm sitting at the coffee house at First and Main drinking tea, and who should walk in but Al Jabarin, proprietor of 1313 Main, and Calwine.com. His wine bar is among the most elegant in town, and Sean and Jordan are the most attentive bartenders; I'll forever be grateful to the latter for somehow returning to me a stolen vintage bicycle.

I asked Al about Calwine, and got quite an education about the evolution of internet wine sales. He was among the first to enter that arena, in 1994, and he says he might be the oldest still operating. Virtual Vineyards, he says, started about six months earlier, and within a couple of years it morphed into Wine.com, a domain name for which someone paid $3 million. Within another year or two they were out of business.

That was the brainchild of Peter Granoff, the man behind the Ferry Building Wine Merchant in San Francisco, and the Oxbow Wine Merchant here in Napa. I first met Peter in 1996, at an internet seminar in Sacramento, tailored for the wine industry. He was still Virtual Vineyards then, and I heard more good advice from Peter in an hour than I would encounter for a long time. A couple of years back I asked him about Wine.com; he rolled his eyes and alluded to the craziness of the dotcom era during the boom, and how various idiots in marketing screwed up a good idea while wasting vast amounts of money. I had been there myself and could sympathize.

Wine.com, of course, is back in business with different owners, and Granoff has his retail outlets, so there was some kind of happy ending for someone. Meanwhile, Calwine kept plugging along. For years, says Jabarin, not many could appreciate the potential of the internet. Now, he has 16,000 clients on his mailing list, with customers literally around the world. And in the last few years, the space has exploded, with hundreds of internet wine sellers making a success of it.

So Al may not have been the first, but he was still a pioneer, and one of the more successful of them, from all appearances.

Wine production has changed dramatically during the same period, a fact that came out during a conversation I had with a guy I met at yet another wine bar. He's a 30-something chef who shares a house with a winemaker from a distinguished label. He was at the moment lamenting the injustice represented in a recent article published in a San Francisco magazine. It featured notable Norcal wine makers, including one whose wine was, in fact, made by his roommate and the latter's mentor. The individual just wrote a check to the guys who made the wine, and took credit for the fine vintages.

The individual knows nothing about winemaking, said the chef, and everyone knows it. Except, of course, the raders of the article.

That's an old story, and I've heard it in various versions for a decade. Then the conversation took a turn to how different things are now. Up until 10 or 15 years ago, you never heard much of this term "terroir," let alone anyone's commitment to properly reflecting it in their wine.

Terroir, of course, refers to the unique nature of where the grapes are grown: the terrain, the vineyard, its weather. In the touting of it, one is talking about not manipulating the wine production process to create some unnatural vintage, regardless of how good it may be.

When I was involved in winemaking with V. Sattui's first crush in 1977, you got the best grapes you could, and you just tried not to screw up a simple process: the crushing, the addition of sulphur to kill the natural yeast, the addition of your own yeast. Pumping over during fermentation, and then moving the fresh wine to barrels and then aging it a few years. It was a process of making sure all your equipment was clean, especially tanks and barrels, and then keeping it topped off in the barrels so air can't damage it. Getting expensive French barrels was about the extent of possible manipulation. The oak flavoring would be different, or more pronounced.

This was before the French took California wine very seriously, and before local winemakers started throwing around French words. Like terroir.

See, back then, you had no choice but to reflect the terroir, because we didn't know how to tweak the process as we do now. The chemistry is so well understood, and the means to overcome natural processes, that a winemaker can all but forget the terroir, or at least transcend it.

A few columns back, I mentioned that I asked a winemaking friend about the weird weather of the last harvest, and the need to bring in the crop early to avoid moisture damage from the rain. An early harvest, though, means the sugar content won't be ideally high, meaning a lower alcohol content. He explained the evaporation trick, by which you remove all the alcohol and some of the water, and then reintroduce the alcohol. A wine that should naturally be 10 or 12 percent alcohol given the year's weather can still be bottled at 15 or 16 percent with the artificial fix.

Then there's micro-oxidation, I believe the process is called, by which you can age a wine a faster by pumping little air bubbles through it just right. This practice most famously came to light in the documentary slander "Modovino," a hit piece targeted at the Mondavi family and how they corrupted the world of winemaking.

The film slandered the Staglin family as well with cheap shots. But besides the gratuitous insults, the filmmaker did introduce us to a French consultant who traveled to places like the Napa Valley to tell winemakers how to manipulate their wines; micro-oxidation seemed to be a cure-all. He appeared to fly around in a private jet, hop into limosines, and then cruise from one well-known winery after another to advise micro-oxidation.

Anyway, that's why you hear all this talk of terroir now; not playing games with the wine is the point. And half those legendary winemakers you see featured here or there are takling credit for someone else's expertise, whether or not they emphasize terroir.

Heard on the Street, at Oxbow, from a young man to his date: "...my Mom introduces me to these guys we run into, and then she says he might be my father...and I don't look anything like my Dad..."


Saturday, 14 January 2012

I made a happy discovery with this still fresh year, just down the road from my place in the country. Bel Aire shopping center and Whole Foods are obvious enough, but it's taken me the longest time to stop by the latter for a Friday night wine tasting. Made up for it last night and last week. Geoff is the store's wine buyer and master of ceremonies at these little events, and though he denies being Irish, he conducts the affair with all the amiable aplomb of a village pub owner. And his Irish credentials are sterling, at least in some respects: He spent his junior year abroad at Trinity College in Dublin.

Just last night we reminisced about the famous library there, and I commented on the Book of Kells, a magnificent example of the illuminated manuscript. Only to be informed by Geoff that it had been found at some farm where the owner regularly dipped it into his animal troughs, indulging a superstition that the tome would somehow disinfect the water and insure the health of his livestock. Who knew? Well, Geoff.

Last week, Katie from White Hall Lane Winery poured; family operation just south of St. Helena. She used to do finance in San Francisco, now does a little bit of everything. Of the four or five wines she dispensed, all but the Pinot Noir came from their property. But the best part was the company, and all of a sudden, everyone was reminiscing about San Francisco in some old days. The woman to my right had been in the Haight-Ashbury in the Sixties, Geoff talked about the City of the Fifties, and Katie knew all about the high-flying Nineties. Then Kelli joined us, and it developed that she had lived and worked around the Venice Boardwalk, where I once had so much fun. From Tennessee, she's a masseuse at Carneros Inn now; her friend, Wolfgang, works for the FDA reviewing medical devices. Los Angeles stories ensued.

Ryan, general manager of Howell Mountain's Cade Winery did the honors this time around; they also produce the Plumpjack label. He came to Napa from Oregon in the '90s, got a job in the tasting room, and presto, GM. Turns out the guy to the right of me had gone to University of Oregon, as had Ryan; the fellow ducks talked football.

Meanwhile, Geoff introduced Dana who was a Deadhead, and she and Kelli, who had returned last night with Wolfgang, got into a spirited discussion about what sell-outs Bob Weir and Phil Lesh were for joining the Bohemian Club. So counter to the counterculture. I, of course, leaped to the Club's defense; I love the place. The downtown building is a masterpiece of the San Francisco Edwardian Era, the Bohemian Grove summer retreats feature some of the most lavish musical shows you'll see anywhere--including Broadway. And the live music is generally excellent--Bob Weir and Phil Lesh are members, after all.

Then Eduardo sat down at the bar. From Ahuachapan, El Salvador, he attended Stanford and the Wharton Business School. His family's been trading coffee for decades; he's back in the Bay Area to supervise a roasting facility, lives in Napa.

