A Blithe PALATE

Wine Stock and Shock.

The last of the wine shipments arrived.

My God. 

I've spent the past week opening boxes of wine that have been appearing with alarming regularity at our front door to put them away in the wine fridges (one for white, one for red).  These are the souvenirs from the Napa trip with Kellie.  We're storing her wine till she picks up her wine fridge later this month.

Sweet Buddha, why did no one stop us from ordering when it was clear that we were in our cups?  We knew the credit cards had been been wounded but we had no idea that they required resuscitation!  The final tally from 3 days in Napa?  Seven and a half cases.  88 bottles.

On the other hand, the wine fridges are stocked full and inviting.  So inviting that as I finished putting the bottles away, I glanced at the clock and said wistfully to Hubby:  "Is it too early to have wine?'

Hubby turned, eyes wide.  "It's never too early to have wine."  Such a good husband.

We consumed three bottles with help from several friends, but this is okay.  A half case of Skywalker Ranch's Viandante del Cielo (no, really, I'm totally serious. His wine is not required to speak his dialogue and is therefore enjoyable) is due to arrive next week and shortly thereafter, a case of Parcel 41 Merlot.

We will need to drink faster or find more friends to help us to make room in the fridges.

North to South on Route 29

Saturday

In the 1976 "Judgement of Paris," which pitted California wines against the French stalwarts in a blind taste test, Napa was put on the world stage when the French judges selected two California wines over their French rivals.  It was Chateau Montelena's Chardonnay that won the white wine tasting.  This year marks the 30th anniversary of that tasting.  Steven Spurrier, the British wine merchant hosted the original event, is currently organizing the anniversary celebrations on May 24.  The winemaker for that winning bottle was Miljenko ("Mike") Grgich, who left Chateau Montelena in 1976 to found his own vineyard, Grgich Hills.  Chateau Montelena is owned by James Barrett, whose daughter-in-law is Heidi Peterson Barrett, the respected and admired winemaker for cult wines Screaming Eagle and Dalla Valle among others.

We started our day at the top of Napa Valley at Chateau Montelena, where we had one of our more interesting tasting room encounters.  Our pourer had been at a Giants game earlier in the week, and in addition to looking as though he'd been boiled in a lobster tank, functioned as though his brain had suffered third degree burns as well.

Example:  "This is our Chardonnay.  It's well known.  I could tell you more.  But I don't want to." 

Of course he would then share stats and fermentation information by rote but repeated the joke three more times, with an explanation the last time:  "I'm just trying to shake things up and make it more interesting." (For whom?  You or me?)

So, the irrepressible smartass in me:  "Well do it in Klingon then."

He paused, nonplussed.  "I don't know Klingon."

"Oh that's okay.  There's a website that'll teach you.  Although I don't think there are words in Klingon for 'fragrant,' 'sweet,' or 'delicate nose.'"

Hab SoSlI' Quch!  A case of Chardonnay and three bottles of their reserve Cabernets later, we headed south.

Our next stop was Flora Springs.  Kellie and I went in for a tasting and left unimpressed.  I think this is my last time at Flora Springs.  It's been operating on the fringes of sentiment for a while.  Their Zinfandel, which they no longer make, was served at our rehearsal dinner at Brix, and was unanimously loved by our families.  When we went to buy a case of Zinfandel after the wedding, we were informed that they would no longer be making Zinfandel, and they were focusing more on their Trilogy brand.  The best part of Flora Springs that day was their parking lot, where we situated ourselves to wolf down our bread and cheese.

Whitehall Lane provided much happier taste buds and a confident, very sweet and very helpful pourer assisted us to a half case of their Cabernets.

Niebaum-Coppola recently changed its name to Rubicon Estate.  This happened earlier this year, which would explain why I drove past it repeatedly looking for (and never finding) Niebaum-Coppola.  I enjoy their Sofia Blanc de Blancs sparkling wine; it's a good weekend bubbly to share with girlfriends.  Depth, no.  Thought-provoking, no.  Sweet and easy to drink, yes.  Think of it as hanging out with a very effervescent girlfriend with whom you shop and do fun things, but who is not your primary (or even secondary) confidante.  Kellie and I decided to pick up a couple of bottles of sparkling wine and when it became apparent that I had no idea what happened to Niebaum-Coppola, called the information line.  It should have occurred to me, after listening to the recorded message, that perhaps I did not want to go to the former Niebaum-Coppola winery:  the recorded voice spoke with a British accent, proclaiming that we had called Rubicon Estate, America's grand wine estate, formerly known as Niebaum-Coppola and indicated that there were 4 different tours and a concierge.  If ever a moment invited me to subdue my delight in the ridiculous, this would have been it.  However, I lack willpower.

