As a belated yet planned Christmas gift, the parents took
the Whantners to Napa. What ensued was two sleeplessly joyful days of touring,
sipping, gorging and "Come on gang, stop holding your wine glass by the bowl!" We
look like a bunch of tourists.
We met each other on our connecting flight to California,
having left Wichita, Oklahoma City and Kansas City, initial flights wheels-up sometime
around six-way-too-freaking-early in the morning. Had we an Iowan in the group,
we would have been coming from the four least-Californian cities in the US.
Dad and Linda - experienced “Napkins”, as the locals refer to their selves – planned each and every second of this trip, all
for a party of nine. While it sounds simple enough to plan a family vacation
without kids, with as many places as we were going to visit, the pre-flight itinerary
looked more like the shot list from North
by Northwest. (If you don’t get this reference, do yourself a favor and rent the
movie).
In an early round of email chains, dad advised that the
dress would be “Cali Evening Casual”. Though unfamiliar with this term, I
assumed it meant something to the effect of Costco Hawaiian attire, Tommy Bahama (anything with 2+ parrots) or
bowling shirts. Definitely socks and sandals. In a word, awesome! And we nailed
it. This is what we had going on Day 1. In a close race, David’s coral pants
narrowly beat out Linda’s pink-on-pink combo. My mustache places third.
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| Airport Casual |
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| The Dudes |
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| The Ladies |
After picking up the rental van, we hurried along to Gott’s
Roadside (http://gotts.com/), eating up the
lush scenery along the way. We enjoyed authentic (non-Midwest) fish tacos,
amazing burgers and breath-destroying garlic fries. The smart ones also ordered
a shake. The best part of this idyllic truck-stop-esque joint is that we ate
picnic-style outside on a wooden table, under the shade of an umbrella, with
nature’s amazing green carpet, grass, beneath our feet. Quite the difference
from (much) earlier that morning, when we encountered snow flurries on the way
to the airport. Keep in mind, this was APRIL.
Just minutes into our trip, it was apparent that the weather
in California was way less sucky than in Kansas. Warm, but not too hot during
the day. Cool at night, we were told. Perfect if you want to live a life dressed
on the tracksuit-to-sport coat spectrum all the time. Great for professional
athletes or entry-level gangsters.
We ate quick, though not disturbingly so, to keep on
schedule, poaching a final handful of fries and gulping a final slurp of that
shake as we walk-jogged back to the van. Blood sugar levels were now back in
balance as this was the first real food consumed since the alarm went off just
shy of four in the morning, with almost ten hours of travel and waiting in
between. The two-hour time difference would prove cumbersome on day one.
On to Beringer Vineyards, the only place we toured that
produced a wine that I might have, probably, almost certainly, though not
necessarily, sampled before. It did sound familiar to me though. We organized
with a larger group of curiosity-seekers and began the tour. Benefitting from
the feedback of previous groups that were given a dry tour, we were directed into a barrel hall and
promptly presented with a glass of wine. Gaining two hours, we were almost able
to proclaim, “Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere”.
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| Wait...shouldn't it be spelled: Bearinger? |
We gathered around symmetrically organized rows of wine
barrels as our tour guide told us a bunch of stuff that I instantly forgot. I
did learn, after a sharp declaration, that red wine glasses should only be handled at the stem – a tidbit I
made sure to obnoxiously point out the remainder of our whirlwind trip.
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| Dust = Age = Fine Wine |
Established in 1876, Beringer has a history rivaled by few
other Napa wineries. Probably. To be honest, the whole trip was such a blur of
wine, culture and history that many of the details were difficult to digest,
nevertheless remember. I could have taken notes, but what’s the fun in that? I
could rip info from the web, but again, what’s the fun in that? That’s why much
of what stuck in my mind revolves around the family: the jokes we made; the
funny things we wore; my mustache; being goofy and enjoying the weather; not
working.
Prime example: Zinger of the trip goes to Eric!
While providing factoids about Napa and the surrounding
region during a wine/cheese/salty/sweet tasting, our Beringer host asked if any
of us knew what part of the valley was responsible for the majority of the US’s
lettuce production. “I believe it’s the Hidden Valley”, proclaimed Eric,
causing us, and the table of strangers with us, to erupt in laughter. Riding
that momentum, he went on to use the phrase “Hidden Valley” no less than 87
times during the remainder of the trip. You think it would get old, yet somehow
it always garnered a laugh. Classic E!
