Jamie knows tacos
Last night, Jamie Ney commented on my blog post, recommending La Taqueria Super Rico here in Santa Barbara, so that’s where we headed for lunch.
Jamie mentioned that we might have to wait. Wow, was she right:
Waiting for the best tacos in Santa Barbara
The place is as simple as can be, with a window for ordering, a window for pick-up and a few picnic tables. All of the people you see above are in line, and there were more inside waiting to order.
Here’s the bald facts: Gail wouldn’t wait in line 30 minutes for the express lane to heaven. She sure as hell won’t wait that long for a taco, no matter how good.
Driving along Milpas Street to Super Rico, we passed at least 4 other taqueiras, so we just drove back to one with good parking, which turned out to be Taqueria La Colmena. You know you are in an authentic joint when the menu board is all in Spanish. We were the only gringos there, of course. That’s usually a good thing.
If you can read this, you’ve lived in California long enough
Gail loves pozole, a Mexican soup made with hominy, so that’s what she ordered.
Soup and all the fixings.
There was also a plate of fresh shredded cabbage to add, which Gail says is important.
I had a fish taco, which turned out to be two of the tiny tortillas and some fish. There is a table with many different salsas and toppings you could add, but they were all way too spicy for my delicate sensibilities. Which is to say I’m a sissy when it comes to hot, and in a genuine Mexican joint everything is very, very hot.
We also had a couple of enchiladas, one red and one green. They were smaller and simpler than the heavily cheesed and sauced version you get in more mainstream places, and we both enjoyed them.
The tab for all of this was $21.
This was an excellent, authentic Mexican meal, from what was at best the second best place on the street. I’ll keep looking to see if we can get into La Taqueria Super Rico without a line another day. Thanks Jamie.
Fiesta!!
We flew down to Santa Barbara today to attend the wedding of Gail’s bridge partner Gayle’s son. Originally we planned to travel tomorrow, but we are staying at Gail’s son’s beach house, and needed to be a day early to deal with the plumber. Having two houses means having twice as many problems.
I’ll be leaving from here Sunday morning far too early to drive to LAX and then fly to Chicago for the summer nationals. Gail is going home for a day, then arriving Illinois on Tuesday. The arrangements for all this make planning the invasion of Normandy look like child’s play.
This morning in the airport, I noticed this:
United flight crew taking all the seats in the handicap section
It is true that the area was immensely crowded today, but I still think the staff should not be using those seats. Perhaps they would have given them up willingly to someone who needed them, but many people would be unwilling to confront them. This is just wrong.
It’s a very short flight, just 45 minutes. While we were waiting for the baggage to appear, I went to get our car. Beth the Travel Goddess put me with Dollar this time. Everything was going swimmingly until they wanted a second phone number from me, supposedly for “emergencies”. A car rental company has never had an emergency that caused them to call me. I can’t quite imagine what the circumstances would be that would engender them calling all over to find me.
No, they want this for some devious purpose of their own. Marketing? Data mining? Spamming? Scamming? I don’t know. I do know that I wasn’t about to give them another number. Besides, I have one phone, one phone number. What else would I tell them? My brother’s number? Micky’s? Not happening.
I told them there was no second number. They asked again. I told them again. They asked again. This was going nowhere, fast. I made it plain that they weren’t going to get anything more from me. They said they had to have it. I told them in an emergency it was best to call 911. They gave up. I will not be a sheep.
Finally in our car, we wandered and rubbernecked and gawked around town, finally stopping for lunch. Gail wanted Mexican food. I took us here, it looks Mexican to me:
Does this look like a Mexican restaurant to you?
Wrong again. Turns out that this is fiesta week in Santa Barbara, and everybody is Mexican in the same way everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. This is a modern California type of place.
Fortunately, they had a fish taco for Gail to order:
Pretty darn good fish taco, too.
The sidewalks of State Street were lined with Mexican women selling decorated eggs filled with confetti or glitter. All year long they carefully slice off just one end of the eggs they use, then wash out the shells, dry them, fill them with confetti, seal the end with saran wrap and decorate them just for this week. People buy them to smash on their friends, it seems.
Some of them are simple, some are quite complex. They sell for as little as 4 for $1 and as much as $2 or $3 apiece. I think this makes quite a nice summer windfall for these women–and there don’t seem to be any men in the egg business.
I like all of this, and it sure seems more harmless than the drunken insanity of Mardi Gras or St. Patrick’s Day.
This young woman had just gotten bombed by her boyfriend:
A pleasant diversion
We’ll see if I can get through the weekend without cracking a couple of these eggs.
Take more photos
Betty and Linda at my 40th birthday party.