So we drove up to the Rubicon Estate and hit our first checkpoint.  Yes, you read that right.  A security checkpoint of valets met us at the entrance and asked if we had appointments.  We explained that we were there to purchase some wine.  Our secret agent wannabe valet nodded and pointed down the road.

"Please go to the next checkpoint."

The second checkpoint was halfway up the drive and seemed redundant.  Once again, met by valets longing to be Secret Service.  Once again, being asked if I had an appointment.  Hello?  Do those walkie talkies you're holding work?  Did you not talk to the guy who waved us through?  Once again, I explained we wanted to purchase some wine.

"Please go to the valet stand."

The valet stand was located at the end of the road, guarding the entrance to the hallowed grounds of Rubicon Estate.  Another phalanx of youthful valets.  And another re-enactment of our previous two checkpoint experiences.  I'm sorry.  Does this look as much like overkill to you as to me?  It's wine, not the Manhattan Project!!

"We just want to purchase wine," I said, for the third time.

He pointed to the curb.  "Please pull over there."

I pulled over and got out of the car, thinking I was to be escorted to the wine shop.  Not so. A valet with a clipboard came towards me.

"These are our wines.  Please let me know your selections and I will be happy to go fetch them for you."

I am not kidding.  Cross my heart.  Hope to die.

Kellie:  "Is this normal?"

Valet:  "What do you mean?"

Me:  "Um, when did you change from being a winery to a destination site?"

Valet (not understanding, or perhaps ignoring, sarcasm):  "Earlier this year. Mr. Coppola wanted to focus more on the wine so he changed the name of the estate and took steps to reduce...ah..."

Visitors.  Say it, man.  Visitors who come to check out the homage to the Coppola museum.  Visitors intrigued by the juncture of Hollywood and Vine(s).  (Heh.  Sorry.  Um...very bad LA geographic pun)  Visitors who come by tour bus.

He couldn't find the word.  Kellie helped him.  "Were there concerns about too many people?"

"Yes, that was something that had been raised."

We gave him money for two bottles of Sofia.  He ran off -- ran, I tell you, not walked.  We got back into the car and Kellie opened the Wolloomooloo bar, handing me a chocolate square. I munched on it, working myself into a frenzy.

"This is bull!@#$%^&*!  It's a !@#$%^&*( winery, not Disneyland!  What the hell?  We're here to buy wine, not have an (wave fingers in quotations marks) 'experience.'  What a load of crap.  $25 for a tour?  I don't want a tour!  I want to buy wine!"  Noting two parked tour buses, I continued.  "Keep out visitors?  That's crap!  Look!  There are two tour buses there.  Those fit what, thirty, forty people?  This is just a @#$%^&* money racket."

Kellie:  "On the other, we are getting the personalized service of having our wine delivered to us while we sit on our fat asses eating chocolate."

I couldn't stop laughing, even when our delivery boy came back with our wine.

Dinner was at Cole's Chop House that night.  A purely unapologetic steak house.  I had the peekytoe crab cocktail.  Kellie had an old school Caesar salad, complete with anchovies.  The flat iron steak caught my eye -- but Kellie went straight for the Kobe filet.

Two highly hilarious incidents took place there.  The first was the gentleman whose artificial hairline made me think of the villain from "Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit," who, losing his toupee, puts a black rabbit on his head unwittingly.  The second was a conversation between two friends.  To protect the innocent, names are omitted in the following conversation:

Friend 1:  "Let me see that brochure on the wine club we joined."

Friend 2 handed over a slip of paper.  Friend 1 noted aloud the high points.

Friend 1:  "This is great.  Look, we get to buy an extra case of wine of any new release.  Hmm..  Oh yeah, and listen to this:  'Priority notice and seating for the vineyard's culinary events...dinners, cooking classes, and release parties.'  We should do that next time." 

Friend 1 continued to peruse the brochure and frowned.  "What is this?  'Special invites to club members-only events like -- who the hell is Ca Vé Raider?''

"Ca Vé?" Friend 2 read the brochure upside down and deadpanned:  "You mean Cave Raider?"

Friend 1 flushed.  Friend 2 choked.  Thirty minutes later, holding their sides, they were still laughing. 

