While stewing (more like constipating) over my latent blog entry, "The Case Against Food Porn" (let me give you a taste: "I balled Salman Rushdie! Have you heard of him?"), I've done several things worthy of note, including passing on various complimentary wine tastings and consuming escargot. The overnight in the wine country always works out great for K and I, as it did for that couple in the room above, who balled for hours starting very early in the morning. (Now that I've used that expression twice, you won't see me dribble it out again.) "Good on ya!" I say.
I enjoyed the escargot with puff pastry and parsley foam at Santé, which manages to live up to the breathless marketing and reviews. Great prep and execution on the dishes, impeccable service, fine linens. Also a divine room with my kind of music -- swinging hard bop without the vocals. Too bad the cheese course is too rich for my blood these days. (This is what happens when you put a scale in the men's room at the spa.)
If anyone else has had snails, would love to trade notes. Yet the most memorable meal was in nearby Glen Ellen, with its more downscale family atmosphere and a few flies here and there. I had the Sonoman, which is the grilled turkey sandwich on really dark whole-wheat bread with Vella peppers and onions, plated with a hefty mixed-green salad. You know how some places put their dressings in those little plastic cups? Have you ever had dressing out of there that not only held the right proportion of oil and vinegar and spices, but also had the right tartness and peppery bite? I know my sandwiches and salads, and everything on this plate was delicious.
K and I just hung out after eating and read a couple of newspapers. Staff didn't even blink. Hey, Rachael Ray digs it too. Swing by next time you're up there.
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