There are boxes in the garage that I haven’t looked into in the last 18 years, since I moved in with Gail. She has been nagging me to go through them, keep what I want and toss the rest. So this weekend I started.
Most of them are photos. Lots and lots of photos. And as I sort them out, I find that I am consistently tossing every single picture from travels, every landscape, everything I took in a museum, every ‘pretty picture’ I ever shot. I look at them and just don’t care.
People pictures, on the other hand, are universally priceless. A blurry, overexposed shot of my dad is worth more than all the pictures of the Forbidden City I will ever have.
Miss Moffett at a long forgotten unit game.
I have photos of long-gone relatives. Friends I can barely picture in my mind. People I can’t believe were ever that young. Children growing up. Three shots of Robin Williams. Former girlfriends in dishabile. A couple of me in dishabile taken by the same women. I used to be studly, it seems.
The modern world sees an explosion in photographs, courtesy of the smartphone. That’s a very good thing. Looking at these pictures of the life I led brings back joys large and small that I have forgotten, reminds me of all the good people and the things I did with them.
Now if I can only get the DMV to use this on my next drivers license:
When I had hair
Another winner in Napa
Napa isn’t a very big place, but they have an incredible number of absolutely first rate restaurants. I love Morimoto, and Torq, and Angele, three of the finest dining establishments around and all within a couple of blocks on Main Street. Now I have to add one more to that powerhouse trinity, Celadon.
Celadon is a color for a pottery glaze, but Google then shows me swatches that are pale blue, pale green and light gray–maybe there is something even Google cannot be certain about. I may not know exactly what shade Celadon is, but I know good food and service when I see them.
We ate in the outdoor/indoor half of the restaurant. There is a beautiful formal dining area, but I so much prefer the sense of being outside with the high roof, translucent ceiling and open sides. There are fans for the heat and heaters for the cold–Gail and I are looking forward to coming here when it is pouring rain and hearing it on the roof.
You’re inside, you’re outside, it’s two rooms in one.
While Gail had her customary Caesar salad, Sigrid and I split the duck confit spinach salad–spinach, duck slow cooked in its own fat (the “confit” part) and dates. It was superb.
The menu has more meat and less fish than I have come to expect in California, which looks like a tourist orientation. All three of us chose from the specials of the day. I had what they called lamb T-bones, which sure look like rib chops to me. Maybe they’re the same thing. In any case, they were excellent.
Lamb T-bones with spaetzle and spinach
Years ago, Gail ordered a dish with two small filets. One was Kobe beef, one was Argentine beef. The Kobe was insanely tender, but didn’t have a great deal of flavor. The Argentine was not at all tender, bordering on tough, but immensely flavorful. Celadon serves whatever the Argentine version of lamb chops is–tender they were not, but Wow! what flavor.
The lamb was accompanied by spaetzle, spinach and chantarelles, served on a savory jus. Topping the plate were two perfect onion rings. I was a happy man.
Gail and Sigrid both had the petrale sole.
Sole and mashed potatoes.
You can prepare pretty much anything with butter, lemon and capers and it will be good. Celadon did a wonderful job with the sole, and both women cleaned their plates.
You know I can’t pass up a bread pudding, so I didn’t.
This is how to present a dish
The bread pudding was a bit heavy on the cinnamon for me, but the creme anglaise with the little hearts won me over. The blackberries and raspberries were perfectly ripe and a marvelous accompaniment
Our server was a delight, and the bus staff kept the ice tea filled, the plates cleared and the wine flowing. We had an interesting discussion about water–the restaurant is watering their many plants with the water customers don’t drink.
The Berkeley gourmet ghetto was no match for Main Street in Napa even before Celadon opened. Now there isn’t even a contest–Napa is the place to go. Celadon has joined the group of the big boys.
A Simple Red Sauce Joint
Not all dining is fine dining, sometime you just go out with friends for an easy meal. That’s what tonight was, a bunch of friends having a bite, nothing fancy.
We ended up at Buon Appetito, a very simple Italian joint in Benicia, next to an nsurance agency and behind Subway. The two saddest outdoor tables in the entire world are perched on the narrow sidewalk in front. Inside there are no red checked tablecloths, but there should be.
The kitchen is open to the room, and chef/owner Martino gets to see everything that goes on in the dining room while he prepares the meals.
Chef Martino looks like a man who enjoys his work
The menu is extensive, with everything from aioli to zabaglioni. Pastas, of course. Risotto. Polenta. Steaks, lamb chops and fish. Soups and salads, carpaccio and caprese. Wines domestic and imported.
In an odd coincidence, 4 of our party chose the calamari steak. A pounded piece of squid, dredged in egg batter and gently sauteéd.
Calamari steak, Italian style
Four plates came to our table, not a scrap was left. It’s easy to overcook calamari, leaving it with the consistency of an inner tube patch kit. These were perfect.