Dean and Deluca Delirium

Kellie and I knew we weren't likely to get into the French Laundry (I was trying for a third foray into nirvana), but this is not to suggest that anything we ate was less than exceptional. You have to try (really) hard to to find a bad meal in Napa Valley.

We were staying at the Napa River Inn, which is located in the town of Napa at the restored, historic River Mill. Within walking distance (like, outside our hotel door) are three restaurants: Angèle, Celadon, and the Napa General Store (which has a pan-Asian cafe), one bakery (Sweetie Pie's, which provides breakfast for the hotel guests -lucky us!), an art gallery, a spa and a performing arts center.

Friday night found us at Angèle, whose owner, Claude Rouas is the former chef owner of L'Etoile in San Francisco, and the founder of the famed Auberge du Soleil in Napa Valley. I have a soft spot for Angèle: it always reminds me of being with people I love. My "bachelorette" dinner was held there with Sondra, Ellen, Anna and Wendy (who, having forgotten her wallet at home, was forced to panhandle 50 cents at a restaurant to get through a toll gate. While dressed in Dolce and Gabbana.). Hubby and I had our first dinner together on our honeymoon at Angèle.

Kellie had heard the duck confit was excellent, so we ordered a dish to share. Presented on a bed of lentils with a tangy vinaigrette, fatty duck never tasted so good. Kellie had the butter lettuce salad next and I had the (say it with me) foie gras. I ordered the gnocchi with wild mushrooms for Kellie since she had never eaten gnocchi; and I was confident that her experience at Angèle would not emulate my and Greg's gnocchi horror. For myself, comfort food was high on the list, as I was still bathed in the happiness from lunch at Tra Vigne, so I ordered the boeuf bourgignon. Two bites into her dinner, Kellie looked up at me.

"This is so good I want to cry."

"And now you understand my absolute obsession with coming here and eating here."

Her eyes glistened. My throat ached. Emotions were high. Bear in mind: we hadn't fully recovered from our late night partying Thursday night; had been tasting wine all day Friday; and were at that moment consuming the second bottle of Navarro. Kellie and I have discussed our various drunks states (Me: "I can be a mean drunk, a silly drunk, a sleepy drunk or a hysterical drunk." Kellie: "Oh GREAT. And I'm going wine tasting with you?!"). Apparently when exquisite food is involved, we're blubbering drunks. (Greg: "Still, you shouldn't under-estimate the power of great gnocchi.")

You don't have to eat at expensive or renowned restaurants to find good food -- the Oakville Grocery is a great stopping point on the way up to Oakville and Rutherford for a sandwich or some prepared deli foods. And while you're at it, there's an absolutely lovely selection of confiture, organic honeys, olive oils and other wonderful accoutrements for the pantry. At the Oakville Grocery, I picked up some organic honey for several colleagues because I was so enamored of the packaging. I am such a marketing victim. Kellie saw a mustard display and nearly passed out with joy. Apparently, she's a huge mustard freak so she tried all their different mustard tasting selections. I'm an olive oil addict so I separated from her to try the different olive oils.

If you're already up in the St. Helena area, Dean and Deluca is the place to stop. On our way up to Calistoga on Saturday, Kellie murmured that she wanted cheese and bread to go with her wine. I veered off into Dean and Deluca's St. Helena branch -- I think Kellie's gasp of delight wasn't much different than mine when I first went.

"The Dean and Deluca in New York doesn't look like this!" she marvelled. (I remember thinking, "The Dean and Deluca in Washington, D.C. doesn't look like this!")

Everywhere the eye could see, there was food -- fresh produce, fresh bread, a meat counter, a chocolates and confectionary case, teas, olive oils, imported foods, fresh meats, a wine store, dried mushrooms -- this was a gourmand's dream store; being fond of the intimacy of its rival in Oakville, I think of Dean and Deluca Napa Valley as the Oakville Grocery on steroids. No matter: Kellie was enchanted and I was ecstatic to see ruby red Seascape strawberries. We spent an hour in the store, wandering around. Old wine barrels had been recycled for use as serving platters and lazy susans. A row of gadgets, a veritable Williams-Sonoma lined one wall. A wine store stretched out in the back, including a smaller, more intimate room for large format bottles and unique or rare wines.

Recognizing the familiar black boxes with yellow emblems of Mariages Frères tea, I made a beeline and did a little dance (which is not a sight you want to behold, as I lack timing and nearly knocked over a display of water crackers) when I saw they had my beloved Marco Polo blend. Of course, it was double the price I had paid in Paris, but I suppose if you throw in the cost of a plane ticket, this was much cheaper.