We reminisced about the Central American revolutions of the '70s and '80s, and how ironic it is that the one-time rebels have been voted into power.

Anyway, I found a fun, lively crew at Whole Foods, and Geoff insures that whatever wine is poured is worth drinking. And did I mention it's just two bucks? Friday and Saturday, 5 to 7.

I also made my first substantial foray to Downtown Joe's for the new year last Friday evening. Ralph Woodson and his Hendrix tribute band Purple Haze took the stage, and, as usual, magic happened. Where else can you sit and watch Jimi Hendrix play from ten feet away. Yes, I know, but it's real enough, and I have an imagination. A wonderful show, and the garlic fries are among the best I've ever had; the girl next to me at the bar thought so too.

They were probably still coming down from a collective high over there; I know Joe Peatman and Big John Herkins are big Oregon State football fans, and the team couldn't have had a better year. Some months ago had a chat with Joe, who told me how he went to the school, runs into old classmates who wander into the bar during their trips to Napa. And john and he had just gone up there for a roadtrip and a game.

How much nicer the season given that Napa's Boyett was part of it.

Cruised by there last night, another band, playing that '80s anthem that goes...do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonigtht, get down tonight...well, you had to be there. The '80s I mean. But they were, indeed, getting down Friday night. Some girl was out front dancing with someone on the other side of the window, inside her friend was dancing on a chair, another friend taking pix of the other two. And everyone was partying hard.

Silo's meanwhile hosted a well-attended singles event; and by the time I got to Eiko, it was packed inside and out, at midnight.

Heard on the Street, at Oxbow, one guy to another, after greeting a woman friend: "...She gives a great [deleted}, man. You wouldn't believe it."


Sunday, 1 January 2012

We all got through another year, more or less, not to mention New Year's Eve. That's always been one of my most vexing nights in a lifetime of parties, in part because there's always so much pressure to have fun. So often, people try so hard, it just seems rather flat compared to expectations. Most especially when you sign on to one of those Gala Celebrations to End All Celebrations, and it turns out to be nothing much.

My first, best New Year's Eve occurred in San Francisco's Pacific Heights when I was nine or ten; I ended up at the house of wealthy playmates, whose parents had decided it would be nice to have an adult-like party for the children. We were all dressed up, pre-teen boys and girls, and Swiss fondue was served, along with champagne at midnight. Indeed, there was probably a little wine throughout the evening, and I got one of my first hints of a sophisticated life that I knew mostly from movies.

A grand room with beam ceilings in a rustic mansion, silver glinting from the table in candlelight, real crystal, and a bunch of kids acting grown-up, trying to have meaningful conversations, just like adults. For some reason, however, I do not remember lots of wild kisses as the clock ticked twelve. But I had a great time anyway, if only because it was so unexpected.

A couple of decades later, I attended one of those canned parties at a place in Venice, the California one, called F. Scott's. It was my first of many nights there, but bittersweet does not describe the evening. Residing in the St. Charles Hotel, a turn-of-the-century building replicating the palazzos of the real Venice, the joint resembled a speakeasy. A shiny black gondola leaned out from the gallery wall, a mural of Rio beneath it, chrome railings separating the raised area from the bar opposite. F. Scott's specialized in old jazz and blues and night club-type singers, and the canned music of the sound system overflowed with the likes of Fats Waller, Billie Holiday and Cole Porter. One of the owners would take to the piano as the evening began, and then defer to the night's act.

That New Year's Eve, she was an opera singer with a broad range of voice and material. The evening was everything we could have hoped, and it was very much like those raucous but civilized scenes of the Roaring Twenties. But I was destined to leave LA in a few days, along with departing from my girlfriend of nine months, a stunning young creature modeled after Jane Russell. I'd started my publishing career, but discovered I needed another class or two to graduate from Davis. I'd finish those up at Napa College in the next few months and return, but I couldn't know it would all work out then. Or that the girl would be waiting when I returned. The pleasant Napa I remembered became a Siberia for me after the glitz of LA. But I would later get my fill.

So if the night was less than wholly satisfying, it was the fault of my personal circumstances rather than that of the canned celebration; that latter was excellent.

Well, last night, I checked out quite a few New Year's Eve celebrations, canned and otherwise, and they all looked pretty good. First, I closed the Oxbow Market, full till five, deserted well before six, when they locked the doors. I'd visited with Cris, the Hollywood player in exile who hangs at Ritual coffee, heard of his trip to Banff to visit a client. Bought some chocolate truffles from Kamaya, one of the many beauties who works at Anettes; then some tea at Tillerman's.

An amble down the empty back street delivered me to the Wine Train Depot just as the locomotives pulled into place and the staff scurried aboard to prepare for the party.

It had already begun, and inside the building a couple of hundred well-dressed people danced to the music, drank champagne, nibbled at the treats. I saw a man in tails and a velveteen homburg hat, another in tuxedo, under a black cowboy hat. Lots of dark suits, and sequinned cocktail dresses; all illuminated by the little white lights cascading across the ceiling. A great looking party even before they boarded the train and the main event.

Encountered a 30-something couple from Virginia, here for the holidays to visit relatives. They'd done the wine tour thing over the last few days and are headed home tomorrow. The Valley was everything they'd imagined, and they overbrimmed with happiness at the evening, the party happening around them, the party to continue on the train. Like most, they posed for photos to remember the evening, a glamorous New Year's Eve cruising through starlit wine country as they feasted.

From there I wandered over to the Westin Verasa Hotel, where big, new cars dropped off diners for La Toque; inside, the Bank Bar was being prepared for the black and white ball a little later on. Important-Looking People in tuxes and gowns tried to look in control as they entered and and sought their bearings before hustling off when they figured it out.

But it was time for me to go to Uva, and join my friends at the bar; no sooner had I arrived than John poured me a Mondavi Pinot Noir, and the other John insisted I sample the pot roast. Uva does great comfort food. Jack Pollard and his crew were just setting up the music gear, and I saw the statuesque Lilliana and her friend, drinking martinis. Stopped by to say, hi, Happy New Year, met the friend, Debbie. By which time my friends at the bar were getting toasted; they left under the care of designated drivers. And Justin, the bartender, went out of his way to shake my hand and wish me a Happy New Year.

I went to Silo's, to catch some of Terry Bradford's act. He's appeared there a lot the last several months, and his vocal range keeps filling the house. His Somewhere, Over the Rainbow, would have shamed Judy Garland; a little later, they convened for a meet and greet. Meanwhile, I visited with Keith, the proprietor, who's still bubbling over the new liquor license they acquired; now the place was a real night club, cocktails and martinis supplementing the beer and wine that's kept them lubricated so far.

Walked by Angele, standing room only, bar crowded; walked by Morimoto, busy as ever. Downtown Joe's was just beginning to fill up by 10, a line out front. Inside, a reggae-inspired rock band wailed, and I saw one of my Uva friends dancing her ass off inside...never saw That side of her before.

And in front of Eiko, saw a trio of the prettiest young things, all dressed up, alone together. I'm amazed at all the great-looking women I see out on the town, in company with each other, without men. Has dating ended...?

Anyway, other engagements called, and I headed for the hills, passing the Uptown as Ozomatli got ready to play. The first of the night's many booms went off, the number accelerating as midnight approached. Just like cannons saluting the New Year, culminating in a series of broadsides at midnight. A Happy New Year.