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| Concentrating on the options |
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| Everything can be proved with a Venn Diagram |
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| Thought-provoking wine |
After taking some amazing group pictures near a fountain in
the courtyard – it really was such a beautiful place – we headed to The
Silverado Resort to drop our bags off and catch a moment of rest. Never one to
listen to my body, I decided to go on a quick run - wine and weary travel legs
be damned. I did this in spite of the fact that, 1) I had been drinking earlier
in the day, 2) I had been up since before four, two time zones away, but most importantly,
3) My family would harass, ridicule and shame me. All done in jest, mind you,
but I knew it was coming. They were merciless. Sporting my new super-short New
Balance running shorts was a preventable, regrettable mistake.
Promptly at five – seven to our brain/body – we Brady-bunched
it to the remote Gundlach Bundschu, the oldest family owned winery in
California. The current owners mark generation number six, the most skyward
branches on a family tree that rivals the enormous sequoias that grow in
California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains.
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| It's pronounced phonetically (I think) |
We rolled in, not quite sure what to expect, unaware that
dinner was going to be served in a cave. What we did know - what I had grown a
mustache for and why I had worn my seersucker suit - was that it was family
picture time. Capitalizing on the sheer miracle that all nine of were together,
paired with the fact that we were in not-Kansas, Dad and Linda hired a
photographer to document the Whantner’s collective look at this period in time. Which was smart because California collective look is much more awesome than our Kansas collective look.
We organized the big family shoot, then divided into boys
and girls, then couples. At
a loss for words to describe how amazing these pictures are, I’ll simply offer
up my suggestions for where you’d see these images being used.
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| Reverse Romney - Women have all the power |
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| Real Housewives of the Midwest |
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| Bachelorette reunion show - non-winner's bracket |
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| Political flyer announcing Linda's candidacy for Mayor of Wichita |
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| Kansas City Star featurette on power couples |
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| Press photo for a modern-day adaptation of Gone With the Wind. This time, in a twist, Rhett really does give a damn! |
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| Tommy Hilfiger Fall Catalog |
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| Cover of GQ Also used on a pay-for-use stock photography site, under the label "Confident and successful young businessman" |
Gundlach Bundschu is an ice cream cone with crushed peanuts
and a hardened chocolate shell casing. Surprises were bountiful
and humorous. For starters, they won’t allow you to butcher the name. Employees
teach all visitors how to say Gundlach Bundschu by: 1) making a James Bond gun
signal with one hand “Gun”, 2) pantomiming a locking motion “Lock”, 3) pointing at your rear
“Bun” and 4) pointing at your foot “Shoe”. Simple yet quirky.
We sampled some wines and appetizers while learning the
history. Especially interesting was that they drew inspiration from various
cities and regions for their bottle artwork: Chicago, New Orleans, the Pacific
Northwest and Southwest Pueblo. Blown-up versions of this artwork loomed over
us during the tasting, daring us to spend money on them. Which we did, ordering
coasters and matted posters.
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| I dare you to look at each person in this photo and try to imagine what they're thinking |
Onto the cave, where we walked double-file past hundreds of chest-high
wine barrels, and a hidden kitchen from where we could hear pork chops
a-sizzling. We were seated at a massive table, something out of a T. H. White
novel. To say the food was incredible would be to say that the wine was good.
Both understatements. Never one to stand on ceremony, I caved in (ha…cave pun!)
near the end of the meal, picked up the chop and went to town on the last
shreds of pig. My brain couldn’t tell my mouth to salivate quick enough.
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| Entering the cave |
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| In the cave cave...cave...cave (echo)... |
We had a few glasses of wine at dinner, but near the end of
the meal the day began to catch up with us. We had been up for roughly 18
hours. And these weren’t typical mid-west hours. We had experienced two wine tastings plus
fish tacos and pork chops on not-enough water. We drove, flew, drove again,
walked around, jogged (well…one of us), walked some more, all in fancy clothes.
We were exhausted.
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| If Napa's the Real World, I'll take it |
We headed back to the minivan as the sun set, the exterior lights casting long
shadows from our arms as we waved nostalgically to our tour guide turned
friend. Dad drove us back to the ranch, gently navigating along the curvy
roads. Conversation was sporadic and softened as bulging waistlines and fatigued
brains put us in a zombie-like state where hotel beds were the desired target;
not brains.
