Blurred Snapshots of a Sleepless Valley

The Last [Intern] Supper

Thursday night we powered off to the coast in style in a red-lipstick four-runner, blistering through tight turns down the narrowly etched Highway 128. Erin sat calmly behind the wheel, navigating the road with an experienced dexterity, bouncing conversation between himself and Yohanasberg. Traveling the road as a youngster working for a high end catering operation in Comptche, (Former headquarters of the Dead) our chauffeur was a seasoned veteran of the coastal route. Behind sat Dorit and myself, and nestled between us sat resting vintages of Mendocino grown Zinfandel, a Deep End Blend and a Winterling Riesling that had journeyed a long way from its homeland in Pfalz to accompany us during the meal. The gentle vibrations of the road coaxed me into a light sleep and my body swayed about between curves, my noodle wavering in and out of consciousness. No surprise there.

However skilled Erin the road hog might claim to be the trip from Philo to Spendocino is a solid forty-five minutes time (add ten minutes on the weekends for pesky tourists lazily touring the valley in their sparkling Mercedes). Our party arrived late and mildly disheveled as we pulled up to the historic MacCallum House Inn and Restaurant. Jason the Wrench and his petite British gal pal Sid, waited sternly outside the Victorian inn that sat tall between artisan shops and stacked housing additions. We made unnecessary apologies which Jason quickly disregarded, well aware of Northern Californian timeliness. Standing in the rectangular lobby, we waited uncomfortably in a confined space infused with a rancid piss odor. Forced to reserve judgements and not ruin our dining experience, I bit my sarcastic, sand paper tongue and came to two conclusions to adequately explain the pungent aroma. Either A, some local Spendo sot had pissed unknowingly in the corner behind the moose antlered coat rack while homeward bound or B, an ill fated bottle of stinky Sancerre had fallen to the tile, lost to the heavens, leaving behind a lingering musk that will scare off potential Sauvignon Blanc drinkers for decades to come. Peering at early nineteenth century photos bordered nostalgically with milk of magnesia lace I gagged and plugged my nostrils beseeching the aloof greeter to seat us. Let's go! pronto, ameego! the agitated Texan in me impatiently grimaced.

At last we slouched down, in shapes resembling slippery S's allowing me to demonstrate my increasingly civilized yet residual woodsy eating etiquette and why in fact it you can take a redneck out of the country, but begging to ask the question, "Can you take the country bumpkin to a fine dinning joint?" Well you get the drift. Picking away at Pacific Rim baby oyster goo and inhaling a homemade sourdough bread I primed the pump for the main entree. While most of the group stuck to the commonplace Thyme scented Rosie the Chicken and the out of place Tempeh Mushroom Ragu (see Vegetarians are people too) I confidently ordered the pan seared duck breast with spaetzle and cider gastrique. The result, an impeccable decision. The breast was cooked to perfection at medium raw allowing the tender meet to be balance the seasoned fat beautifully. Every portion including the delicious doughy spaetzle was devoured with pleasure. I can always respect a restaurant that consistently delivers evenly cooked proteins and balanced spicing regimes. Not to mention that the MacCallum House had a do it yourself policy of placing logs on the open cobblestone fireplace. Goes to show that some dining experiences can be interactive.


Bulging with delight (and the lingering remnants of a Mexican lunch) we marched on to Dick's Place, a local watering hole established in the early 30's that Jason moonlights at as a barkeep on the weekends. The clientele at Dick's on your typical Thirsty Thursday included a raw, blitzted mix of eco-surf jocks, Northern Cali fratties (the likes of whom are amusingly aware of the regenerative powers of Kombocha), mountain men, the regular mix of inebriates and wet brains and second gen flower children with fat helicopter dreads. At Dick's your pet is not only allowed it's welcomed with open arms. Pulling up to the bar and assembling in huddle formation to avoid abuse from the natives a grisly Great Dane/Yorkshire Terrier mix excitedly sniffed our crotches for contraband. Needless to say I was beginning to feel at home and many of the tattered and faded instructional signs above the Kessler and Mohawk shelf began to remind me of my former "Home Away from Home," the legendary Bailey Ave. haunt Annacones (RIP). A heavy tear laced with Genny Cream Ale speedily nosedived to the floor as I ordered a pint of Barney Flats' soiled stout and a doubleshot of Baileys. Cree-me!

