Liz and I had just gotten back from New Orleans and a long weekend of excess. So clearly the next thing on the agenda was. . . an all-you-can-eat-and-drink wine festival in Sideways country? OK, twist my arm, I'll go. Actually, it had been planned some time in advance, this annual fest coinciding with a business trip by Liz "Liz1" Hope back to her old stomping grounds in glorious Glendale. (But who first heard about this thing, anyway?)

So barely two days after getting back to LA, we jumped on the 101 and headed for the hills of SB, Craig Rittenbaum, Liz2 (Camp) and myself in my vehicle and Liz 1 and Erin in the "Stang," a car clearly designed, and rented by Liz, to lead the way to the party. And that it did. Ah, the good old days, three weeks ago, when gas was, what, 2.80 or something?

The Santa Ynez Valley, in case you haven't been or seen the particular movie that advertises its delights so effectively, is about as scenic as California gets below the Sierra. But it's especially beautiful up there now, bordering on spectacular. All the rain (that has overtopped levies and caused major problems further North!) has left the coastline green and lush -- much more so than I've ever seen it.





The Santa Barbara Vintners Festival was held this year in a rolling, open field not far from downtown Buellton. Several huge tents were arrayed over a large area, each filled with booths staffed by local wineries and restaurants. For the not unconsiderable fee of seventy bucks, you get a glass for the wine, a tray for the food, and about four hours to go nuts -- eat the food and "taste" the vino to your heart's content. Considering the quality of everything we sampled, the price was fair.




I confess -- I like red wine a lot, but I lack a certain passion, or palate, for the subtleties that true enthusiasts have. Not quite an oenophile, me. (Would anyone admit to being an oenophile? It sounds like you should be on a state registry, or go on Dr. Phil.) And it was a perfect day, barely seventy degrees with brilliant sunshine, yet its hard to drink a lot of wine in the middle of the afternoon. Craig concurred. But he did allow that he might have felt differently if it had been scotch tasting. Hmmmm, scotch tasting. Only 1 oz. at a time!

So Craig and I did a lot of food-tasting while the girls sauntered (or staggered?) from winery table to winery table. There were sample plates from places like the Hitching Post (where Miles and Jack met Maya) with amazing steak and sausages, some high end salads, thin-crust pizzas, exotic pastas, and a raging white grape gazpacho, among other things. I think there was a barn, too, with live music or something, but we didn't really pay any attention to it, we were all too busy eating and drinking.

For our female counterparts, this was paradise. Literally. "Heaven," I think, was actually the word used. Imagine an idyllic, bucolic setting, green and fragrant, with an ocean breeze and endless sunshine, and you can shop for hours, for free, and you're shopping for wine. Hey, Craig and I had a really good time, too. It was particularly amusing to watch as the festival-goers, a largely well-dressed and cultured-looking crowd, beacme increasingly wobbly as they did the stroll from one tent to the next as the afternoon waned. The gentleman below, it seems, was trying to take off. I guess the wine was that good.





It was also amusing, and a bit strange that, on the shuttle bus to the festival from the parking lot we seemed to be the youngest people in the crowd -- yet by the time we were riding the bus back to our cars, the bus was filled with drunken college-aged types. Literally, singing "Ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall. . . " Had the old effetes been magically transformed by the mysterious powers of the grape, or did it have something to do with the fact that we were among the last to leave the festival. . .? I guess we'll never know.

After checking into our rooms at the Buellton Quality Inn, an even stranger thing occured. It seemed to go down like this: One minute we were all looking out our window, which had a magnificent view of the 101, at a Bunny Rabbit peacefully eating grass, and the next the three ladies were collapsed, on one of the beds, in a shrieking, giggling, flailing, and yes, spanking, tangle of limbs. . .and hair. Craig and I watched in bewilderment. This was not a fight for men to interfere with. It would be like trying to separate sparring Mountain Lions, or something. But let this be a cautionary tale about the powers of the devil grape. If drinking wine all afternoon doesn't make women want to fight like a drunk Irishman whose horse just came in last, what does?! Well, of course it was all in good fun, and there were threats about girls punching each other where the sun doesn't shine, and there's video to prove it. But you wouldn't want to see THAT, would you?

The following day (Sunday) we visited the vineyards, more than I can count, tasted and bought some high quality stuff. A couple of Cabernet Francs and a Sangiovese come to mind. But perhaps I'll encourage Liz2 to report about our various explorations, discoveries, and conquests in the wine department; I'm sure she'd have more to say. The scenery, again, was spectacular!