A loaf of bread, a slice of goat's milk camembert, a wedge of Manchego and a bar of Vosge's "Wollomooloo" macadamia nut chocolate bar later, we headed up to Chateau Montelena.

Up and Down the Silverado Trail, Part 2

Because we live in the Buckle of the Bible Belt, our wine choices are frequently limited; and the only way we can acquire certain wines is to order them from the vineyards when we visit -- because alas, most vineyards cannot ship to Georgia unless the purchase was made in the winery. Thus, there are specific stops to be made.

Our caravan of three cars (Jeff and Chris drove up separately) heads back to the Silverado Trail. Our first stop is Miner Family Vineyards. It's one of my and Hubby's favorite wineries; we are especially fond of their Simpson Vineyard Viognier and their Gary's Vineyard Pinot Noir. High on the hill, it overlooks a wide expanse of the Silverado Trail and the view from the tasting room terrace is breathtaking. Apparently, a crowd of others think so as well: the tasting room is over-crowded and the person behind the counter is harried and unhelpful. The most he can do is pour -- and frighteningly stingy pours at that! No matter; we simply take our glasses and head out to appreciate the view.

I wander towards the back of the tasting room, to one of my favorite exhibits in Napa. Lined up along one wall are seven large format bottles, each with a label describing its name and origin. A regular bottle of wine is 750 mL. The next size up is called a magnum, which is simply two regular bottles. The seven large format sizes are named after Biblical kings and figures: the jeroboam, equal to six bottles (known in champagne as a Rehoboam, it is named after a son of Soloman and Naamah); the Imperial (known as an Methuselah in champagne), equal to 8 bottles; the Salmanazar, equal to 12 bottles; the Balthazar, equal to 16 bottles and named after one of the Wise Men; the Nebuchadnezzer, which accounts for 20 bottles; and the Melchior (another of the Wise Men), which holds 24 bottles. Now, the next format up is a bottle called the Sovereign, which holds 25 liters, or about 33 bottles. Miner doesn't feature a Sovereign; what it features is a 36-bottle large format bottle it calls the Bigolemofo. It cracks me up every time I see it. Honestly, it would actually be worth owning a bottle equivalent to three cases just for the pleasure, when being queried, "What's a bottle like that called?" of answering, "Oh, that's a bigolemofo."

Our next stop on the Silverado Trail is the Regusci Winery. Regusci was one of the first vineyards Hubby and I visited; and we always stop by whenever we are in Napa. We love the winery and their Zinfandels (for which they are known) so much that we nearly got married at the estate. In fact, we were about five months away from the wedding when the events manager learned that Regusci's insurance prohibited weddings. Nestled in the Stag's Leap District, Regusci is a "ghost winery," one of the few remaining wineries that existed between 1860 and 1900, and survived the phylloxera infestation of the 1890's, and the succeeding blow of Prohibition. Originally known as the T.L. Grigsby-Occidental Winery, it was purchased by Gaetano Regusci in 1932 and the family has been making wine since in the beautiful hand cut stone building.

At Regusci, I am crushed to learn that the Zinfandel had been sold out for months and the next release isn't until October. The tasting room is full: it looks like the Miner Family Vineyards experience redux. I am not fond of the white wine they are pouring; but their merlot and cabernet sauvignon still impresses. The tasting room manager is dynamic and raffish, pouring flights as fast as he can talk; he's almost charming, but being the lone man behind the bar, he's too distracted to be genuine. A woman queries the manager about a wine club; his dramatic miming of a heart attack and quick dismissive shake of his head elicits laughter from some of the patrons; but it clearly embarrasses and hurts the feelings of the woman asking. The merlot suddenly feels diminished on my tongue. I'm astonished that a negative feeling can dissipate the wonder I've been tasting. But of course it makes sense: wine is as much emotional as food; how many wines have I tasted that were all the more remarkable because of the person with whom I was imbibing? I miss Linda. She used to work here, and had a quiet, steady grace, and warm conversation that made the tasting experience feel more like drinking wines with a friend than a sales pitch.

Chris departs and Kellie queries: "Where's he headed?"

"Back to the office."

"Why?"

"Because it's Friday and other people are working."

"But not us."

"Not us."