Heard on the Street, woman to man who asked how she was doing: "...I'm doing very badly...but not really. Everything's great. Just wanted to say something different..."


Friday, 30 December 2011

On Tuesday night, I indulged the rarest of treats. The Opera House showed one of my favorite old movies as part of its new classic film series, Yankee Doodle Dandy, starring Jimmy Cagney. I've seen the movie half-a-dozen times, but never before in a theater. How different the experience compared to watching it on a television screen.

Richard Miami, who used to run the film program at Copia, introduced the film, and I presume he chose it. What a spectacle, what a great choice, if only because the movie captures so much of a lost world.

Just seeing it in a theater, a roomful of people in a dark space collectively focusing attention on a black and white screen made it a unique experience for these days. And the old-time interior of the Opera House enhanced the experience, made suspension of disbelief complete, if only because there was little reflection of the stripped down sterility of your average multi-plex theater and our post-modern world.

It's a biopic about George M. Cohan, a scrappy Irish song-and-dance man who came of age around 1900 and proceeded to become the toast of Broadway for the next generation, cranking out hit after hit show, hit after hit song. The Man Who Owns Broadway, they said of him.

He was an unapologetic flag-waver, and his tunes defined patriotism well beyond the second world war. I'm A Yankee Doodle Dandy was the most notable, but he also wrote Over There, the song that accompanied our forces to France in the first world war. A lot of his songs were such standards that they comprised a large part of the canon taught in school music classes into the 1960s; we learned to sing such songs as Over There, and learned as well the historical context of the society that spawned it.

Indeed, the movie was a concise little history of 50 years of life and entertainment in America, from the boarding house existence once so common, to the evolution of mass culture. While the film starts out in the days of music hall variety shows and Vaudeville, it ends with the Broadway extravaganza of elaborate sets and dozens of beauties in the most outlandish costumes.

There was a special bonus for me in all this. Cohan wrote the song Yankee Doodle Dandy for his first big hit show, called Little Johnny Jones, based on the career of a jockey named Tod Sloan. He was one of the world's first international celebrities, but his career ended in 1901 when he was accused of unethical behavior with suspicions of cheating. His reputation was eventually restored years later. In the meantime, Sloan went to Paris and opened the famous Harry's Bar, still alive, around the world. Regularly hung out at the LA branch in Century City, and ate a most memorable meal at the one in Venice, right before going to Teatro Fenice, and a moonlight cruise in a gondola with a sweetheart.

It turns out that Tod Sloan achieved his earliest successes here in Northern California, which led to his recruitment by rich New Yorkers to go east. He dominated racing for the last half of the 1890s, and he made standard the jockey style of leaning forward and riding high on very short stirrups. After he was banned from racing in Britain, and then in the United States, he showed up here in Napa, at the once-famed Soda Springs Resort. I came across that factoid and his name while researching old newspaper archives at the county library. It seems that he went to the Springs right after his racing ban, one of the finest places anywhere to lick your wounds.

At the time it meant nothing to me. But sitting in the Opera House and watching the Cohan movie, it was all spelled out. I even got to see the highlights of Little Johnny Jones.

And the once famous jockey, Tod Sloan, the once famous resort, Soda Springs, and the once famous blockbusteer, Little Johnny Jones, have all descended into obscurity. Along with that once famous song, Yankee Doodle Dandy. And for most people under 40, even Jimmy Cagney, one of the greats of the motion picture age, is just a name most have never heard.

Afterward, I ambled over to the Slack Collective, which has its own Tuesday movie night, but later. The '80s fantasy Willow appeared on the screen, and I watched it again in fascination. I first saw it when it came out, in Westwood, the disrict by UCLA, where all the big movies premiered in Los Angeles. There was a new version of the George Lucas THX promo for his sound system. It blew the speakers out in the theater, and we got a rain check for the next day.

At the time, Willow was considered cutting edge for its special affects, with flying fairies, cavorting little people, transforming magicians and witches, and elaborates sets and lots of action with warring knights.

It wasn't my kind of movie, but it seemed impressive for what it was.

I couldn't believe how dated, how hokey, it seemed, especially the special effects. So unlike Yankee Doodle Dandy, a piece of pure propaganda, the best sort, released six months after Pearl Harbor was attacked.

Just by coincidence, while sitting at Starbucks and writing about events circa 1900, I took a break to dig something out of my backpack. Came across a flat bag with a Christmas present I bought for myself in San Francisco last week. And forgot.

I'd gotten it at Aria, an odd little store on Grant Avenue in North Beach. The place resembles a well-decorated junk shop, the inventory assembled into strange little ad hoc art works. And all the junk seems to come from France, old odds and ends that must be a dime a dozen there, but count as wonderful curiosities here.

What I bought was a couple of pages from a photo album dedicated to the Paris International Exposition of 1900. Whoever put it together must have taken hundreds of photos--I got 16--documenting every aspect of the world fair. Each page was divided into quarters, each quarter with a picture and caption. Every entry was inscribed in such perfect, tiny hand-writing, that I thought it must have been printed to look handmade. I was wrong. Someone had lovingly devoted weeks, at least, to attend, photograph and write about the festival.

The 2x3 inch pictures include several views of the Eiffel Tower and various exhibits: a reconstruction of Old Paris, with a man who looks like Lenin taking a closer look; an army officer, sword on belt, in front of the Palace of Metallurgy; a peasant church from the ersatz Swiss village. And lots of well-dressed Parisians. A real delight, another lost world, never to be seen again, co-existing with Tod Sloan, Napa Soda Springs and Jimmy Cagney.

Don't Miss:

*Black, White & Pink New Year's Eve Party, Wine Train, 5pm
*Terry Bradford/Rockin' New Year's Party, Silo's, 8pm
*New Year's Eve Bash w/Ozomatli, Uptown Theatre, 8pm
*Boogie Ball, Marriott Hotel, 8:30pm, 707-253-8600

Heard on the Street, from a teen-age boy to a teen-age girl, at Third and Main: "...the kids who think they're cool, the popular ones, really aren't. Now the people I think are cool, are really cool. At least I think so..."


Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Christmastime visits to San Francisco always leave me somewhat bewildered, questioning. What happened, where did that go, where did that come from. Born there, grew up there, loved the City more than my family, I do believe. Nowhere else existed, nowhere else needed to exist...I had San Francisco. It was even better at Christmas. Now, however, I feel like one of those ghosts of Christmas Past, and everything I knew of San Francisco has disappeared except in my memory. I even wonder about that.

Throughout the '50s, it was still a formal city, where the men all wore hats, the women, Hats and Gloves. At Christmas everyone dressed up even more, and so did the stores. In my inner-Richmond District neighborhood, Clement Street served as our commercial thoroughfare, just a block from the family house on California Street. Even walking to school was a treat along Clement, starting at Pinelli's Flowerland, the local florist. Christmas trees for sale on the sidewalk, wreaths galore, holly and berries and the smell of evergreen. Everyone said Merry Christmas to everyone else as they passed; with a smile. Fog often still lingered, obscuring the view just right, while magnifying the glow of lights, just like London, I imagined, and I half expected Ebenezer Scrooge or Tiny Tim to emerge in every random pedestrian encountered. Neon lights still predominated, magical in the mist, and even the liquor stores delighted me, with lurid pulp magazines arranged out front in racks, with special Christmas tragedy issues, damsels in distress dramatically portrayed. And just before rounding the corner I passed by King Norman's Toy Store; I'd linger in the seemingly vast place for an hour after school. By the time I made it home, often after dark, fires had been lit, the smell of burning wood faint in the air. Christmas trees of every size and description loomed in the bay windows of old Victorians.

