SELL MY CLOTHES, I'M GOING TO HEAVEN...

So I was lucky enough to enjoy another evening at the Ten Two in Meadow Valley last Monday evening. I gotta say, hands down my favorite place to have dinner in all of Plumas County. Sure there are some outstanding places to satisfy your taste bud’s needs but this is, somehow, a cut above the rest.

Part of it is the ambience… sitting creek side in the shade of the green bower, red checkered tablecloths and laughter all around. Part of it is the gals that run the place—Wendy, Lee, Sunny, Liz & Tara—whether they are waiting your table, pouring your drinks or grilling your choice of gustatory selections, they all carry a smile and a sense of humor that adds a feeling of hominess to your dining experience… what the hell, kick off your shoes and order another round. 

All this takes second fiddle the moment you sink your teeth into your meal.  A basket of fries and a beer or the nightly special, every bite is a medley of subtle flavors and a treat to your tongue.  Seafood seasoned and moist, meaty bits grilled to order (and perfection) along with the cutest, teeny taters and the usual accessories.

And seriously, try their Fish & Chips… 

WHERE’S WALDO or HEY! IS THAT JIMMY HOFFA OVER THERE?

What with Tama already in possession of the Subaru and working down south and my departure imminent on the event horizon, hard decisions had to be made.  There is no way that Waldo would be able to survive in the urban jungle madness that is Santa Cruz and, having grown tired of the all to common queries, I felt that Waldo had outlived his purpose.

So, in the time honored tradition of New Jersey and points west, Waldo was taken for a long ride out of town, dispatched with a single bullet to the back of the head from a small caliber handgun and buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.

Where’s Waldo?  He sleeps with the fishes…

HELLO, MY NAME IS CHRIS BOLTON

these are my top 40 pick of 247 people on facebook named Chris Bolton)

I am, in turns, a mannish boy in a cloche hat and an angry young black man.  I have an unnatural penchant for ill fitting polyester but I am quick to share a smile. I have the moves of a disco king in my meticulously quaffed blonde halo, stylish aviator glasses and a sexy, if slightly lopsided grin. Too, I am a sensible, if somewhat matronly, professional woman; a cheerful grey panther wearing my mother’s ruby locket and tending to my career and my cats.  I have learned to lean into the camera, one eyebrow slightly raised, a force to be reckoned with, a man you want to have in your corner and a fellow who can give you the best deal in town on your term insurance.  At times I am a lovely young brunette with a winsome smile and sparkling dark eyes.  Sadly, the love of my life is Doodles, a half-breed lap dog whom I cannot break of the habit of viciously nipping at my paramours while we are in the throes of passion.  I find myself to be a bubba-hump from Slidell, Louisiana, a cool if narrow good ol’ boy given to crawdad etouffe and accordion music.  Shades in place, I am more than ready to protect me and mine from home invasion by other aspects of myself.  Then, suave in a rented tuxedo and a cashmere scarf, I maintain a siding salesman’s moustache and know myself to truly be a heartbreaker and easy going seducer of young women.  In my youth I longed to appear bold and mysterious, a student of the arcane and a dabbler in dark arts.  As I mature I realize that, at best, I had managed no more than the look of another lost soul, lonely and loved by the wrong people.  Haunted by this notion I develop and appetite for mid-priced single malts which often manifests itself in sagging skin and a slight blurring of my countenance.  On my up days I like to show my whimsical side, donning an oversized afro wig or displaying a generous amount of eyeball white.  Other days, in my contentment, I am the mother and father of a loveable brood of offspring – six, and one on the way- happily ensconced in a rambling four bedroom with an overgrown lawn and only one bathroom.  My job at the bank is secure and my life is easy going and joyful.

IN THE CATEGORY OF IDEAS THAT DON'T MERIT A WHOLE STORY...

Tex of the Double Bar Doodle

Tex stretched his lanky four and half cubits straight out in front of the wood stove and tilted his 37.8 liter Stetson back on his head revealing a stygian coiffure and a mysterious crescent of keloid tissue high on his brow. He spat a thin drizzle of ort into the battered brass cuspidor and allowed a faint smile to appear fleetingly on his physiognomy.

or, if you don't like westerns...

The Great Motorcar Adventure

Biff pulled the open roadster around the last tight curve and saw the endless ribbon of highway before him like an unbending chalkline. It was still early, he had nowhere to be tomorrow, and he knew he had at least two firkins of gas in the tank.  He pressed down hard on the accelerator and soon had the gleaming red fireball screaming along at over 201,600 furlongs per fortnight. 

DINNER DEL MAR

Oh, the bounty of the ocean… Last night we hopped in the car and headed south for dinner and visits to the ever popular microbreweries.  With a stop or two we wound up in Monterey dining and drinking at the Cannery Row Brewing Co. in the middle of tourist central. Oh, and there was some major car show in town (auction, $100 to get in, Al Capone’s car up for bid, etc.)