There was no nightcap. We needed rest; resistance was
futile. We had two hours to make up for, and tomorrow would be even more
demanding. Must recharge. Corkscrew slowly puncturing the cork, digging
deeper…deeper…locked in, twirling up..."pop"…and…sleep.
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| Leaving my room, The Chateau Gregoire |
Friday morning we were up early (for Melody) and headed to
breakfast at 7:45. The folks chose The Fremont Diner in Sonoma, the sort of
rustic countryside eatery that can get away with leaving an antique rusted-out
truck permanently parked in the spot closest to the entrance. If you ordered
the chicken & waffles, like David did, your meal was running around the
outside picnic tables, nibbling at your feet – I’m guessing it doesn’t bother
them, you having to walk an extra few feet to get in.
Water was served in glass jars, coffee in clean mugs that
bore the restaurant’s logo. The food was, frankly, out of this world. So fresh
you expected to see lemon and lime trees on the property; guacamole trees,
waffle trees, bean trees, tortilla trees, you name it – it all seemed feasible.
Had I requested it, I’m sure I could have seen “papers” for my pork. Hands down
winner, though, was David’s chicken & waffles, the Mike Tyson of meals:
simple yet packs a punch.
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| Legit |
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| Rustic Beauty |
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| Refined Beauty |
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| Chickens were harmed in the making of this breakfast |
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| No words... |
Freed’s depth of knowledge on wine was intimidating, though
like every other guide, he did hit us with the, “the best wine is the wine that
tastes good to you”. Hard to believe that’s true when the majority of the wine
I drink comes from a hexagonal cardboard box. Still, his anecdotes from across
the pond were Europeany and humorous, and when he quizzed us he usually
provided answers to choose from, resulting in some of the higher wine test
scores of the entire trip. For a sort-of virtual tour, follow along the photos
below:
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| Wine-bottling Robots |
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| If sexy ever leaves, this picture can bring it back...however... |
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| This one will obliterate it! |
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| In the warehouse |
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| Wine Vines |
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| Matt paying attention as best he can |
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| Inspecting the goods |
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| Cool house that's probably scary as hell at night |
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| Full view of the vineyards, winery and that night-creepy house |
That was exhausting! Must be time to eat again, right?
And so we continued on to V. Sattui Winery,
thrice-consecutive winner of “Best Winery in the Bay Area”, for a mid-day wine
tasting and lunch combo. The lunch part would prove important to fend off impending
drunkenness – no one in the family seemed particularly accustomed to drinking
multiple times before noon.
V. Sattui is ridiculously picturesque - the sort of winery
that a travelling group of hobbits might risk getting wasted at. Two large
buildings built out of stone and covered with festive ivy merge into one. Wine
tastings take place in the barrel room down below while the other side contains
an authentic Italian café. Rows of vineyards are situated on one side of the
lawn, while outdoor tables are scattered over plush vegetation around the rest
of the structure. Yeah, hobbits and Whantners would have fun at this place.
We headed down, down, down to the barrel rooms where we did
what most half-intoxicated adults would do: took goofy pictures. Mafia poses in
front of oversized barrels. Ballet leaping along across rows of stacked
barrels. Other silly things.
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| Totally hiding a dead body in the middle barrel |
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| Reverse-prom pic |
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| For the record, it was not yet noon when this was taken |
Exercising our libatious demons, we sidled up nine strong to
the bar and met a man who would become a minor trip celebrity: our bartender,
Jordan. Eyes like a foamy ocean tide lapping the shore; beard full scruffy but
not dirty; hair like a Kennedy. “What’s up, Bro?” he greeted us, or rather
David, who promptly put him in his place by calling him out on his bro-ness.
David, unlike myself, was not impressed.
If Jordan’s name was Brett, I’d make a lame Brett Favre joke
right now, paralleling his wine pouring skills to that of the famous
gunslinger. Dude seriously ran us through a ridiculous amount of wine in a
short time. Reds for everyone. Now whites for the ladies. He even poured Eric a
special bourbon, which he pretended (only guessing) to like.
His not-so-difficult talent was swirling multiple wine
glasses at once. Two, three and even four glasses aerating wine in
concentrically circles, all with a single hand. Bragging about how “it’s a Napa
thing”, one of the girls, I believe Jess, commented, “Well we’re from Kansas,
so we’re pretty good at buttering corn”. Right up there with Hidden Valley
Ranch.