At some point in early or mid-December, the family dressed up and went downtown for a big dinner at one of the restaurants, after which we looked at the window displays in the great department stores. The Emporium, The White House, The City of Paris, all San Francisco institutions now gone. And Macy's and Penny's, too. Every window had some version of Santa's workshop, or reindeers, little mechanical figures making toys, or handing them out or something. They must have numbered in the hundreds, and I often wonder where they all went.

The Emporium was the best--now it's the Westfield Shopping Mall or somesuch, just as good as what you'd find in the suburbs, but hardly worthy of its predecessor. The toy department presided on the top floor, full of things that no longer exist for children; kits that allowed you to make your own lead soldiers, or wooden ships. Steam engines that actually worked, chemistry sets with things you could set on fire, carbide cannons that boomed like the real thing. Every kind of toy gun, western or military, every kind of toy soldier. Balsa airplanes that flew, pond yachts that sailed, cars with little internal combustion engines.

For a few bucks, you could send your kid through the special Santa Line, and he got a little gift; then you kept going, to the North Pole on the rooftop, where there were lifesize reindeer and Santa's sleigh and a ferris wheel and Christmas songs on the sound system; and elves. I'll never forget my first time, I was five or six, a mixture of fear and awe at the magnificence of it all, expecially rising up that ferris wheel, the whole of San Francisco ten stories below, and all lit up. I weep at the memory.

Then we'd head up Powell Street and walk to the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill, and go to Blum's, San Francisco's premiere sweet shop, and we'd all eat ice cream sundaes.

We always got a big, bushy tree, cut on a weekend in Napa, from a neighbor's Christmas tree farm on Redwood Road, where we maintained our country retreat. My mother had accumulated a wide array of blown glass ornaments, then usually made in a still recovering Germany, one of their few exports. The tree accumulated dozens of gifts, since we were a large family. And even though my parents always poor-mouthed me in explanation as to why they couldn't assure me the big present I wanted, Santa might be kind and bring it. Every year I feared disappointment, and every year I got exactly what I wanted and then some.

After opening gifts, we trekked to Star of the Sea for Mass, usually the one in which I sang in the choir. A beautifully appointed church in a high renaissance style, the choir loft boasted a back wall of massive organ pipes, and you felt the powerful harmonies in your very bones. The Mass was Latin in those days, the finery to match, and incense and bell sounds punctuated the affair. And then a long day at home or my aunts house, where dozens of us ate and drank and I wallowed in my new loot.

That San Francisco is all gone, but I still enjoy it during the holidays, even if you can't say Merry Christmas without insulting someone. New family traditions evolved, my own family's, that moved with the time and place. In Los Angeles, we used to go to the tree-lighting at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, took my son to see Santa somewhere in Santa Monica. After moving back up here, it was all San Francisco again.

When my son reached a certain age, Santa Claus was no longer an issue, but we still went through the Christmas motions: ice skating at the Embarcadero, looking at the decorations at the Hyatt Regency, lunch at Kuleto's, dinner at Tadich Grill.

We got together last week for an outing, certainly nothing like the good old days, but good enough. Cruised through the Fairmont--Blum's is long gone. Checked out Grace Cathedral, where we used to go for Christmas music and Handel's Messiah. Then a big dinner at Tadich Grill. We eat at the bar, and always end up with the same ageless waiter. I think this must have been the eighth or ninth time in succession he's served us a Christmastime meal.

Afterwards, we went to the Metreon Theater, to see the new Tintin movie, in 3D. I loved the Tintin books growing up, the only graphic novels that ever interested me. They were a rarity, reserved for those who went to Europe, or knew someone who did. I was in the latter category, and the one year I got an edition for Christmas, I devoured it, over and over again.

The movie wasn't bad, and that was all I could ask for at that point.

Heard on the Street, from a saxophonist playing carols in front of Whole Foods, on Christmas Eve: "...Yeah, I did pretty good today. I averaged about $50 an hour..."


Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Friday was a very good day for me. Last time around, I mentioned meeting Robin Short at Uva, and that she sells rural properties with her mother. We all made a date, and I met Robin and CeCe at the Starbucks on Trancas. From there it was into the mountains. I showed them around my two parcels, one of which I intend to keep, the other to sell. I won't bore you with the details, but it was a real pleasure to encounter a couple of real estate professionals who know country properties. Met a whole bunch of the other kind, especially during the boom years when houses sold themselves. They'd hustle to get my listings, and then not know what to do with them.

The ladies explained the current market in the Napa Valley, that buyers with cash proliferate, especially from other countries. What they want are bargain estates, the dream house built for $5 million that's now available for half that. Coincidentally, the recent sale of Robert Mondavi's former manor for less than half of the $25 million value it once claimed made the point.

Another interesting observation: People want to buy properties with any kind of crop, vineyard, orchard, to generate a little income. One suspects this is a harbinger of the eat fresh, eat local trends, with a little pre-Apocalyptic fear thrown in.

Anyway, meeting the two Shorts is one of the best Christmas presents of my year. Another is the announcement that the America's Cup yacht race is coming to San Francisco Bay. Always been fascinated by things maritime, especially the America's Cup. As a youngster, I lusted at the prospect of being able to see those races, but it seemed unlikely, and there was no way they'd ever come to San Francisco.

In those days, Newport, Rhode Island had a lock on the America's Cup, and so did America. They were called 12-meter boats, though the name referred to a complex design formula that meant nothing to normal folk. One of the rules dictated that the boats had to be constructed within a given country only from products made there. Since The United States led the world's economy in the postwar era when the races started up again, we always had a high-tech advantage others lacked.

And the New York Yacht Club ran the affair, with a measure of exclusiveness and condescension that rankled other American sailors. Ted Turner, I believe, was the first outsider to crack the aristocratic mafia and win the Cup without their approval. I forget all the intrigues that resulted in the Australians finally getting it, but it was my good fortune to be on hand as a new chapter opened.

I happened to be in Australia for a triathlon in '85 or '86 when America's Dennis Connor was racing against New Zealand for the right to challenge the Aussies. Spent almost every day for a week eating the vast seafood buffet at the Esplanade Hotel in Freemantle before going out in a 50-foot yacht to see the action. Truth be told, it's not the most exciting thing in the world, especially since you don't really know what's going on over there on the horizon where the itty-bitty sails are barely visible. I didn't mind; I was drinking scotch out of a silver flask and flirting with pretty girls when I wasn't getting doused by the warm waves of the Indian Ocean from my spot toward the bows.

And we all knew when Dennis Connor won in the end, and such a parade from the sea back to port I never expected to see again, boats by the hundreds honking air horns and tooting whistles. Just brilliant. Connor went on to win the Cup back afterwards.

Received a wonderful repeat performance, of sorts, a decade later when the Cup was back in San Diego. I'd missed all the prelims, and after a week or two of racing, the boats were tied, and America and New Zealand would slug it out in one last race. I lived in LA at the time, and decided at the last minute to drive down.

Arrived just in time to miss the press boat, but as I stood dockside I notices a battered little sailboat heading out. I hailed the captain, and he was, indeed, going out to watch the race. I asked if I could go along, and he assented...as long as he didn't have to come get me. I quickly stripped to my shorts, shoved my things into a plastic bag stolen from an empty trash bin, and swam out.