The bar was crowded but we found a table, the service was good, the beer was excellent and dinner was fresh from the briny deep.  I ordered the Monterey Bay Fisherman’s Stew and feasted on fresh clams, mussels, shrimp, fishy bits, squid and scallops all simmered in a spicy broth with rice, veggies, tomatoes and saffron. Garlic bread and a local Belgian Ale and I slipped right into the happy fat boy zone.  Halfway back to Santa Cruz and we stopped off at a seaside Mexican place for flan & key lime pie and went to bed full and smiley.

This morning was Saturday which meant it was time for a Farmers’ Market research activity.  And a dandy one it is indeed, with the usual ten by ten pop-ups filled with everything from fresh cut flowers to shitaki mushrooms and fruits galore.  You know the drill; you been there yourself, no doubt.  But then… at the end of the food court area, just past the really good, fresh croissants, was a mother daughter outfit selling the yummiest, fresh seafood ceviché for only four bucks. They also offered fresh, shuck ‘em when you buy ‘em oysters on the half shell, but it was early in the morning and I couldn’t take my eyes or my tastebuds off the ceviché… Ah, life is good by the seashore, eh?

AN OLD GEEZER MUMBLES AND RAMBLES AND RECALLS…

So yes I am an old fart. A curmudgeonly geezer. Coulda been a grandpa by now, leading young minds astray. I’m also too old to drive all goddamn day heading continually deeper into the bowels of bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic. Therefore, before heading off in das auto to visit Tama, I booked myself into a Motel 6 in Pinole, California… plenty far enough for one day.

Only $44 dollars a night ‘cuz I got 10% off for being over 60… told ya I was old… hell, I can still remember staying at a Motel 6 when it earned it’s name by only costing 6 bucks a night. (Truman was president when I was born…).

Anyhow, checked in and, casting about for dinner, I noticed that right next door was another gem in my childhood crown… a genuine Sizzler Steakhouse! Hot diggity damn! Steak & Lobster for $18.99… you stand in line to order and the salad bar was typically boring but dinner was very good. Not the biggest lobster tail I’ve ever seen and that sure must have been a tiny cow… but both were cooked to the perfection I had requested and were top cuts. Baked potato with all the accessories and cold Coronas… I was happy with the meal and probably had all the calories I needed after a day doing nothing but sitting on my butt in the car. Inside and out it looked pretty much like I remember but I missed having one’s meat delivered (sizzling…) on a hot, aluminum platter nestled in a wooden serving tray. Oh well, close enough.

Shadow Brook: more lack of Santa Cruz sucking...

So now I have another place in Santa Cruz that really, really doesn’t suck. On the advice of Bug & Blinky from Southern Accent we went to dinner last night at a lovely place called Shadow Brook. Opened in 1947, the restaurant sits in the midst of about two acres of cliff side garden at the east end of Capitola Road and is one of those classic Greene & Greene/Eastlake style California architectural splendors that seldom exists anymore outside of books. You start out parking in an unassuming lot more or less across the road from the entrance which definitely belies what comes next. Immediately inside the gate you are standing on the top edge of a long and near vertical tropical garden. Steps and paths, steps and paths past waterfalls and koi ponds down to the entrance proper.

Okay, now to be truthful, we never made it into the dining room because, without reservations, it was simpler to eat in the bar. Again on the advice of Bug & Blinky we sat over by the big wood-fired pizza oven. Looking up to the left all you see is seemingly miles of dark, clear redwood. Beams, cross rafters, open bottomed queen trusses and tongue & groove layered like a Kyoto temple ceiling. Look to the right and you look past a solid glass roof at the verdant landscaping and the waterfall that pools and flows through the building in a gurgling stream.

Old style wait staff and menu, full bar and live lounge music by an aging surfer duo all add to the ambience and make you wish you had driven there in a ’55 Chevy Nomad wagon.

We will go back again and sample more of the menu but, at this point, I can definitely endorse the corn clam chowder, the wood-fire hot Italian sausage & fennel pizza, the crab tempura with puree of pickled ginger & wasabi and the loganberry pie with local ice cream…

Oh, and saving the best for last, when you wander out, liquored up and full, you can skip the long haul up the stairs and just catch the self-service vintage little incline cable car back up to the parking lot.

Other than people too numerous to mention now, here are a few things I will miss about Quincy...

So far, by far, the most difficult part of this moving business is remembering where we put the house keys we were given when we first moved in three years ago. I don't ever recall locking the doors and I have come to realize that that funny little cubbyhole above your car stereo is there just to have a place to toss your car keys when you go downtown for the evening... I suspect this will all change. Damn.