SanFran, "Uncle Buck" and Fort Bragg

San Francisco: lots of walking, bussing, eating and fending off aggressive, albeit theatrical, panhandlers. I’m a nice person, but I was ready to punch the next one who got in my face for money. Highlights: dinner at John’s Grill (first night in the city), the guy who held Brent up with that phone/penny trick, Haight-Ashbury, a confusing, after dark 25-block trudge through the Mission hood (we should have eaten some Latino food there but we never did find that club called “The Make Out Room” – of course, I didn’t write down the address), North Beach “disco” Italian w/ the Mob (both Italian & Russian) at the table behind us and last but not least, stumbling upon Vesuvio (the bar Kerouac & Ginsberg drank & schemed in) where we drank…. what else?.... Tuaca! Lola has wanted me to see this place for years. And there, magically, it appeared -- a nice bit of synchroni-city.



“Uncle Buck”: aka Matthew Nagan – entrepreneur, restauranteur and all around good times provocateur. We called en route to Sonoma, where chef Matthew owns & operates The Schellville Grill, hoping to dine there. The restaurant wasn’t open that night, but myriad wine bottles were opened anyway and our party didn’t end until well after midnight.

The A’s lost the game but that chicken quesadilla topped with fresh avocado slices and “special sauce” he cooked up afterwards was perfecto.

Uncle Buck was in rare form as usual with anecdotes and adages galore but Matt had to get up at 4am to rev up his awesome restaurant for the breakfast crowd. Of course, we ate there after enjoying a lot more sleep than he did before breakfast. The chipotle gravy kicked ass along with everything else. Uncle Buck, thanks again for getting us such a great deal on that chi-chi motel. Thanks so much for everything! Trust me, this guy really knows how to live and love. Can’t wait to hang out with him again.

Fort Bragg: not much to bragg about. This is the best white trash town -- from one bleary end to the other -- that I’ve been in since Hastings. But I have to say that it’s always easy to talk to people in places like this and I’m not sure why. I met one guy out from upstate NY there with eight other guys from his demolition company doing coastal clean up work. What?? That’s crazy. He sez there’s no work back home… I sez… Whaddyamean?... the East River ain’t dirty enough to keep youse busy?

Meet Kristy and Dylan, our bartenders at TW’s . Kristy grew up in Sacramento and on her only visit to grandma’s house in Brainerd at 10- years of age, she not only heard Paul Bunyon call out her name but also contracted Lyme’s disease and after returning to California spent months recovering in the hospital and then, in a wheelchair. Kristy's bored in Fort Bragg, she says, but it’s cooler than Sacramento. Dylan is, yes indeed, named after Bob Dylan and her father is a bona fide Bob Dylan freak. Her brother’s first name is Zimmerman. It’s true.


And, in towns like these, there are always gigantic plates of food for a good price, even if the food’s not good at all. All meals were served with a cocktail umbrella stuck into them… like this….









So tonight, we’re in Eureka after doing this….


and some of this….


and a little more of this….


…..AND tomorrow night after driving up even more of Hwy 1 and 101, we’ll be landing in Florence, Oregon at a place we rented called Cooley’s Cottage. It’s a family cabin we found on Craig’s list…. a pathway’s reach from the beach they said, and the town appears to sport great hi-fi to lo-country food – the Thai Restaurant bragging fresh seafood curries sounds awesome. Let’s hope it looks as good live as it does online. In either case, we can’t lose because our beloved Fatguy will be joining us for the weekend. Woo-hoo!