The surprised skipper couldn't renege at that point, and he pulled me aboard, proferring the first of many beers. Tim Scanlon was a cab driver from Boston who removed to San Diego with his trade in order to buy an old sailboat, learn the arts of the sea, and then navigate himself around the world. He'd acquired the boat just months before and was still learning to sail.

Within half-an-hour we cruised into the thick of the race, almost literally. His deficiencies in skill kept putting us on the course, and eveentually, a small Coast Guard vessel made itself our escort. No other spectators had a better view of the race than Tim and I.

Afterward, I found myself in front of the restaurant hosting the New Zealand crew's victory party. I had not, of course, been invited, so I did that o;d Rockford Files thing; I saw a nametag waiting for a claimant, said I was Peter Smith, and joined a raucous but civilized drinking fest during which I actually got to hold the fabled America's Cup. I was sorry to see it leave our shores again, but it couldn't have gone to a nicer bunch of people. I had been there at the beginning of the quest as well as at the end, and boasted of the fact to quite a few Kiwis. Then they bought me another drink.

But I digress. San Francisco's got the race, and I don't even know who's got the Cup anymore. But Napa did merit note as the officizal Wine Country of the America's Cup. When I was watching the races in Australia, it was the Swan River Appellation that got the honor.

And now I'm off to ready myself for a couple of days in San Francisco.

Heard on the Street, between two grandmothers in Yountville:"...Oh, he's a funny kid. They had to change the whole Santa Claus story because he'll get all freaked out over the idea of some strange man sneaking into the house through the chimney..."


Tuesday, 13 December 2011

Spent a pleasant Saturday afternoon at the Michael Mondavi Family Winery out in the Carneros. They had a Home for the Holidays event, with music, snacks and, of course, wine. Guitarist Adam Traum alternated between Christmas songs and ballads, someone offered me tidbits from a tray, and Jessica poured some Pinot Noir.

Not long after the Big Corporation took over the Robert Mondavi Empire five or six years ago and excluded the sons from the company, Michael started his own wine business, Folio. He developed several brands, Oberon my favorite just because it's the old name of the bar we know as Downtown Joe's. Then, a few years ago, he acquired the Francis Mahoney property in the Carneros on Dealy Lane.

I rode my bike out there on a crisp, clear afternoon, first time in the last couple of years. It's seldom more pretty than in early winter, the meadows green with new grass, bursts of yellow mustard dusting the rows of vines. Artesa winery loomed in the distance as I pulled into the drive, Milliken Peak to its west just beginning to screen the falling sun. A quartet of women left on bikes as I arrived, acting silly, having fun, enjoying their little outing--winetasting on bikes!--and noting with relief that the Carneros Inn was in view and a short ride away.

The winery itself is a simple affair not inconsistent with the architecture at the Mondavi Winery in Oakville; white stucco, heavy wooden doors, all function guiding the pleasing form. The Tasting Gallery resides in what appears to be a converted farmhouse. In front sits what I've decided is the ultimate Valley status symbol: a Porsche, in red and cream colors. But this is a diesel, and it's a tractor. Never heard of such a thing as a Porsche diesel tractor, but there it was, and it was a beauty. Of course.

Jessica, my host, joined the staff in May; just moved here from Texas after studying some version of ag econ at Texas A&M. After a visit to the Valley just had to move here. She loves the place, the job, everything; a dream come true, so far.

I decided to do Pinot Noir for the day, and Jessica started me off with a 2010 Hangtime, their lightest wine of the varietal, blended of Pinots from around the state. From there she proceeded to a 2008 Arroyo Seco, grapes from Force Canyon. This is Central Coast stuff, with temperatures not far removed from those of the Carneros.

Then we progressed to the Isabel Mondavi Estate Pinot Noir, made from grapes grown in the vineyard behind the erstwhile farmhouse in which we sat. This one I enjoyed most, not surprising given that the property claimed some of the first Pinot Noir in the county, planted by Francis Mahoney, who did more than most to promote the Carneros region and its suitability for the varietal.

The Michael Mondavi name on the winery is a new addition; took a while to work out the legal details, avoid confusion with the Other Mondavi brand that now belongs to the corporation. And it does seem to be a family affair; Isabel is Mrs. Michael Mondavi, and son Rob actively manages the operation with his father.

And then there's Lydia, Rob's wife, who's created a line of cosmetics called "29," evoking our very own winery highway. It touts the benefits of grape seed oil, and its anti-oxident qualities. I recently heard from a young woman in the know that it's becoming popular at spas on the East Coast. But you can get 29 in the Tasting Gallery too.

The facility has porches front and back, picnic tables here and there, and permits that allow you to indulge in an al fresco repast in the vineyards. It's the perfect field trip, a short drive from town and a million miles from reality.

By the time I got back to town, I'd missed most of the candlelight tour of craftsman houses, but I did stop in at the first house on the list, a grand structure on Franklin. Visitors sat on the generous verandah, lights glowed in and out, and the redwood pillars and wainscoating stood out proudly against the whitewashed walls. The pair of old Fords in front just frosted the cake, especially the 1930 limo, silver with black trim. The little yellow coupe wasn't bad either.

Ultimately joined my friends at Uva for a drink, ordered some of their garlic bread to snack on; I don't think anyone does it better, especially fresh out of the kitchen, and hot. Then I overheard the girl sitting next to me at the bar proclaim that she was a Napa girl first, last and always, and someone cracked, Too bad. How so? she asked; this is a great place to live, people from all over the world want to live here.

That shut the guy up. We started talking, Holly, her name; went to St. John's Elementary, Justin-Siena, St. Mary's College in the East Bay, now works at Mumm's Champagne by Rutherford. She has a nice life, and unlike so many, she knows it and appreciates it. Good friends, too, and she introduced me to one of them, Robin. Another Justin-Siena alumnus, she sells rural real estate with her mom, told of riding horses and SUVs to check out some properties.

And that is just the kind of real estate agent I've been looking for to sell one of my land parcels, so we made plans to look at my property. I couldn't have been happier.

Heard on the Street, from a social climber, in a shop in St' Helena: "...You know, at the Rutherford Grill there'll be four or five people eating at the bar, with a bottle of wine sitting in front of them, and it's their wine, with their names on the label. That's where the insiders go to eat..."


Friday, 9 December 2011

Met a young woman the other day at Starbucks killing time and doing homework while she waited for the traffic to thin out before she headed home to San Francsico. Christina attends the Culinary Institute of America, almost ready to graduate. It was surprising to learn she quit a good job at Google to start a new career as a chef, especially considering that a major cooking school in San Francisco came under fire last summer because former students couldn't get the jobs promised at studies' end.

But she got fed up with the dotcom world, really much less glamorous or fun than it's made to sound, had it with cubicles, meetings that never end or decide anything; and clueless managers. She lamented the high cost of the program, but then lauded the curicula. She really feels like she's learned what she needs to know. Even better, there's only one Culinary Institute of America, and two campuses; in the Hudson River Valley of New York, and here in the Napa Valley. The name counts for a lot, she said, and it's given her quite an advantage in the job search; she'll be starting soon at Michael Mena in San Francisco pretty soon.

We talked about the chef shows, where everyone's yelling at each other all the time. It's really like that at a lot of restaurants, she said, but she intends to avoid that scene if possible.

Reminded me of Aaron London, chef at Ubuntu before its hiatus, and the calm chaos over which he presided. A few months ago, I was riding BART in San Francisco, met another woman going to chef school, but that Other one in trouble. As soon as she heard I was from Napa, she gushed about Aaron, and his appearance at some of her classes. Just loved him.

