Mandy Rowe
When she stood up and chanted a mantra to the earth’s four winds I knew I had enrolled in the wrong workshop. My two-day painting class in Berkeley, a short ferry ride across San Francisco Bay, was taking an unexpected turn. Instead of being handed a paintbrush, I was ushered into a dark room. It was heaving with all kinds of expectations and none of them were mine.
I had extended my stay in San Francisco by a few days, wanting a little downtime. A splash of creativity with an ensemble of locals would be the perfect end to a busy week. And a nautical-inspired art deco hotel on Oakland’s waterfront was a chance to reclaim some personal space, after having shared a twin room with a sonorous colleague for what seemed a lifetime.
Now, I’m quite au fait with all things hippy as I grew up in Nimbin, but I wasn’t prepared for Friday night’s class. Maybe I was tired, but from the moment I ascended the stairs and saw a painting of a heart with the words ‘find your inner-self’ emblazoned across it, homesickness engulfed me. Too late for escape, I was spotted and given directions to a dark, wood-panelled room.
From a refuge in the corner I observed a trio of rainbow-attired women, ensconced on an old upholstered lounge. Others sat crossed-legged on the floor, while another seemed to be enjoying the soothing momentum of a nearby rocking chair. A patchwork of religious paraphernalia—Hispanic, Buddhist and Christian—decorated the walls; there was a distinct absence of artwork, which was a little unnerving.
Needless to say when a woman swooped upon a cairn-like sculpture and blessed the class with the earth’s four winds, escape strategies came thick and fast. All I could think about was what the cold north wind had to do with viridian green, and how I was going to fill the next two days, because one thing was for certain, once I left I wasn’t coming back.
Probably best not to ring Jimmy, the guy I sat next to on the flight from Sydney. Between slurps of cheap chardonnay he handed me a business card and said if I get a window in my schedule he’d be happy to run me up to the Napa on his Harley. I didn’t know which bit about Jimmy would be hardest to explain to my husband, the day trip or the fact that he grew hydroponic marijuana commercially. I learnt a lot about gardening during that thirteen-hour flight, none of it particularly relevant to my standard iceberg roses. Gallivanting around California’s vineyards with this over-cologned gardener wasn’t my idea of fun.
Settled back in my hotel room, and two Francis Ford Coppola pinot noirs later, I’d hatched a plan. Alice Waters’ iconic restaurant, Chez Panisse, was in the neighbourhood, a short bus ride from Jack London Square. With that thought in mind, I flicked my art-smock into my well-heeled Samsonite and quickly closed the lid.
A very different experience embraced me as I ascended Chez Panisse’s stairs. Instead of the contentious wave of homesickness I battled the previous night, today I had a stronger foothold on life.
I hadn’t made a reservation, much to the chagrin of the maître d’. The words, ‘an aversion towards my inner-self’ lay dormant on my lips. This, however, wasn’t the response he was trained to hear. Instead, in a broad Australian accent, ‘a sudden change of plans’, tumbled from my mouth.
He mellowed, and I noted a hint of amusement in his eyes.
On that note he picked up a menu and chaperoned me to a small wooden table that faced Shattuck Street. The branches of a century-old Araucaria pine tree could be seen through the restaurant’s large, north-facing windows. Close by, a group of Christmas-party revellers were enjoying the 2002 Vouvray Sec, Gaston Huet. Not the most expensive bottle of sparkling in the house but a goodie, perfect party fizz from the Loire Valley.
My table was suitably attired in a crisp white linen tablecloth; the simplicity of the scene defied the raft of accolades Chez Panisse had acquired over the decades. I liked that; it was comfortable and reassuring. So too was the glass of Prosecco di Valdobbiadene, with its signature granny smith nose and curt acidity.
Equally as unpretentious was the single page daily menu. Under a banner of artwork depicting olive branches were today’s date and the chef’s name; its austerity anchored me. And of the menu’s eight choices, which proffered California’s best organic winter fare, the stinging nettle pizza with pecorino and shaved red onions piqued my interest. I wondered whether these were the same breed of nettles that cursed our paddocks?
My reverie was broken by the muted conversation of the couple to my left. I never mean to eavesdrop when dining alone, but sometimes find myself being lured into their by-lines. Guessing their jobs becomes a diversion. And seeing that the University of California is just down the road I suspect the man by my side is a professor. I’m not sure which discipline, but he’s well educated and an imposing character. I found myself being drawn into his beguiling web of words.
People’s choice of wine also tells me much about my unofficial dining companions.
This chap has ordered a bottle of 2005 Barolo, Albe, G.D. Vajra, which is a perfumed and tannic Nebbiolo. It’s a very good choice; he obviously has a penchant for flamboyant Italian varietals.
My mind wanders back to Jimmy slurping his cheap economy class wine and tossing pretzels into his mouth. Somewhat amused, I think to myself that I couldn’t have chosen two such different ‘unofficial’ dining companions, even if I’d tried. One was a chardonnay-quaffing marijuana grower, the other a well-educated Italian wine aficionado.
Then I wondered what my reaction would have been if my newfound Nebbiolo friend lent across the table and whispered, ‘I can’t help noticing you’re dining alone in our magnificent city, and if by chance you happen to have a window in your busy schedule, maybe you’d like to see the Napa Valley?’