We head next to Chimney Rock Winery, which is right next door to Regusci. It used to be a golf course before the owners planted Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc where the front nine were located (the back nine holes were transformed into fields of Cabernet Sauvignon in 2001). The Cape Dutch-inspired architecture is inviting and cool; Jeff is a member of their wine club, so we have the reserved tastings. Kellie falls for the Elevage, a Bordeaux-style blend; I am thunderstruck by the Elevage Blanc, a meritage style blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Sauvignon Gris. I have been enjoying the white wines today for some reason (it's hot out?) but this one...this one is something special.

This will be the last vineyard on today's schedule. Kellie has a spa appointment in an hour; I am feeling the effect of Thursday night's hard play and aching for a nap before dinner at Angèle.

Outside on the terrace, we sit under the wisteria covered pergola.

Up and Down the Silverado Trail, Part 1

Friday

Good friends have arranged a private tour and tasting for us at Robert Sinskey Vineyards. Founded in 1982, the vineyard was meant to be a retiring physician's hobby. As it seems with all things wine and food, the line between pastime and obsession is breached and today the vineyard includes 200 acres and a vineyard estate in the Stags Leap District. From two rooms where giant steel tanks dominate, we are led through the cellar caves, a rabbit warren lined with French oak barrels, hoses and pumps. In the cave's library, the walls are lined with shelves and bottles, all tied down with copper to prevent them from falling in event of an earthquake. While we admire the rows of wine, I murmur to Kellie: "I need a library like this one." One of the cellar crew -- I think his name is John -- comes running up to our guide with a pitcher of wine which he proceeds to pour in our glasses.

"Try this. This is the 2005 Vandal Vineyard." It's one of their noted pinot noirs, and this one is not due to be bottled until later this year. He had simply drawn some from a barrel to taste and wanted to share the experience with those of us wandering in the cellar. It's a very fruit forward taste, very pungent.

"Son of a..." Kellie murmurs quietly, taking another sip. Kellie can cuss like a sailor. When she's rendered speechless, it generally means she's impressed.

Later when we try the 2001 Vandal Vineyard pinot noir in the tasting room, I'm made vividly aware of the differences. The vintage we tasted in the cellar is coltish and explosive; the 2001 is softer, refined. We love both.

Jennifer, whose card reads, "Token Southerner," is warm and friendly, sharing with us her love and passion for wine. She leads us through a flight of the vineyard's releases. Kellie and I are both red wine lovers; but it's hot today and the Vin Gris is so lovely, so clear and sweet on our tongues. Jennifer's from Atlanta by way of Charlotte; and a year ago, came out to Napa, and never left. (Obsession.) Who doesn't envy her? She is so enthusiastic about the wines that we, too, fall in love with them; to the tune of two and a half cases.

Within the tasting room at Sinskey is the demonstration kitchen where Maria Helm Sinskey, the vineyard culinary director, teaches and cooks. She was one of Food and Wine's Best New Chefs in 1996 and an acclaimed chef at Blue Light Café, Sherman House, and Plumpjack Café. Her cookbook, The Vineyard Kitchen: Menus Inspired by the Season, was published in 2003; my copy is dog-eared and worn from countless readings. She is teaching a class while Kellie and I taste wine; at one point, she steps from behind the curtain to grab a bottle of wine. She sees us and says hello with a friendly smile. I can't help myself.

"I love your book," I tell her. "I forgot to bring it for your autograph."

"Come back!" she says cheerily heading back to her kitchen.

Kellie snorts. "You were ready to pee yourself."

I've said it before: take your movie stars, athletes, and musicians; they do not interest me. But let me stand before a chef - and one I admire - and I become a blithering idiot.

We leave Sinskey far later than we anticipated; due to meet friends for winetasting at other vineyards in forty-five minutes, I hustle Kellie off to lunch at Tra Vigne. Luckily for us, one of the cross roads connecting the Silverado Trail to Route 29, the other main vein of Napa Valley, is right around the corner from Sinskey.

At Tra Vigne, we are seated outside; the weather is utterly glorious. Everyone has been telling us that it has rained nonstop in California -- we see sunny skies and feel a crisp 73 degrees. Tra Vigne is one of my favorite stopping places in Napa Valley. Kellie orders the lattuga e mozzarella (limestone lettuce, buffalo mozzarella, olives, oven dried tomatoes), and I order a bowl of the spring pea soup to start. Then we follow with, respectively, the pizza, and the maltagliatti con battuto alla toscano, wide pasta ribbons with a meat sauce. What I love about Tra Vigne is how well they make comfort food. My favorite dishes there involve meat (usually rabbit or duck) and pasta. Once, on a visit with Peggy, I was so bowled over by my pasta that I ceased speaking to her for the duration of lunch just so I could enjoy the sauce, the rabbit, the ragu. Unbelievable.