I haven't eaten at Ubuntu for some time; not my style. But I spent a memorable New Year's Eve there on the cusp of 2007-08, and had the best vegetarian food ever. And I'm no fan of vegetarianism. Sorry to see the place dark now, but the yoga continues, I hear.

And that reminds me of Kang, the number 2 or 3 chef at Morimoto; talked to him one night as he was trimming veal cheeks. That's another place that seems to get by with minimal hystrionics in the kitchen; but Kang doesn't seem like the type. Like Christina, he was another one of those who already had a career path and then took a hard turn in another direction. He was going to school in Ohio; soil engineering, I believe, and then he did graduate work in toxicology. Along the way he worked in restaurants, caught the bug, and became a chef instead.

Christmas is an odd time of year for the restaurant business; it's really slow, unless it's not. The usual patterns, flukey as they may be already, go all to hell over the holidays. Some places go empty, others, for whatever reason, become the places to go.

Morimoto seems never to go begging for customers, and its world-class status probably accounts for that; it's a destination restaurant in a destination region. On the slowest nights elsewhere in town, Morimoto always has a decent crowd, especially in the bar. Eiko has surprised me lately too, with a full dining room early in the evening and a packed bar later on, at least on the weekends.

Stopped by Inti the other day; that's the place on First just down from Brown Street that sells exotic imports, especially from Asia. There are always lots of carvings from Indonesia, everything from Buddhas to dragons to lovers entwined. Also jewelry and small art objects of every description. I have a weakness for metal castings in this age of plastic, and noted several geckos and such available in iron; and original oil paintings of saints and virgins from one of the Andean Republics, forget if its Bolivia or Peru--Ecuador, maybe--but they're classics of the type, richly detailed and colored.

And then there are the Christmas decorations. Once was a time when everyone used to drive to the south county where American Canyon is now. Back then, the first tract there was called Rancho del Mar--we're talking early, mid-60s--and it was populated by refugees from the south who came up during the war to work at Mare Island. A tough, combative lot, they went nuts over Christmas in orgies of decorative one-upsmanship. Everything outlined in red and green lights, and these were the days of homecraftsmen with jig saws. People competed to have the most complete Nativity scenes, life size, cut from plywood, and the Holy Family never sufficed. Angels appeared, then wise men, their camels, the shepherds and sheep. Then it was on to Santa Claus, Rudolph showed up, and eventually the sleigh and all the reindeer.

I was just a kid, and maybe I was easily impressed, but it seemed the displays went on for blocks, and for all its tackiness, despite the kitsch, the exhibition was marvelous against the misty air of a dark night, the lights not just shining, but glowing auras around everything illuminated.

Presumably, equivalent streets still exist, albeit with store-bought decorations; but I'm not looking for them. What I discovered in a walk through the old neighborhood between Fuller Park and the river, however, did just fine. There's a house on Oak Street by Coombs that trimmed itself just right, covered everything with lights, but without overdoing it despite its lavishness. House trimmed in white lights, small yard trees done in red, green and gold, big trees out front wrapped in blue.

This is one of those old farmhouses that once stood on the edge of town, and then the town encompassed it and its water tower. Whoever owns it restored it nicely--down to the white picket fence--and they seem determined to entertain the neighborhood with their presence. Last summer, they hosted Greg Forbyn's Eric Zahn Band during the Porchfest music day at historical houses around town.

And across the street, three modest little houses decorated themselves as well; they, too, were just perfect in their simplicity.

Heard on the Street, from a teenage girl to a tweener boy wearing a fauxhawk: "...She's your big sister, and you should do what she says even if you do think it's unfair...She's lookin out for you..."


Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Funny the things I pick up just hanging around one coffee house or another--though I am in fact an inveterate tea drinker. Right now, I'm sitting at the Starbucks by Vallergas on Trancas. Just saw Mark Jessup walk by, said hi. Mark started Jessup Vineyards, and he's had a tasting room in Yountville for several years, expanding over time and moving to a larger establishment. But I usually see him at the Oxbow, since renewing our acquaintance last summer over beers at the Oxbow Wine Merchant. That's when I first learned that Jessup Vineyards didn't belong to him anymore; he cashed out, and now he's working on a new label.

Seems like the thing to do for many people; build and sell when the timing's right, collect some profit, catch your breath, start again.

A couple of weeks ago, ran into another friend at the Coffee Roasting Company at First and Main. He was thumbing through a recent Napa Valley Life Magazine, I joined him, and asked if he was working again. Until last summer, he'd been with the same winery for 15 or so years, got let go as the once rich owner--he's an investment type with a locally well-known name--found the vanity winery too expensive to maintain.

He was just finishing a crush, he said, at one of the custom facilities, for a brand few have ever heard of; happily, after so many years at the same place, he didn't mind particularly that he'd be off work for the Christmas Season and beyond. We mused over the declining fortunes of his owner, and the fact that he wasn't alone. Indeed, in a similar conversation with a banker-type, I was told that lots and lots of wineries were in trouble, but that banks and investors kept carrying them, if possible. No one wants to see the dominoes start falling such that even marginally healthy institutions end up in trouble because credit dries up in fear of those same dominoes comin' atcha.

Some already cashed out just because, some are looking to cash out because they're deperate, some cashed out because the price was too attractive to pass up, and they could start all over again with deep pockets and a wealth of experience and connections. Like Jessup, presumably.

Then our talk turned toward the latest crush. Not only was there less fruit to go around because of the cool summer, grapes had to be harvested well before ripening in some places because of the fear of mould. What's that do to the sugar content? I asked. Without the high sugar, you're not going to have the high alcohol contents so popular with local vintners.

I realize, of course, that the chemistry underlying the making of wine has progressed to such a point that winemakers can manipulate final results in ways unimagined when I was an assistant winemaker with Daryl Sattui back in the late '70s. All this talk in the last decade about reflecting terroir is an outgrowth of the changes. In the old days--30 or so years back--you had no choice but to reflect the terroir; you crushed the grapes when it was time, fermented the juice, and that done, you put it into barrels to age. That was pretty much it, and making a good wine was almost wholly dependent on your grapes, when you picked them, good oak barrels, and, most important of all, keeping everything clean. It was largely a matter of not doing something wrong in an otherwise simple--if not easy--process.

And there are rules limiting what you can do; you couldn't add sugar, for instance, to pump up the alcohol content, or add oak chips to a barrel, to speed the aging and flavoring process.

But there are loopholes; there are companies that take old barrels, take them apart and reassemble them with fresh oak slats inside to make possible the richer flavors of new wood; there's the pumping of oxygen through the wine to speed the aging. And that's just the beginning; wine chemists can do all kinds of remarkable things.

Back to my friend and that low sugar problem. The solution? He explained that you evaporate out the alcohol and some of the water, and then reintroduce the alcohol, with less of the water, to achieve the desired alcohol content. So there are no foreign additives, so to speak, but you can create the same effect. Then my friend picked up his copy of Napa Valley Life, to show me an ad for a winery. It displayed a picture of the cellar, and in front of the barrels sat an evaporator. Seems this is something of a grey area, though, and he was surprised they let this little trade secret slip.

And speaking of odd winery practices, just heard a great anecdote about a new boss from "corporate" who took over one of the Valley's oldest premier labels. He thought they'd have less trouble with crush and getting workers and all that stuff if they moved up the schedule; seems he asked his astonished underlings why they didn't do the harvest in February. The mysteries of agriculture were apparently beyond him, though he had the office politics down pat.