I chose the Fettucini Friuliana–housemade fettucini with Italian sausage, onions, fresh tomatoes and red wine sauce. Everything in it was fresh and clean tasting, not the muddled flavors you get with cheap red sauce.
Fettucini Friuliana
It was a bad night for dessert, because they were out of the chocolate lava cake, the spumoni and the zabaglioni–that’s the danger of going out on Sunday night. I had to make do with this:
Apple tart with creme Anglaise
The tart was probably not made in house, but the presentation was excellent and that plate ended up clean, too.
Prices are modest, service is friendly and efficient. the food is excellent. Buon Appetito is not the place for your 50th anniversary romantic dinner, but it’s perfect for a simple, well prepared meal.
Infinite Majesty
The law, in its infinite majesty, forbids rich and poor alike from sleeping under bridges, begging in the streets and stealing bread. ————Anatole France
Two more hours of sitting court this morning before they managed to empanel a jury without every needing my judicious services. All in all, I was more impressed by the process than I thought I would be. The judge, one Bruce Mills, was incredibly thorough in questioning the prospective jurors and explaining the process and the types of judgement that are needed. He made it very clear that policie officier testimony carries no more weight than anyone else’s and that there are good and bad cops. The first 18 people were questioned by the judge, then by both attorneys. The “people” were represented by a certified clerk, a law student under the direct supervision of an assistant DA. He questioned every single person regarding their wilingness to convict on the testimony of a single person—I thought he was not really questioning by trying to manipulate the jurors into accepting uncorroborated testimony. Maybe that’s an accepted technique. This morning, 7 of that first 18 were released, and 7 more seated. The questioning continued, and 7 more were released. Finally, they managed to get 12 for the jury and one alternate, and the rest of us were free to go. The idiocy in all this is the case, involving a 50 person jury panel, judge, DA, defense attorney, court reporter, clerk and bailiff, was all because some poor schmo was being tried on 3 counts of public intoxication. Not recently, but I’ve been publicly intoxicated. It’s likely that you have too, if only as a stupid college kid. But rich white guys don’t get busted for that, they get driven home. This defendant was, I believe, Vietnamese, and the ‘offenses’ occurred in Orinda. Just being poor and non-white is a crime in Orinda, and has been since I moved there 53 years ago.
Doing my civic duty
Jury duty today. I got lucky and didn’t have to show up at 8 am, but the call-in system said I had to be here at 1 and here I am.
There isn’t any parking for jurors. You have to find a metered spot, some but not all of which take credit cards, and pay for it yourself. They are clear that you are responsible for your own parking tickets.
Courthouse security is tighter than the airport. My pocketknife is “contraband”, so I buried it in the bushes rather than hike back to the car. I think of it as a necessary tool, but the cops feel self important and righteous if they are confiscating (the police word for stealing) contraband.
Entering the jury assembly room, I was given a clipboard and directed to the end of a long line of similar detainees, waiting to check in. The clipboard contains a mildly intrusive questionnaire, some of which I filled out. I can’t imagine why they would ask questions like what does my former girlfriend do for a living, but it’s none of their business that she is a money smuggler for the syndicate.
Thinking about how upstanding and self righteous these people are, it amused me to see the bins they use to hold the clipboards.
As usual, the law doesn’t apply to those who administrate it, the smarmy bastards.
It’s forty five minutes and nothing has happened. I think there’s an orientation video to come, then maybe a trial. Or maybe just an afternoon of waiting. I’ll let you know.
A One Joke Town
Gail and I drove up to southern Oregon today. We are going to pick up a piece of art we commissioned, and the artist has a gallery in Port Orford, very close to the California border and on the ocean. She also has a couple of fancy rooms she rents out, and we are staying in “the loft”, a spectacular room facing the Pacific.
Along the way, we stopped in Redcrest for a bite. Redcrest is just a wide spot on the Avenue of the Giants, the scenic route that parallels the freeway through the giant redwoods.
We went to eat at a place named “cafe”, which is attached to a business named “gift store”. Little spot, seats about 20, seems to be doing a pretty good business. I had a grilled ham and cheese, Gail had a kraut dog. Nothing fancy here.
On the counter, next to a vase full of plastic flowers, is a bowl of water with a rock and a turtle. I asked if the turtle is real and the waitress said she never answers that question, only tell people the critter’s name.
Other people came in, everyone asked the same question, everyone got the same answer. I heard the joke 5 times in 20 minutes, God only knows how many times a day she amuses herself telling the same silly joke.
I’ve been in one horse towns before, this was the first time I was ever in a one joke town.