I notice Kellie staring behind me and smiling from time to time; so I take a peek. Seated at the table behind us are three nattily attired and insanely cute old men. Septuagenarians at least, we discover that they are old friends who met every Friday for lunch at the restaurant; they live part time in San Francisco and Napa; and one of them is familiar with our corner of the world, having been sent to Ft. Benning in 1943. Once there from the Royal Highland Regiment, in kilt, he found to his shock that American officers did not have their own personal batman (valet). Jeff and Chris call to let us they've arrived, so we murmur our quick good-byes.

We head back to the Silverado Trail.

On the way.

Thursday

The day began inauspiciously: running late, corrupted spreadsheet files that needed to be restored, and endless meetings. Kellie had secured seats for us on an earlier flight to San Francisco so I called Wendy and told her to move our reservations to an earlier time. Surprisingly, Kellie and I managed to leave the office early enough for the airport. Unfortunately, my stomach overruled my head and I suggested stopping by Alon's to pick up sandwiches for lunch so we could bypass the joke that steps in for food on Delta. End result: we missed check in time for our flight by 5 minutes. Theoretically we could still have made our flight but Kellie's not into rushing or running, especially during vacation. So we booked ourselves on the later flight and I called Wendy again to tell her to change the reservations for the third time.

Seated in the airport concourse with other stranded and waiting travelers, we ate our sandwiches.

Kellie: "This is a great sandwich."

Me: (still feeling guilty and glum that I made us miss our flight): "Enough to miss our flight?"

Kellie: "Heck, yeah."

You always want to travel with gastronomically minded people. Always.

Karma rewarded Kellie for her easy-going attitude when we got on our later flight. Given a middle seat in the exit row, she was settling in when a gentleman came to the aisle and asked her, "Would you like to switch seats with me?" He handed her his boarding pass for seat 4A. Apparently the man wanted to give up his first class seat to sit next to the woman in the aisle on Kellie's row. We're still not convinced they were married (to each other) despite the wedding rings.

Kellie: "Well I'm not stupid! Thanks!" She grabbed the boarding card and threw a quick look of pity at me, in the middle seat of the exit row across from her. "Sorry hon!"

Then she disappeared behind the Magic Curtain where Delta makes an effort at customer service.

At SFO, we found our luggage quickly and take the shuttle to pick up our rental car. I suppose Karma wanted to give me something too, because we ended up with a Ford Mustang. For $11 a day. Then the hotel upgraded us to a suite overlooking the city.

The sandwiches that made us late? Definitely worth this...

-----------------------------

We meet up with Wendy and Mark at Oola. Wendy has been telling me about their chicken and foie gras ravioli. Kumamotos are available and we can't resist ordering a dozen oysters; our waiter recommends the 2001 Ici\La Bas pinot noir. Two bottles eventually find their way into our glasses as we work our way through appetizers -- the torchon of foie gras encased in port gastric for me; seared ahi draped over sliced hearts of palm for Kellie; and butter lettuce salads for Mark and Wendy. Kellie and I follow Wendy's lead in ordering the famed chicken and foie gras ravioli for our entrees. Imagine a bowl of foie filled wonton ravioli swimming in a chicken and truffle stock. Delectable? Yep. I would have preferred a smidge more savoriness, but for one not normally able to have access to such food, there can be no complaining. Mark orders the baby back ribs: drenched in soy, ginger and cilantro, the meat is falling off the bone in succulent chunks. Kellie tells me later that had she known him better, she would have asked to trade. Dessert is a slice of the flourless dark chocolate cake that we all share. As we are leaving, our waiter Philippe, tells us that a group of New Zealand purveyors is hosting a party downstairs to showcase their wines and foods, including lamb, mussels and fish. He invites us to join the party.

So we start eating and drinking again. By the time we are finished eating, it is 2:00 am and Wendy's car keys have gone missing. The cab ride back to the hotel is less than five minutes. Kellie's knackered and out the minute her head hits the pillow; but I'm wide awake, sitting at the window overlooking Union Square.

Being in San Francisco again makes me weepy. I've missed living and working here in ways I can't describe; it's Thursday night and the city is vibrant in ways incomprehensible to the miniscule Southern town where I now reside. Sometimes I think I've forgotten to how to breathe.