Adding to the mishmash of decor was the public house's proprietary clothing line consisting of undergarments, fishnets, girly tee's and your standardized deadbeat's hoodie. Tacky and equally gratuitous, I was personally touched by the g-string boasting a the Dick's Place logo and cocktail glass which sit slightly above the potential owners genitalia. A piece of advice, if you ever come across this piece of panty flair in your exploits. Run! Run for the East Coast and don't look back.

"Meanwhile Down at the Lodge"

Saturday nite I braved the brisk drizzle and strode down to the Lodge, Boonville's only social outlet for dejected hill folk, lingering logging clans and jacked-up cowboys and gals. Attempting to blend in, the Breggo intern Shaunt and myself donned designer sheep wool, a Carhart zip down and an L.L. Bean flannel. Pulling up to the bar, Shaunt (who's neatly groomed moustache further confounded the locals) complimented me on my Mossy Oak camo hat. "Damn, shoulda wore a cap," he lamented. "No problems pardner," I reassured my drinking cohort, "We'll maintain a safe space at the bar." That we did, plowing through a series of refreshing indigenous pints as a rowdy melting pot bubbled and gurgled around us. Most of the patrons were acquaintances, if they weren't already kin. The menfolk appeared mole like with prickly chiseled faces and mesh caps perched just above their beady eyes. Others looked Gnomish and when given a "what's happenin'" or "howdy" replied with a stiff grumble. The Boont ladies were few and far between, and tended not to stray farther than a burly lumberjacks arm-length away from their main squeeze.

Of course it was no surprise that we were disregarded as outsiders and given the cold shoulder. Boonville has a long history of keeping foreigners from influencing their culture and/or lifestyle. While the Anderson and Bell Valleys were being clear cut in the late 1800's a tight knit timber community settled in Boonville and created the local dialect Boontling, that was widely used and understood only by Boonville townfolk. According to A Wee Deek On Boont Harpin's, if a stranger did not understand the Boontville conversation then they were sharked or fetched. While historians claim the motive for the language was purely for entertainment purposes, others will argue that it was intended to confuse and keep out missionaries from outside the valley. Early rejection of forced Christianity. The thought gives me an added respect for the oldtimers. Even though the dialect was abandoned sometime after World War II as socio-economic conditions changed in the valley, some remaining descendants, historians and entrepreneurs hold onto Boontling for entertainment purposes and preserving their local heritage.

Boontling aside, there weren't any itch neemers down at the Lodge on Saturday and round twelve o'clock the townies put the pool cues down to form a pulsing dance circle, hootin' and a hollerin' to the hullabaloo. At one point a belligerently drunk Mexican man grabbed onto the arm of a biker resembling Grisly Adams, taunting him to a lip-splittin, but the astute barkeep soon cast the man out the front door. Later the disgruntled biker in club duds marched outside to split-a-lip, returning five minutes later shaking his throbbing fist. Goes to show that put up your dukes old-style boxing is alive and well in some rincones del mundo.

If the men were standoffish the ladies were completely disinterested. When I curiously asked one middle aged woman, dressed in semi-formal garb what was the occasion she replied with a dopey drawl, "Wurh inn tawne fer uh footbahl fundrayzer."

Well no shit! Saa-lud!

For more Anderson Valley fun:

Anderson Valley History
www.avbc.com/visit/history.html

Boontling
http://www.mms.mcn.org/~boontling/

Walking Tractor and Other Country Tales, Bruce Paterson. Heyday Books. Local fiction author.