His name? Rigor Tortise
Living artistically
The Oakland art community has a big event called Art Murmur the first Friday of the month, with every gallery open, food vendors, music, street merchants and hordes of people
A much small, quieter, saner event is the Third Thursday, which is celebrated mostly on 25th street among a half dozen or so galleries. That’s where I went this week while Gail had dinner with her friend Reed.
Maybe I’m blasé, maybe I’m jaded, maybe there just wasn’t anything particularly special, but the art I saw didn’t greatly move me. On the other hand, I did see something that resonated.
One of the open spaces is a communal work/show space. A number of artists share the rent and the use of 3 large kilns, allowing them to be in prime real estate for a fraction of the cost. Each artist has a couple of hundred square feet in which to create and show their work. The artists design and build out their individual studio area as they choose, and that’s what caught my eye.
Being an artist is more than a job, it is a way of life. These people put their sensibilities into every part of their lives, and the varied way they have chosen to structure their workspace is as interesting as any of the art they create.
Unfortunately, they are better at art than promotion. I could not find a name for this place, nor a website. I don’t know the names of any of the artists. You’d think that would be a priority, but you aren’t an artist.
UPDATE Our friend Dave Larson left the information in a comment:
The studio is called FM Art Collective ( 483 25th St, http://fmoakland.com/home.html ).
We know this because one of the artists there, Josh Margolis (with the “monster series) used to be an instructor at Kids ‘N’ Clay. He is currently head of the Visual Arts programs at JCCSF.
Nonetheless, I have a gallery of photos of the various workspaces, and some of the art created therein. I just thought it was all interesting.
One more interesting thing–a parklet. A little tiny park, just two standard parking spaces turned into a place to sit and enjoy the passing parade.
A very nice idea from the city
Here it is:
Turning an industrial street into something more.
The continued growth of uptown Oakland is a delight to see. Check it out the third Thursday of the month, 25th and Telegraph.
So here is a gallery of photos
Baa Baa Black Sheep
Some people just have to be different
Society want us all to be the same, to follow the rules and never make wave. I’m just not wired that way.
We bought some handmade coffee mugs from a woman in South Africa, and I had to pay her. She refuses to make my life easy by getting a PayPal account, and insisted that I send the money to her daughter in New York–not by check, which would be normal,, but by transfer into her bank account. Fortunately, the account was with CitiBank, so I thought I’d just go to the local branch and effect the transaction.
it seemed easy. I plopped my credit card (also from CitiBank) on the counter and said please send some money to this account. Silly me.
Rather than just making a payment, the bank decided they had to treat this as a cash advance, then make a cash payment. OK, knock yourself out.
In order to make the cash payment, they insisted that I tell them my phone number. It’s illegal in California to ask for that for a credit card transaction, but that doesn’t stop Citi. Although I had my phone on the counter to read the email with the account numbers, I said I didn’t have a phone. (Citibank already knows my phone number from the dozens of times I have to call them about charges on our business cards)
Not satisfied with one impertinent question, they now insisted on knowing what I do for a living. I guess most sheep just answer, but I’m not most sheep.
I told her I was a criminal. I steal cars for a living. For some reason, she didn’t believe me, and suggested that I might actually be retired. I said sure.
Then, astoundingly, she told me that was insufficient and she had to know what I had done when I worked. How can this be any of their business? Why do they care? How dare they ask such absurd questions before I spend MY money for MY purposes? I was incredulous. I was incensed. I was livid.
I told her I was a retired felon.
She gave up and completed the transaction.
There is nothing I can imagine that would justify this absurd inquisition, and no possible reason why I would be impelled to reply. Banks get away with this crap because sheep just do what they are told, and don’t question the system. Don’t be a sheep.
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Giving up on home remedies, I went to Kaiser today. The first step is to check in and pay the $20, so I walked up to the counter.
The woman working today was quite large, kind of like my size, clad in a skirt way, way, way, way too tiny. The mysteries of the universe are mysteries no more.
What she does on her own time is her business, but this was pretty clearly inappropriate for a work situation. I mentioned it to the nurse taking my blood pressure :(130/84!!!!!!!!) and she said everyone in the office was talking about it, and they were hoping some executive would come down from on high and address the situation.
What has happened in the world? Why can’t one of the women who work there just go up and tell her that her skirt is too short and she needs to cover up? The world isn’t interested in her panties. You just can’t do that for some silly reason, this will take an entire human resources project, with reports and paperwork.
Maybe they are afraid the woman will be offended at being told she is being offensive, and rain bureaucratic hell down on everyone. Maybe the world has gotten too involved in everyone’s feelings and needs to get back to the basics–you need to be dressed appropriately for work.
If only Kaiser had a black sheep who would speak up when speaking up was needed.
Totally Unauthorized 