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| David talking smack on Jordan |
As Jordan and I talked about our favorite shows (I say “our”
because if I still had cable, our DVR’s would have identical content) and he
told us about his probably-fake fiancée who worked upstairs, our goofiness hit
an all-time Whantner high. Buzzing the most we would all trip, we started
talking about joining wine clubs in Napa and, not improbably, buying our own
plot of land for Whantner Family Winery. Good lord, if there wasn’t a delicious
Italian deli upstairs to soak up some of the wine, we may have put in an offer
for the place.
For the second day in a row, we ate lunch outside, under
gorgeous sun, surrounded by beautiful people. As our blood sugar levels crept
back to normal, we surveyed the surroundings with a sense of foreign awe, as if
we were in a place only seen in movies. If you told us about this place the
week before, we’d challenge you to prove that it actually existed. For you Star
Trek fans, it’s Risa with none of the weirdness.
Panini’s, salad and cheese down partially digested, we waved
“adios” to V. Sattui – and Jordan, wherever he was, being awesome but probably
annoying David – then drove to a third consecutive winery, the fifth in just
two days (26 hours, really).
Clos Du Val (pronounced Robert Duval) looked like what would result if the Chicago Cubs’ ivy-covered outfield wall and the Boston Red Sox’s green monster mated and had a love child. Every square inch of non-window/door
was covered in a vibrant green leaves. It provided great contrast for some
outdoor family photos, but reflected the sun into our eyes to an almost
unbearable degree. I wanted to see if I could throw something at it and make it
stick (say…Matt’s hat), or at least attempt a Spiderman climb up the side. Common
sense won out, so Melody and I settled for another reverse-prom pose:
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| Continuing the reverse-prom theme |
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| Jess trying to coax a smile out of David |
We weren’t given a tour of the facility, which was fine by
us as we were relative experts in the wine producing and storage process by
now. We were, however, escorted through large ominous doors into a private
tasting room, where we sampled a variety of wines surrounded by 40+ foot (just
an estimate, probably not accurate) storage and mixing containers. At least I
think that’s what they were…we’re probably not the experts I claimed two short
sentences ago.
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| Melody having a grape time |
Conversation was slow at first, as we mentally adjusted to
drinking wine again. We hit an all-time Napa high at V. Sattui, but food plus
the lingering effects of travel and little sleep was leveling our moods. Still,
after a few tiny sips things livened up a bit.
Make no mistake, the collective change in demeanor had
nothing to do with the wine, but rather the beefy ex-UCLA football player who
took over as our server. I can’t remember his name, but it’s probably Tanner.
Since I’ve already described one dude in doe-eyed detail, I’m going to take a
different tact and introduce Tanner Stone (yeah, his last name’s gotta be Stone)
to the world as the women of the group would.
Linda, Jess, Melody and Bethany think that Tanner Stone has
hair as golden as the California sunset, facial features chiseled from a rare
but indestructible boulder only found in ancient Mayan cave systems, pecks that
you could serve dinner for a family of five on and a smile that geometry
classes use for proofing perfect angles. If he were trying to “make it” as an
actor, he’d be perfect for the role of “hot guy who nods at girl in the club,
while looking hot”. Even though they all were thinking it, only one of the
ladies mentioned that they’d like to pinch his teeming chest muscles. For now, I
will not rat her out publicly. For now.
So that was Clos Du Val. Or at least what I remember of it. I think someone ordered a $100 bottle of wine, so that also happened. But mostly the other stuff. The Tanner Stone stuff.
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| Saying adios to |
With five wineries under our belt in just 27 hours, it was
time to experience something new on this lightning trip: rest. Back to
Silverado for a few hours of relaxation. We had to prepare for the piece de
resistance of this amazing experience: Chef Michael Chiarello’s Bottega
restaurant.
Arguably the best Italian restaurant that wine country has
to offer, Bottega has won numerous awards for its culinary feats of Italian
magic, not to mention individual acclaim for Chiarello (food Emmys) and his wildly
successful cookbook, humbly titled Michael
Chiarello’s Bottega.
