Back to the trip log. Sorry to taunt you with food, Lizard, I swear I’ll wrap that up next.
Tuesday morning we woke up, packed like fiends, and had everything ready to go. We had treated ourselves to room service the morning before, but strolled downstairs Monday morning, fully intending to eat elsewhere, and asked the concierge about our dining options at two specific places, one of which he decreed to be horribly overpriced and not good food, the other, he regretfully informed me, no longer served breakfast, sending me into near mourning for the wonder that was a Postrio breakfast (damn you, Wolfgang Puck, damn you and your pastry chef who made those amazing raspberry confiture and fresh farmer’s cheese danish which our waiter shot out to us gratis 5 years ago when the kitchen fucked up our order, sending me off on a dizzying, never ending search to replicate that taste). Shockingly, the Lad and I both managed to eat eggs Benedict for breakfast, which given the gustatory excess of the night before is either impressive or horrifying. (By the way, Sunday brunch at the Grand Cafe in SF is ala carte, not buffet, but my god is it good. Folks, I had a truffle omlette. Let me repeat. TRUFFLES. Head exploding.)
Sean was such a trooper in SF- our hotel room was beautiful but small and kind of awkward, but he happily ensconced in his stroller and watched Baby Einstein on the Lad’s laptop during Sitting Up So You Don’t Hurl Your Recently Consumed Enormous Meal Time, and then cheerfully rolled around the approximately 3 foot by 4 foot patch of clear floorspace we littered with toys for him. He also got very crafty on this leg of the trip (which complemented him getting extremely mobile on the next leg- more on that in a bit), learning to roll over to the window seat, pull down the diaper bag, and rummage until the little box of cheerios fell out. He then would crow with glee and start stuffing his cherubic face. Good thing he hasn’t figured out where I keep my heroin stash.
We popped him into his polarfleece bunting and headed off to hit Gumps and Britex, which we had missed on our first foray over to Union Square, having been way too caught up in the fun that was Murik, a great (if pricey) children’s boutique off of Union Square. The owner is a hysterical vivacious woman, and while the Lad took Sean off to walk him around and keep him calm she and I got into a lengthy and protracted discussion of the effect of baby gap and old navy baby and children’s place on the developing psyche of a child and how crushing it must be to have a classroom full of children all arrayed alike and where’s the joy and wit in those stores’ clothes, anyway. I realize that no one’s in therapy from gap kids clothes (well hell, maybe there are), but it was nice to find someone who agrees with me that railing against conformity from an early age is a good thing.
Anyway, in all that squeeliciousness on Sunday, we had missed Gumps and Britex, and we walked Sean around Gumps and showed him all the beautiful expensive things and then all the ugly expensive things and lo and behold, they have a baby section (want to watch your tourist spending strategy change drastically? Have a baby) and found perhaps the one item under $20 in the entire store, an unbelievably soft stuffed (baby safe! no button eyes!) duck named ‘Emmit’. Little did we know Gumps warehouses items, and so we got to watch the byzantine delivery system of fresh goods from the basement while the Italian Grandma manning the parcel pickup desk completely lost it over Sean, going so far as to crow, as we departed, “I love you! Aw sweet little boy! Bye bye! Kiss kiss!” Sean looked at us with a satisfied mien, as if to say, “Minion.” Afterwards, I beat my chest and railed at the sky to discover that Britex was closed- closed!- and moving while their original building undergoes earthquake rennovation. At least we had managed to hit Sur la Table on Sunday (where the Lad bought me an autographed copy of Emily Luchetti’s new cookbook. Good man.)
Back to the Monaco, where the Lad fed Sean lunch and I went and picked up our rental car (this time, at least, it had good brakes, unlike the fatass buick we were given 5 years previous) We bid adieu to Bloop (the monaco has a goldfish loan program. Call the front desk, they will bring you a goldfish in a round bowl to keep you company. Sean was entranced. Sean was transfixed. Well, until he made a desperate lunge for the fish and his dad restrained him from My First Sushi). Too bad the Lad was almost hit by a truck as he loaded Sean into the backseat. We drove through the Presidio on our way out of town, stopping at the Golden Gate Bridge for photo ops, woo hoo, and Sean was remarkably well behaved about it. We had very beautiful weather for the drive, and the baby sacked out, meaning we didn’t stop for, say, lunch because we didn’t want to wake him up. So by the time we got to the hotel, we were like ravenous wolves. Yay for a beautiful afternoon tea with luscious scones and double cream and jam made from cabernet grapes.
