Bridging the Divide

The not-so mighty Russian River

Haulin'

For the first time in my life yesterday I hauled fruit from vineyard to winery. Not a stunning nor titlating task as the fruit only weighed in at a touch under 2 tons and I had to go only as far as a skip, jump and hop through the woods. A windy skip, jump and a hop I must add from Eastside to Westside Rd via the Woosley Bridge, a historic landmark and relic for the are at the ripe old age of 90. Like many bridges and thoroughfares in California no one likes to yield the right of way so I was exceptionally gleeful when an impatient service truck was forced to back up as I came rumbling across the one way bridge, macro bins and juicy pinot noir in tow, a smile across my face.

Why do Californians drive like self-absorbed assholes anyway? Is it the climate or is it Californian culture and ettiquete? In the Golden State turn signals are rare, merge at your own risk takes on new meaning and jacked up diesel rigs abound, all eager to shove their elongated member up your car's tailpipe.

Pulling into the hiddeen winery where "tresspassers will be prosecuting to the full extent of the law", an Aussie fellow by the name of full zipped up in an automatic forklift and simply asked "Hirsch," implying what I assume to be a load of fruit from the renowned Sonoma Coast vineyard. 'No, no, no' I chuckled in my head. But I wish it was! Now that pinot is true liquid gold! What I wouldn't give to fill a carboy with five gallons of free-run...

Another One Bites the Dust

The divide I attempted to bridge, or rather was inadvertantly challenged to bridge, was that of Cuban-American affairs. Five o'clock and I was beginning to feel my blood sugar drop. Outside of the Getty station at the corner of Occidental Rd and the 116, a hair outside of Sebastopol where cracks in the earth have unleashed dreaded hippie spawn, sits the taco truck El Coronel. I tried the place once before, ordering a Super Burrito of unknown protein filler. It sucked. Round 2. Hell, I'm a believer in giving everybody a second chance.

Steeping up to the window a ask for the sandwich in my best spanish accent "Torta Cubana" maybe even tossing in a "por 'fa" for good measure. Deep down I always feel like the peddlers won't 'gabochosize' my meal if they think there might be the slightest chance I am into Mexican culture and eats. The customer service was tepid if not downright piss poor. Why weren't bells going off right away? I want a smile with my salsa verde cabron!

I started my car back up, it started today after I broke down and bought a new battery. Lately I have been eating nearly all my meals in my car so I pledged to save the torta until I arrived in Petaluma and only eat the tortilla chips along they way.

Arriving at Rancho Strozzi I ripped open the tin foil and exposed my sandwich, digging in with big manly bites. Two bites in and I tasted foreign matter. Not just any foreign matter. Assorted pig part foreign matter. WTF? What the hell were several grilled hotdogs doing in my Torta Cubana? Why was there cheese whiz on my island sammy? Do you really think they can import cheeze whiz to Cuba? Was this a joke? Is the taco truck attempting to thaw relations between the U.S. and Cuba by creating a hybrid sandwich of our two cultures. Fast food joins up with a classic sandwich to commodify and corrupt. What was this shit, the Torta Panamericana? I just might take this issue up with the OAU.

El Coronel on the 116. Cross it off your list.

Self Medication

Pollished off this week...

Bear Republic Big Bear Black Stout

-Dark, mean, brooding. Just what the doctor ordered.

Grand Teton Brewing Co. Sweetgrass IPA

-Malty, crisp, hoppy edge. Enjoyable after a 12 hour day? Very much so.

2007 Domain Syvain Bailly Sancere Terroirs

-Floral at first giving into to vegetable notes, bit green in month followed by punishing acidity. Where are my seared scallops and shucked oysters?