Back in the Santa Ynez Valley, we are an hour too early for our lunch reservation.  A friend suggested I check out Woeste while in Los Olivos, but now that I am here, I don’t remember the address.  There are no bars on my phone, and 4G’s are non-existent.   It’s almost like being home.  I remember the shop is on Alamo Pintado Avenue (being from Texas, who doesn’t remember the word Alamo in any description) so, we drive along the quaint street. Looking. We approach the end of town, and because it is a succulent nursery, we continue to drive, thinking nurseries can and should be out of town. 

Five minutes down the road, we are sure we have missed it, but I see a sign for a winery. I like this road we have discovered, and we continue on into a world so green with new life — from the December rains — that I think I may have to reconcile myself to this color — green — and begin to use it more in my paintings.

The Magical World of J. Woeste

Reaching the winery, knowing we have no time to linger and taste, only look, we head back to Los Olivos and stumble upon the magical world of J. Woeste.  Walking through the wild array of succulents and garden art, Michael stops in front of a statue of Saint Frances holding a bowl containing a bright green frog.  He picks up the frog, hands it to me, and says, “You should buy this for Heather.  She likes frogs.” 

I cling to the little frog, walk a few feet and discover a world of frogs.  An even better frog, sitting in a tiny chair created from an array of twisted twigs—a perfect hostess present; Heather has asked us for dinner tomorrow night. I can imagine her smile when she sees it — she DOES like frogs.

Los Olivos Wine Merchant and Café

At the Los Olivos Wine Merchant and Café, the hostess seats us next to a warming fire; wine accompanies three-course lunches, which is becoming our norm.   We order the first course of assorted marinated olives;  these are olives I dream about — from tiny to colossal, from the palest green to the darkest black — each one wonderful. After the olives and flatbread, I really don’t need to put another thing in my mouth; however, our entrees arrive, and I must proceed. Michael faces an overstuffed barbeque sandwich while I have gnocchi in a Parmesan cream sauce with sweet potatoes, mushrooms, and spinach. Who would ever think that a barbeque sandwich is a healthy option — but it appears to be so?

But if we are to spend the rest of the day wine tasting, we have to have something in our systems to absorb the alcohol — or so I tell myself.

Los Olivos and Santa Ynez Valley Wineries

We wind our way down the country lanes, past acres of vines, till we reach an array of red wooden buildings. This is Beckman. Vineyard workers lounge around a table having lunch while the tasting room manager greets us on our way down the hill to the tasting room. 

Reading the two tasting choices, we opt for the one that offers big reds. The big reds come with pig prices, and I promise myself that this is my last “pity buy,” although I should perhaps be the one who is pitied.  If I continue to buy a bottle of wine at each vineyard we visit, I will be in the poor house by the time we return home.  And if you are wondering just exactly what a pity buy is, it is what a vineyard owner called me (a pity buyer) when I told him that when I went to a winery and tasted their wines, I felt obligated to buy a bottle.

We are delighted to find that Andrew Murray, on Foxen Canyon Road, purchased the former wine tasting room of Curtis Vineyards; the winery where we had a picnic nine years ago, and I sat staring at the hills beyond, asking Michael, “Why are we still living in the city?” 

At Andrew Murray, I opt for the chocolate and wine pairing — who wouldn’t? And purchase another bottle of wine.  So much for vows.

Last week I read an article on the 101 Best Wineries in America, so of course, I have to try those that are near us.  Beckman was #68 and Andrew Murray #94.

Epilogue

On Friday, we leave the apartment at 3:30 pm in order to spend time with Heather and the boys before dinner.  Google Maps on my phone shows rivers of red on the thirty-five-mile drive from our apartment to her house in Malibu Canyon.  As we inch along the freeway, we pass by a car that is stuck on top of a high median — the young driver, on her phone, is leaning on a pole close by. After miles of crawling on 101, we exit onto Mulholland Drive in Westlake and sail around the twisting ribbon of gray — for awhile. All in all, it takes us two hours to reach our destination.

There is the expected smile on Heather’s face. She loves the frog. The boys gather around us like puppies, giving hugs and sharing grins.  This is not their normal MO–at least not in years.  I ask them if their mother has been talking to them.  Kevin spills the beans, “Well, maybe.”

1/19/2015 12:05:01 PM