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| Napa Style, indeed! |
We were seated outside in an open yet covered area, which
allowed the cool breeze to energize our weary bodies. For the first time on the
trip some of us eschewed wine in favor of a cocktail – in my case a Moscow
Mule. This kick-started us a bit, as we eased into banter, summarizing the
trip, joking and casually laughing at the highlights.
Then something changed.
I’m not exactly sure when it happened, or how, but at some
point during that dinner it became apparent that, against all odds, it was the
women, not the men, who were social liabilities. You see, Bethany sometimes
gets what we refer to as “the giggles”, or better explained, she laughs so hard
she cries, can't speak and becomes non-responsive to outside help. Problem is,
Jess also gets the giggles. Put the two of them together, and it’s a fire-juggler in room full
of TNT. Dangerous.
And contagious as well, as at one point all four women –
Bethany, Jess, Melody and Linda – were laugh/crying so hard that none of them
could speak. Us guys didn’t even know what was so funny…we just kept looking
around, apologetically nodding at those who stared at our table in wonder. There
was nothing we could do or say to make the situation better, so we did just
that – nothing.
Then, a miracle happened. In a plotline not even believable
in a sappy-yet-kinda-but-not-really-funny romantic comedies, Bethany
was served her dinner, a large bowl of pasta. The server cradled a smaller bowl of some flaky substance
and rather aggressively, unexpectedly leaned over her plate and dumped its
contents out in their entirety. She left but as we began to dig in, something
odd began occurring on Bethany’s plate. First there was sound, then movement. Let me be clear,
HER FOOD WAS ALIVE!
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| Pasta with a mind of its own |
The flaky substance took on a life of its own as it snap,
crackle and popped (yes, just like the cereal, but way grosser), twisted and
contorted on top of her pasta. Bethany’s look of disbelief – utter horror, to
some – caused a chain reaction within the group. Nobody was eating, as it’s
impossible to eat while you’re pointing, laughing and making mad-scientist
proclamations about food coming back from the dead.
We were done for. We were officially that group of Midwesterners, dressed nicely,
but having an ebullient and rollicking good time in a fancy place, fish out of
water (misplaced wheat?). I can’t remember the last time I’ve had as much fun
at a dinner.
To end the evening, like a man struck twice by lightning,
our piece de resistance had its own piece de resistance when we were visited by
the man himself, celebrity chef Michael Chiarello. He greeted our table and we
all told him how great the food was. He had a personable yet dominating
presence that told us it was okay dish out compliments, but out of bounds to
ask why in the hell Bethany’s food was trying to escape her plate.
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| Eric preparing to ask Michael Chiarello for a side of Hidden Valley Ranch |
We didn’t want to leave, but practically everyone else in
the restaurant had. This may have been why Mi-Chi (I think it might stick)
came out to greet us, sounding the awards-show symphony to usher us on our way.
What better way to cap off such a wonderful trip, right?
We visited the same area the following morning for breakfast
before heading to the airport. Day three of wearing the seersucker suit still
felt right, as we sat outside sipping coffee and downing quiches. Time slowed
down a bit that morning, as we knew that ahead of us was a day that would be
mostly spent waiting in airports, with but a few hours of flying in between.
This trip was the culmination of a movement that has been
progressing the past seven or eight years. First step was all of the Whantners
turning 21 (for obvious reasons...booze). Then long courtships and marriages began to
occur, followed by the introduction of three lovely granddaughters.
Somewhere in all this, it just clicked: our family became
super-fun. Not that we didn’t enjoy ourselves previously, but this is
different. Whether we’re fully booked (as in Napa) or spending a lazy weekend
in Wichita, we all genuinely look forward to spending time together. We know that
a typical Whantner weekend will include laughing, crying (the good kind,
cry-laughing), recreational activities, some drinking, goofing around outdoors, a big-screen movie, kids terrorizing my dog, stories and the making of
new, next-generation memories. Just ask Bethany’s pasta and Hidden Valley Ranch.
This unity and closeness excites me and gives me hope for
the future – a future that already sees the younger Whantners adding to this
enjoyment, and will almost certainly culminate in one of them running the White House (though Dave and Jess might feel this is already occuring).
So if you’re looking to “do” Napa, I hope this step-by-step
guide proved helpful. If you have additional questions feel free to ask myself
or any Whantner, for that matter. Or just invite us along as a tour guide. I'll be ready once I pick up the seersucker from the dry cleaners.
