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