That is supposed to be a true story.

Just read an interesting blog piece at WineBusiness.com about the difficulties of wineries in the current climate, especially small, family-owned properties. It mentioned one going out of business because they lost their line of credit, and another that's retrenching, and saving the money they once spent on junkets here and there, special marketing plans for different clientele, different pricing structures.

Also found an interesting piece by Napa's Paul Franson, revealing that the stone building on Third and Soscol may turn into a winery co-op.

Meanwhile, I see from Amelia Ceja's Facebook postings that she and daughter Dahlia went to Yosemite for a vintners' dinner at the Awhanee Hotel. Those two seem to have the best time.

Finally, I hear that some parts of the Bounty Hunter empire are up for sale; don't know what, or why, but heard murmurings from several directions.

Heard on the Street, from one of four partying girls leaving Downtown Joe's after a real good time, in regard to the sculpture out front: "...I think I'd really like to ride piggy back on that thing..."

Don't Miss:

Fri, 9 Dec
*Murder Mystery Night, Wine Train, 5:30pm, 800-427-4124
*A Victorian Christmas, Napa Valley Museum, Yountville, 7pm, 707-945-0500

Sat, 10 Dec
*Home for the Holidays, Michael Mondavi Winery, 11am-5pm, 707-256-2757
*Ringing in the Season, Napa Valley Museum, Yountville, 2-4pm, 707-944-0500
*Art Show & Open House, Black Stallion Winery, 12-4pm, 707-227-3248
*Cheers Main Street Party, St. Helena, 3pm
*Candlelight Tour of Historic Houses, 3-7pm, 707-255-1836
*Snowing at Delphi, Dreamweavers Theatre, 8pm, 707-255-5483
*Napa Valley Ballet, La Magie de Noel, Opera House, 7pm
*The Wallers & Lee Scratch Perry, Uptown Theatre, 8pm

Sun, 11 Dec
*Baroque for the Holidays, Napa Symphony, Opera House, 2pm
*Dave Brubeck's Mass: To Hope, Napa Valley Chorale, First Methodist Church, 3:30 & 7pm, 707-261-6156
*Snowing at Delphi, Dreamweavers Theatre, 2pm, 707-255-5483



Monday, 5 December 2011

I didn't think too much of it when I first saw the red and white lights approaching from the northern sky, faint but getting clearer on approach. Just another plane...but no sound emanated from the apparition, and it seemed to drift rather than fly. Whatever it was floated above the river until it just dematerialized somewhere above the Old Adobe on Soscol. Didn't give it much thought, but soon after it disappeared there came another one from the same direction, following the breezes through the night sky, only to fade away just as the other had.

It was about nine on Saturday night, and I was regarding the view from behind the Napa River Inn between sets at Silo's, and within 10 minutes I saw three or four of these little unidentified flying objects, that seemed to have been launched from somewhere by the Wine Train station. I really can't begin to know for sure what it was, but it looked very much like big red balloons, each with a candle suspended below. The frosty night air with a deep black sky and just a flutter of air current made for a delightful little display. Nice phenomenon someone dreamed up, whatever it was, and somehow perfectly Christmas.

Meanwhile, Kellie Fuller and the Mike Greensill Trio were knocking them dead at Silo's, with Ms. Fuller singing her heart out to a receptive crowd that returned the effort with lavish applause. From the sleek cocktail dress to the between song patter to working the crowd during breaks, Fuller's the compleat cabaret singer, and she couldn't find better accompanists than the MG Trio. I've never seen more people in the place, and Keith, the proprietor, couldn't have been more pleased. And while he's always a friendly, welcoming host, he was really On the other evening; also saw Kathy there, his chief lieutenant, as always making sure everything's running smoothly on the floor.

Now that Silo's has a full liquor license, they can start serving the sorts of cocktails you expect to find at a cabaret; all they need now is Joel Grey and Liza Minelli.

It's funny how deserted the Downtown appears some nights, belying the activity somewhere. As I headed into town late that afternoon, the first visitors were hitting the Beazley House Bed & Breakfast for the Christmas candlelight tour. Several buses dropped people off, and they eagerly started their adventures in old timey architecture and interior design. The pilgrims made the rounds of eight grand old houses, including my personal favorite, Cedar Gables Inn. I lived there briefly in another life, in the days when they rented apartments and rooms. I assure you it's much more romantic now, and it's especially gratifying to see the once shabby splendor replaced by the magnificence of renovation, care and prosperity. You can say that for most of the Victorian Era mansions in town.

The new name of the place escapes me, but the great house behind Cedar Gables was owned by one of the town's big men 120 years ago, one Mister Churchill. The Gables was a gift or somesuch to his son. More or less across the street is a classic Victorian with a mansard roof; the property's been defaced by a small apartment house put in the front yard, some past travesty. That house was owned by Churchill's partner, Mister Goodman. Not only did these two create the First National Bank of Napa, but they were also responsible for the Eschcol Winery; it's called Trefethen, now. And Goodman, of course, was the man who donated to the town its first library. That would be the fine stone building on First Street that houses the historical society.

By the time the B&B tour was over, Eiko and Morimoto were well into dinner hour, and both joints were crawling with merry-makers, bars full, people having a good time. Even the outside fireplace at Eiko boasted a full complement.

Then there's the new art on First Street, installed in vacant storefronts a couple of weeks ago. Let's see...there's the collection of miniature outhouses in the windows of the Tax Assessor's office, somehow very appropriate; there's a series of vertical blue neon lights at another venue; there's an abandoned lot with rubble, more or less, up the block. Very Damien Hirst. And the District Attorney's office has a bunch of puppies in jail in the window.

My own personal favorites ended up side-by-side.

Brandon Gomez created something of a masterpiece that resembles, at first glance, a tree shooting off a couple of large branches from a short trunk. Closer scrutiny reveals the life-size human forms writhing through the limbs. Interesting artist statement, too, incorporated into the work, with empty, spattered paint buckets for punctuation. Something about going crazy for your art.

I know the feeling because I saw Brandon making the piece, over at the Slack Collective; he made dozens of forms from real people--Slack Denizens--and then made plaster castings. Couldn't imagine how he intended to put it all together, but he did. Brandon's incredibly prolific and talented; he did a small painting project on glass, a dozen little panes, each portraying a cutaway of a head, starting with the face, working through the skull. The semi transparent images create a 3D effect, and as you take them apart one by one--or put them together that way--you get into someone's head.

Until a month or so ago, Brandon was the guy who kept things running at Ubuntu; he left so he could work on the First Street art project, and it's a triumph. This young man needs a Medici, and if he finds one, they may discover a Michelangelo.

I know Lorenzo Mills from the Coffee House; his piece is called A Jury of My Peers. A dozen life-size disembodied heads are lined up in two rows, a stern judge and tormented defendent off to one side. The two art works display well together; both sculptural, both demonstrative of real technical ability, thought, and lots of hard work.

Wildcat Boutique held its usual First Friday art show, most recently Virgin A-Go-Go. This is not my mother's Virgin Mary. Interesting riffs on the theme; Rob Struven, tattoo artist extraordinaire, had one of his designs up--Pray for Us Sinners--showing a deadly looking pachuca. Kat Attack presented a remarkable piece of photography, of a beautiful nude, modestly hiding her charms. And someone else did a nice little tryptich of an Oriental woman in a deep blue kimono spangled with golden stars. There were lots of cartoon-voluptuous nudes in the show, along with quite a few guns. And some nice little Virgin of Guadelupe figurines for context.

