[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: April 28, 2008]
I don't treasure the memory of every Greyhound ride I've ever taken - and being too precious to own a driver's license, I've taken a few.
But I have to say, the ramble from San Francisco down to Monterey on a crystal clear, sunny day in April 1998 was sheer pleasure. Much greenery, and a series of pretty towns; I had the front seat and hence a great view, and during dull spells, I had John Ashbery's recent volume - And the Stars Were Shining - open on my lap.
I can't recall why I thought a side-trip to Monterey was in order. California was altogether new to me, and I had to go somewhere. It's a former canning town, of course, now heavily geared to tourism, with Cannery Row transformed into a few blocks of bars, amusements, nightclubs and souvenir stores. And I happened to be in town for a biker convention.
Nevertheless, my hotel choice was a complete knockout. The Spindrift Inn fronts on Cannery Row, but presents its rear to the beach and the pacific ocean. I had a ground-floor suite, a huge bed, a working fireplace, and windows opening onto the ocean view. It was expensive then, and I expect it's ruinous now - and the Inn is still very much with us.
For dinner, I took a cab out to a modern bistro which has been making some noise, Montrio. It boasted what I now regard as the typical ambience of a regional American restaurant with ambitions: an old building - a firehouse - thoroughly modernised within; split-levels, hgih ceilings, a boisterous bar; smartness without formality.
I started, for reasons unknown, with a beet salad, which was a little too vinegary. The main event was first rate comfort food: braised veal cheeks with smoothly whipped potatoes. The cheeks are still on the menu. A Morgan pinot noir seemed a good choice.
Late night, watching the white breakers crash against the shore, was dreamily romantic.
I was aroused by otters. At least, my notes tell me I saw some on the beach. Another stunning day, and I summoned a driver to run me down to Big Sur. We made almost twenty miles, but recent storm damage eventually blocked the road. I saw some of Carmel too, and thought it altogether too neat and prosperous.
The afternoon was devoted to walking round "historic" Monterey, guide book in hand, noting Robert Louis Stevenson's house and sundry well-preserved nineteenth century adobe cottages. A street fair had burst out downtown, with kebabs and country rock bands, but I saved myself for a casual supper.
The Whaling Station today presents itself primarily as a steak house. My recollection is that seafood was the main attraction, and I started with some local anchovies, dressed simply in salt and oil, and progressed to another plentiful local fish, the sand dab, simply floured and fried and served with potatoes. Champagne and chardonnary flowed, and a large brandy set me up for a venture to a late-night comedy club - a particular sinister place, up some dingy stairs from the strip.
Breakfast by the sea before hitting the road again, heading back up in the direction of San Francisco, but stopping off in lazy, cheerful Santa Cruz. I stayed at a more touristy hotel, the West Coast, again with a sea-view and a pool as well. It was now very hot indeed, and I took a stroll along the boardwalk, sniffing at the taco stands.
That evening, I came across a fine bookstore with an extensive collection of used volumes; a sort of hippy version of The Strand called Logos. I picked up a volume I'd been missing in New York, the complete O. Henry short stories in hardback (I had an edition still in storage in the U.K.), and added a paperback of John Ashbery's collected art criticism, Reported Sightings.
Dinner that evening was casual but unusually memorable. Delving into these dusty pages for accounts of meals long ago, I often have no memory beyond what my journal recorded. This dinner remains vivid, though. The Pearl Alley Bistro was upstairs from a little downtown alleyway. A restaurant of one kind or another had occupied these rooms for a century, and the Bistro is still open for business.
I started with a few fresh oysters, a cilantro-ginger vinaigrette on the side. The next dish was just astonishingly well executed: a light fritto misto of sweetbreads, artichoke and zucchini - on the side, a jug of delicious veal demi-glace with black trumpet mushrooms. Crisp, tender, rich, earthy. A real good plate of fried food, lifted by an imaginative sauce.
Next up, a "port plate", which was simply an anthology of nuts, dried fruits and cheeses. A 20 year-old Taylor's seemed appropriate. It looks like I took a white wine with my main course, perhaps not expecting the dark rich demi-glace.
I thought the best way to get a hangover would be to throw down some shots of Wild Turkey in a neighborhood bar; and the next morning I took my head down to the wharf to air it. Sea-lions were honking about the place. Somewhere near a fish market, I bought a hot-smoked salmon sandwich with slaw from Stagnaro Brothers, and lined my stomach for the bus ride.
The jump back to San Francisco was fairly short, and I checked in this time at the splendid St Francis hotel, a veritable landmark on Union Square. An aperitif at Li Po's, then dinner at a happening seafood hotspot - with attitude included - Farallon. I can't remember what the service issues were, but a tight-lipped "a bit up themselves" is scrawled in my notes.
The restaurant has a tricky flash site to indicate its continued prosperity. The food was certainly decent: a mix of mariscos to start - mussels with fresh ginger, peeky-toe crab, shrimp, Wellfleet and pacific oysters dabbed with salmon caviar, crawfish and a seaweed garnish. Billecart-Salmon flowed pink.
Choosing the unfamiliar, I selected a Hawaiian butterfish - a creature I now know as escolar. I am very fond of this fish, but it is famous for inflicting bowel catastrophe when ingested in large quantities. No disasters here, and it was served with a light salad of potatoes, tomatoes and scallions.
Back to earth with a French cheese board: St Nectaire, Coloummiers, Pont L'Évêque, something nutty and something blue. I think you can place a safe bet that such a cheese plate today would heavily feature home-grown, indeed West Coast cheeses. Calera chardonnary with the butterfish, Gotham Valley Cab with the cheese.
Five more solid meals, and a saunter into wine country, coming next week.
