Easy Living - St. Helena

After burgers on the lawn at Taylor's Refresher we walked across town for a nightcap. It felt like a luxury, walking from dinner to the bar, although the same is easily accomplished in almost every neighborhood in San Francisco. Maybe it was leaving our table in a grove of oaks as 4 year-olds chased balloons, walking quiet sidewalks along quiet streets, feeling the air cool as twilight turned to dark. Yep, Napa is pretty polished and that turns some people off, but on a warm, early summer night it feels like America, 1958.

Our local friend leads us into Market. It's text book St. Helena: exposed stone wall interior; dark wood back bar; anonymous jazz on the hi-fi. And the service is good. Our bartender is trying to clean up and close but he's patient. I had a glass of Blanton's. More heat than the Black Maple Hill I've been drinking lately but still delicious.

The bartender recommends it, saying, "It's my favorite." Hmmm. If a customer, after the first sip, approves of the drink, it's appropriate to say, "Yeah, it's my favorite." But I never know what to make of that line as an opener. Will I offend him if I choose something else? What if I follow his lead and then hate his favorite? What if his favorite is coincidentally the most expensive pour in the house? Is it then his favorite because of taste or because of the increased ring?

He compounds my confusion by listing his unsolicited, personal, tasting notes ending with "charcoal." Now he's in my head. As I take my first sip instead of thinking of the girl to my left, or the ride through the vineyards of Pope Valley, I'm thinking "charcoal." And it's there, sort of. (I'm always put off by charcoal when discussing bourbon. One of the distillers at Wild Turkey in Lawrenceburg spoke to me of Jack Daniels' charcoal filtering with outright disdain bordering on anger. I know Kentucky bourbon picks up some charcoal during barreling, but still...) My friend JA who drinks better wine with Chinese takeout than most people drink at their weddings -not an overstatement- refuses to engage in the Crayola jumbo pack of tasting drivel: neither burnt sepia for him, nor black currants. He's the Greek count in The Sun Also Rises. And I've come to learn that as much fun as talking is, sometimes it's more fun to savor.

But I'm being too critical of our bartender. He kept a spotless counter and graciously offered us last call at ten past ten. We declined and went home to bed. Country living.