And speaking of virgin births and Christmas, who should I see walking out of Backroom Wines Sunday afternoon but Gordon Heuther, Napa's World-Class Artist, and Craig Smith of the Downtown Association.

They had in tow nine folks who seemed to be on a tour of sorts; God knows Gordon's the one to show people around town; his art is everywhere, from the random street corner to the parking structure to half the walls of the local masters of the universe. I'm beginning to think of Napa as a mere backdrop for the man's art; any day now, we'll be calling our community Heutherville.

I was reminded, of course, that St. John's Catholic Church was debuting a new altarpiece by the Great Artist, so I thought I'd drop by for the afternoon Mass to have a look. The big-as-life crucifix is a classic, and it floats in front of a circular flash of light rays in steel. Turns out the Jesus was done some time ago, by Italian carvers, in wood. But the starburst is all Heuther.

I was speechless.

The presiding priest thanked all the parishioners who made the new altarpiece possible through their donations or labors, including several construction types who did engineering and seismic work gratis. Not to mention the generosity of Heuther's genius.

Didn't stay long, but I did admire the carving of the Holy Family in the corner opposite the church's own Virgin of Guadelupe. It portrays Jesus, Mary and Joseph as a young family, and it, too, was fashioned by Italian craftsmen. Nice piece.

Meanwhile, a little fiesta got underway in the parish hall across the street. A couple of dozen people clustered in the entry, began singing in Spanish, and then proceeded into the hall where their families waited to join the song.

They invited in the stranger hovering just outside, and to his inquiries as to what, exactly, was going on, a friendly man explained that it was a Mexican folk custom that usually happens on Christmas Eve. Some kind of fanciful re-enactment of Mary and Joseph looking for a place to stay, and the community coming together to welcome them with hospitality.

This time of year, the man said, the hall's booked up all the time. So we're doing it a little early. We don't want our children to forget our customs.

It was sweet beyond words, and made my Christmas that much merrier.

Heard on the Street, from a woman commenting to her friend on an artwork: "...That's just lazy work, just lazy, and there's no excuse for it."


Friday, 2 December 2011

A strong north wind blew down the Valley Wednesday, the occasional eddies making their ways into my canyons and gullies to roil the tops of the redwoods outside the front door. Branches randomly fell, the thunks on my rooftop reminding me of the trees waiting to fall my way. Seemed like a good day to go to St. Helena and find a warm place to sit around and read.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived, the sunlight already receding because of the closeness of the western mountains. And looking up Main Street I regarded a scene right out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, but the reality of the thing portrayed, not an idealized fantasy of kitsch. The soft light, the long vista up Highway 29, and the sparsely populated street combined to give it a dreamlike air.

First thing, I ambled toward the library to visit the Robert Louis Stevenson Museum. This is one of the most charming rooms in the Valley, full of artifacts related to one of the most beloved authors in any language. Treasure Island, Kidnapped, of course, and one of my personal favorites, Silverado Squatters, his account of honeymooning with Fanny Osbourne in a cabin on Mt. St. Helena.

It's amazing the numbers of people I've met in the Valley who proclaim an interest in local history--and volunteer at the likely venues--who have never read the book, or even realize that it's not a novel. His description of Vallejo in the late 1800s is priceless, and so are his many little adventures around the upper Valley. The word portrait about Jacob Schram captures the character of a real character, and the whole work recreates a long-lost world far removed from the Napa we know now.

The museum boasts a marvelous collection of Victoriana, ranging from one of Fanny Osbourne's dainty old-timey shoes to the lead soldiers Stevenson played with as a child. There are drums and kava bowls he collected in the South Seas during his great voyage on the Snark, there are pieces of tapa bark cloth. And there's his inkwell, elaborately rendered in gold. Many fine paintings, too, some of Stevenson, others by his artist wife. Indeed, the medallion she earned when she graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute is there as well.

The school was run at the time by Virgil Williams, one of California's great early painters, and the museum features some of his work, in addition to a canvas by his most famous, prolific pupil, William Keith. But the most impressive is a painting of Stevenson's Mount St. Helena, by Thomas Hill, whose work commands rather more critical acclaim and higher prices than his contemporaries. There's a terrific painting of his at Silverado Cellars, of the Golden Gate, 50 years before the bridge.

I made it back to Main Street not long before closing time, but I did find some treats. The Harley rental place at the south side of town on the east side of the street has an Indian Motorcycle for sale, a real American Classic. Great design, great Indianhead logo, even a light mount shaped like a chief in headdress.

A few storefronts up the street, discovered a place devoted to Ottoman art and design; forget the name, but it was a riot of color. Ceramic bowls, large and small, in the most intricately rendered hues; small, painted cat figurines; glass hands, in blue shades, traditionally meant to protect you from the evil eye; and all manner of platters and such. Also a fine collection of Turkish rugs, from the areas bordering with Iran. But the stars of the show for me was the jewelry, based on designs going back six, seven hundred years, in silver. Studded with rubies and emeralds, some gold gilt, each was a kaleidescope of color.

Across the street, kind of, is Vintage Home. Lots of unique glass serving dishes and like accessories, but it was the Christmas tree that caught my eye; a good 12-footer, it dripped, top-to-bottom, with fine glass ornaments of every description. Very simple, very traditional and utterly magnificent. Best tree I've seen in years.

Pennaluna, next door, or almost, is also worth a visit even if you're not looking for embroidered linen napkins; it's just a beautiful space, and the antique architectural elements inside are alone worth the visit.

After proceeding up the street to the Model Bakery for a chocolate-chip-walnut cookie--they're the best I ever had--I crossed over to the I. Wolk Art Gallery. I especially liked the large paintings of galloping polo ponies. They also feature some funny little bronzes, entitled "A Walk on the Beach," comprised of a conch shell, with legs, striding along.

Proprietor Karen Johnston introduced herself, and explained that she also works with Ma(i)sonry Tasting Room in Yountville, where they create a fusion between wine, art and design. She had a neat little sample pack of Blackbird Wines on display at the gallery. I've been meaning to stop by for a taste, and now that will happen sooner than later.

Martin Design, a few doors down, has always been a favorite just because of the grand creations that appear there on a regular basis. The other day I saw the biggest lamp shade of my life, must have been six-feet across; looks like hammered steel. Impressive. And then there's the oddly jarring item, in this case, white serving platters with a ceramic gun in the middle. Very edgy.

On a more innocent note, they have a couple of herds of small elephants and bulls, and a flock of owls. Each is a concoction of wood and brass, four or five inches long or high. Look like a collaboration between Picasso and Brancusi.

Martin Design also tends to have a collection of fantastic, seldom seen art books, big, fat things, that thouroughly exhaust the given topic, whether it's the work of a particular artist or a design theme, say Japanese anime. My special pleasure was a book of photographs of New York City. Must have spent half-an-hour looking at one great image after another, documenting the city from the time of the first cameras. It made my day.

Then, I finally made my way to the St. Helena branch of the Napa Valley Coffee Roasting Company; this place is much different from the Napa version, if only because it stays open till 8pm, and has wireless. And there I sat to drink some tea, eat my cookie, and read my book in a cozy corner.

Heard on the Street, from a man talking to a stranger in St. Helena: "...Well, I guess it wasn't very smart of me to tell a stranger that I have a-half-million dollars worth of Renoirs on my wall at home, but I am getting a security system pretty soon."