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| Firestone Walker's Reserve Porter Ice Cream Float, Paso Robles, California |
You can find happiness almost anywhere along the Central Coast.
Hang a left on CA-1 out of San Luis Obispo to get to Morro Bay and
its
famous rock;
tiny Cayucos; and Cambria, gateway to
Hearst
Castle. Or stay further inland on US-101 for Atascadero,
Templeton, and Paso Robles.
Sandra and I take the inland route. Last time we came this way,
two months earlier to give a talk and sign books in the Bay Area, we
stopped at Atascadero.
We dined at a cozy, family-run Thai restaurant (the unfortunately
named but delicious Thai-riffic), enjoyed a Stagetown Stout from
nearby
Figueroa Mountain Brewing
Company back at the hotel, and had Stumptown Roasters Peru
Cecovasa with breakfast in the morning at
Bru
Coffeehouse before continuing north.
Actress Minnie Driver lives near Atascadero. Former big-league
pitcher Chuck Estrada attended high school there. If you like quiet
and understated, it's a cool place to spend the night.
We drive past and continue to Paso Robles, where we've stayed many
times: Downtown, a short walk from the farmer's market and several
fine restaurants; near the freeway at a motel filled with ATV-riding,
bad-beer-drinking, loud-noise-making folks.
Tonight our destination is at the very north end, off
CA-46.
It's an odd enough location that I'm convinced I've made a wrong turn
somewhere along the way.
CA-46 is familiar. Go west and you end up near Cambria. Go east
and you run into
CA-41
at Cholame, where James Dean was killed in a car accident in 1955 at
age 24. There is a humble plaque beneath a tree near the location.
We visited it once, years ago, and then drove back along
Bitterwater Road, which took us through some remote areas. Maybe not
as remote as along CA-247 between Lucerne Valley and Barstow–there
was the occasional farmhouse–but relatively untouched by outsiders.
It was a gorgeous country drive until we were attacked by
pebbles. With faces. Bugs, actually. Thousands of them, piling up on
the windshield.
Their wings continued to flap because of the car's movement,
which made them look alive. Running the wipers didn't help. The dead
bugs just kept staring.
I don't want to run into bugs again. Just as I'm about to turn
around, the hotel appears. Next to a winery.
Oh, it's one of those places. I saw that in a movie once.
We check in, and there is a reception. Free wine? Okay.
Smiling people in pastel sweaters mill about, exchanging tales of
the day's winery conquests. We are the youngest people here. We are
not young.
The woman serving the wine greets us.
“Did you visit any wineries today?”
“No, we just got in.”
“Are you visiting any tomorrow?”
“No, we're leaving early.”
Awkward silence. We have come for the beer, back where the actual
town is. We keep this to ourselves and smile, like everyone else
does.
“Would you like red or white?”
“Red.”
Sandra orders the white, and we sip while dodging the smiling
sweater people. After a brief rest, we head to
Firestone
Walker Brewing Company, in an industrial park off US-101.
The place is packed. Without reservations it's an hour wait. Or
you can sit at a “common table” and share a meal with strangers
right away.
Americans hate doing this, but we are hungry and gladly subject
others to our eating habits. The 20-seat table is
three-quarters full when we arrive.
There is a merry din.
Within minutes we are the
only ones there. Sandra and I are dining together, by ourselves, at a
table built for a king. Fish and chips, washed down with a pint of
Pale 31. This should happen more often.
We finish the meal with a
beer float. Remember the beer milkshake from Steinbeck's Cannery
Row, set just up the road in Monterey? This is like that: A giant
glass of Reserve Porter over vanilla ice cream, as satisfying as the
day itself.
The evening draws to a
close, and we ponder tomorrow's drive into points unknown. Who knows
what surprises it will bring?