Before heading back to LA we had dinner at Patrick's Sidestreet Cafe in Los Olivos. Liz1 and Erin had been before, and had been plotting their return ever since. Well, it lived up to the hype and the reviews. The famous Pork Medallions were amazing, we had baked cheese appetizers and some kind of phenomenal warm salad, and Liz2's New York Steak Diane was maybe the best steak I've tasted. Patrick himself seems to spend most of his time wandering from table to table in his chef whites, a large glass of Pinot in hand, chatting with his customers about how awesome he, and his food, are. Looks like a fun way to make a living. He's a gregarious and cocky fellow, but if you can produce food of that caliber (and the place is decently priced), I suppose you've got bragging rights.



One diner in particular caught our attention. He was remarkably well-behaved.



He was sitting at a table with a couple, had three legs, and was a dog. I'm pretty sure he had a napkin tied under his collar, but he didn't appear to have any prime rib of his own.



His name, it turned out, was Rocket, and he came to our table for a visit.



Good times, all around, and big thanks to Erin&Liz for organizing a great weekend! Who's coming next year?





[The following week, because we had obviously not recreated enough, Liz2, Craig and I went North to SF -- lots to tell there, including our momentous visits to Skywalker Ranch and Pixar. . . more later.]

-J

It is hard to believe that 3 months have passed so quickly, but I am almost done packing, and there are only two days left of shooting in New Orleans. When I first arrived here three months ago it was a different city. Different than what I remembered from my first visit almost ten years ago, and it is different now from even thirteen weeks ago. The piles of garbage and broken streetlights have almost vanished, and the city seems to be waking up again. It was eerie at first. Empty streets at night, buildings surrounded by fencing, and a quiet that you don't normally hear in a city. But now, there is more life. Where once every store had boarded windows on Canal street, now there are some open stores with freshly painted walls inside and people shopping and going about their day. The little reminders still remain though as you drive around town. They are subtle in the daytime; a crooked street light, a one way sign facing the wrong direction, or the all too common X symbol with dates and codes from the search parties. The farther you go from the downtown area and "The Quarter" the more you see, and the dirty line that crosses from building to building where the water and debris had settled often still remains. Below is a picture of a "quilted" series of photos of these markings.



Last week we filmed in St. Bernard's Parish, just down from the Ninth Ward. Being there was just as surreal as when we were in the Lower ninth, just different in that the buildings had not been moved off their foundations or crushed by flowing waters. Instead they had just all been flooded by gentler but still devastating rising flood waters. In the parking lot of our basecamp, a roller rink, was a sign advertising the upcoming band performance for a weekend in early September, still frozen in time reminding everyone about the performance that never happened. All the houses were standing in this area, but what was amazing is that they were only shells. Outside every house, in what used to be front yards, now lies a pile of musty old sheetrock and material that used to make up the inside of each house. If you look in through the open windows and doors, all you can see is the framework of the walls. The streets are busy though. People are on every block, working. Cleaning the insides of the homes, some, though very few, have even finished putting up the new walls.


The eeriest part is the drive home. When it is dark, it is a different world. As we drove home the other day, we went for miles down streets that were still dark. Block after block, house after house, frozen in time and empty. Just a few miles down the road and we were back in the city and I was reminded of the changes that are happening here. I can see the progress, though slow, making its way from the center of the city out. The most amazing thing that I have seen, however is the people. Each and every person that I have met down here has had a different story but they have all ended the same way...they are determined to rebuild, determined to survive and comeback, to thrive once again. It is an incredible energy, a vitality and pride in what is still, and will always be home for them.

And so as our time comes to an end, I want to say thank you to the city and everyone here for their energy and support, and for being a great host. My last days here were capped off with the perfect send off, the French Quarter Festival, the annual celebration of music and art in the French Quarter. I had to be at work in the afternoon, but I got up early and ventured down to Jackson Square through the side streets that had filled with local artist from around the city.


I returned to Cafe Du Monde for a coffee and some beignets and then went into the park where the bands were just starting. Every few blocks and all along the waterfront were stages with jazz bands playing, and booths with foods from just about every restaurant in town. It was yet another celebration and gathering that so greatly represents the soul of this city.


My afternoon ended in Louis Armstrong Park where I had the great opportunity to see jazz great Wynton Marsallis conducting the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra and the Capital Region-based percussion ensemble Odadaa! in the world premiere performance of "Congo Square" an 80 min journey of music from African drums through classic and modern jazz that he co-wrote with Yacub Addy. It was a phenomenal performance and incredible to be in Congo Square watching Wynton Marsallis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra perform the piece written for New Orleans, definitely one that I will not soon forget.


Anyway, I have lost track of time, and I realize that I am rambling a bit. This will likely be my last post from New Orleans, as the next three days are going to be really busy, but I am looking forward to getting home and seeing everyone back at The Casa. Till then, see ya'll soon!