That night we dined at Pere Jeanty, and the walk back to the hotel was exquisite. The stars were mostly hidden, but there was a stillness, and the fairy lights on the tiny bridges over the streams were still up from the holidays. And the next morning… let the drinking commence! We carefully booked tours and tastings at only a few places- one per day- leaving the rest of each day flexible. 5 years earlier, our waiter at Tra Vigne, Murph, had taken pity on the younger-by-20-years-at-least kids lost in a sea of Serious Wine Tourists There For The Crush and had shot out flight after flight as a challenge round- ‘if you can identify where these are from, they’re free’ sort of thing- and at the end of our meal brought us a glass of Nostalgie, the walnut infused liquer from Domaine Charbay He told us to go to the winery in the morning, and ‘Tell them Murph sent you’. The next morning we schlepped up Spring Mountain Road in our assy assy rental car, only to be greeted by a craggy faced Slav named Milos who informed us in a low rumble that one needed a reservation. Quaking, we said Muprh sent us, and for a moment it looked like we were about to be bellowed at. Instead, he grumbled, “Murph should know better” and ushered us in. Another couple, one with a reservation, came in shortly after us, a pair of aging, obnoxious vaguely hippie baby boomers who proceeded to unwittingly insult everything about the place, making Miles’ face darken exponentially, until finally the husband chirped, “It’s like a scene out of deliverance! I can practically hear the banjo, but you don’t have a shotgun!” To which Miles replied, “Who says I don’t have a shotgun?” and the Lad and I offered you’d be stupid to leave a shotgun out and visible. At that, Miles informed us we could stay as long as we liked and started doing even bigger pours. 40 minutes later, the Lad was well and truly ripped, and I had to drive wily-nilly down the mountain to make our reservation at Domaine Chandon for lunch.
This time, we made a reservation, we both tasted, and Miles’ charming daughter lead our tasting. We talked at length about just how many people we’ve corrupted to the ways of their unbelievably good infused vodkas, and how we cannot get their incredible plain vodka, and their eye searing whiskey, which at this point is uncut and goes for $375 a bottle (shots at our hotel bar were $40 a pour and the bottle was marked with tape) and which the Dog Faced Boy and the Lad have discussed co-owning a bottle with a shared custody agreement. We arranged to have a mixed half case of stuff sent back (folks, if you’re into port, their white port, while expensive, is out of this world and about done with the run). We picnic lunched at the cafe at the Culinary Institute of America (their restaurant was closed, as it always is the first week in January), and it is a testament to my willpower that I did not go hog wild in the cookbook section of their store, and then hit, in rapid sucession, Folie a Deux (not bad. Not great, but not bad), Praeger Port Works (which we bought a bottle at though dipped if I can remember which one), and then Provenance, which Casey at Napa Valley Wine Exchange had recommended to us quite enthusiastically and told us to just go there (“Big red barn. Big. You cannot miss it.”) and buy the wines, rather than buying from him.
Provenance is part of the Chalone group, and they poached Tom Rinaldi away from Duckhorn, and my god, are their wines beautiful. If you can find them, get them. Totally worth the cost. As a rule, I don’t care for Merlot, and theirs? Gorgeous. Their Cabs? Even better. Also, the people there are very nice, and completely fell for Sean, and the woman working there, a pal of Phillipe Jeanty’s, called and got us reservations for Friday night at Bistro Jeanty, which was very very nice of her. They also waved the tasting fee for one of us, and sort of set the tone for, ‘aw, what a cute baby! here, have some free liquor.’ that was the rule of law for the rest of the trip. Who knew? They quite kindly let us find a quiet corner and let Sean play on their exquisite made-from-old-wine-barrels-each-plank-tongue-and-grooved-by-hand wood floor. When I’m rich, yo, and living it big pimpin style, that is totally my floor.
Cause I so totally anticipate ever being that flush with cash. Not. Especially since we have Evil Supergenius Baby to Educate. More on that next time.