-G

We had never been, of course, before Katrina. And it's hard to believe that the character and spirit of the city we experienced has been diminished at all. But visiting New Orleans today is certainly a bit surreal.

As you fly in, the seemingly endless expanse of Lake Ponchartrain gives way to a landscape dotted with blue FEMA tarps. But other than that, there isn't any large-scale damage visible from the air. There was no one in the taxi line, but a lot of taxis, and soon I found myself hurtling down the I-10 (how many exits from Washington/Fairfax?) with a Haitian driver simultaneously shouting on his cellphone in Creole and blasting a Christian Rock FM station. Quite a combination.

Outside the French Quarter, where most of the hotels are, it was dark and relatively empty. During the storm, the floodwaters came up to Canal Street, which is the divider between the downtown district and "The Quarter," but didn't cross. Today, in daylight, you can actually see a dirty line on most buildings indicating the level of flooding. A lot of physical damage, it seemed, had been cleaned up, but there were a few boarded or broken windows, some condemned buildings. Businesses, hotels, and restaurants were open, but many with limited hours because of staff shortages. The only Starbucks, in the lobby of the Sheraton, was only open for a couple of hours each morning. I made do with McDonalds when I didn't make it to the 'bucks before they closed. I know, I really am a trooper.




Cross Canal Street into the French Quarter and you're in a different world, still the magical place that we've all heard about. As we found it, It wasn't as crowded as it would have been on a normal sunny April weekend. But the bars were open, the street bands were playing around Jackson Square, the tables at Cafe Du Monde were covered in powdered sugar, and the daiquiris were flowing on Bourbon Street. At night, the party intensified. Walking through the human circus that is Bourbon Street on a Saturday Night, it's difficult to imagine its intensity and volume before Katrina, or during Mardi Gras. Our favorite spots were on the streets nearby. One particular hangout to recommend: Sidebar, which was a popular crew hangout -- friendly bartenders and really good food that was actually more like LA fare than the typical Cajun stuff. They make an incredible chicken sandwich and I also had the best Mahi Tacos I've ever tasted. And yeah, that's saying something.



Liz had finished her three plus week commitment, and as we hung out for a long weekend the production gods smiled on us and Gregg got an extra day off.






The food. Where to begin. If you've never had Cajun/Creole, the only way to describe it, other than by its frequent use of shrimp, crawfish, spices etc., is as a cuisine of attrition. It's like the chefs thought this stuff up high, on a dare, or both. It's blackened, its fried in butter, it's stuffed with cheese, or crabmeat, or take your pic, it's smothered in gravy, sausage, shrimp etc. Magnificent excess. One of the best meals I've ever had was at Paul Prudhomme's restaurant, K-Paul's, which Gregg posted about below. My blackened/stuffed/smothered/covered/nine thousand calorie pork chop was amazing, and Gregg's veal/crabmeat/unholy madness was even better. We had fried green tomatoes, turtle soup, cheese-stuffed sausage, and some monstrous chocolate thing that probably needed a surgeon general's warning. Oh, and I had a green salad, too. They say that Chef Paul, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Dom Deluise, is so fat now that he rides around on a motorized tricycle. But beyond this one particular restaurant, all the food was great, from the original Muffaletta sandwiches at Central Grocery to the amazing gumbo served by most establishments around the quarter.


But the other extreme is not hard to find. Drive a short distance from this land of splendours and you find a landscape that can only be described as apocalyptic -- where the destruction wrought by Katrina's floods is still starkly apparent. The Ninth Ward. The destruction -- miles upon miles of twisted, wrecked, pulverized homes, overturned cars and trucks, the detritus of an entire community -- was surreal. I think it's fair to say that until you've seen this kind of thing up close, it's difficult to even conceptualize.





Gregg had been here several weeks before, as they shot a sequence for the film among the devastation; he told us, amazingly, that it looked even worse then. That was hard to imagine. The streets, at least, were clear, and we could drive easily among the twisted remains of houses. We saw only a handful of other people. Every so often we'd come upon someone picking through the wreckage of a home or business. And we passed several other cars, all of them filled with people like us -- cruising slowly past, cameras out, jaws hanging open in disbelief. We experienced it up close. But it's like it was a f*cking tourist attraction. Can you believe it, that eight months later, this place still looks like this? Who's to blame? It's easy to point the finger at the traitor squatting in the oval office and the incompetency of the response at the federal level, but there's a level of corruption in local politics in this part of the country that most of us can scarcely comprehend. . .

Say a prayer for the city of New Orleans and its people. It's an amazing place, and we hope to return soon.

-jw