The Traveling Pooka

Auberge du Soleil, Artichoke Soup, and Beehive Cake in Wine Country

 A three-day long birthday celebration in Sonoma required a week of recuperation. Well, maybe longer, since the party was early in September, and it's now November. Most of the time, we enjoyed meals prepared by our hosts at their gorgeous home overlooking the Sonoma Valley in California. Sitting on the top of a small mountain, the home was an oasis of flowers, waterfalls, and gardens. 

 

But before the b'day bash, my friend and I, to rest up in anticipation of the grand celebration nestled in at Auberge du Soleil in Napa where the sunshine was gentle and glorious. We wallowed two blissful nights in a suite, also on a hill, since everything at Auberge sits on a hill, but it's a different kind of hill, the side of the hill.

I spent most of my days at Auberge brushing up on my Iyengar yoga in the Japanese pagoda, surrounded by the gardens. The view, a babbling brook, flowers, and one of the largest outdoor sculpture gardens in California kept me company. At Auberge, one is treated like the family most never had, with a gracious warmth and unobtrusive hospitality.When I arrived at the birthday party my "insider" hosts were most curious to know, being in the middle of the recession, "Is Auberge doing deals?" My answer was, "no." They didn't have to, bless their hearts.

We squeezed a few tastings in our trip. Among the more interesting was a stop at the Failla tasting room, just up the road from Auberge in Napa. A battered red mailbox marked the spot where a dusty road leads to a clapboard office, that was once a wine maker's home. The  “Gee Whiz” came when one of the other guests asked if the wine we were tasting was the famous one that former French Laundry Master Sommelier Paul Roberts recommended at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland last January. It was.

Later, in Sonoma, during one of the breaks from the birthday bash, comfort food came in the form of artichoke soup at Basque Boulangerie Cafe 707-935-7687 on the square. So few people dare to do artichoke soup outside of California, and it is such a shame. Is it just that no one thinks of it? A fluffy fun vanilla cream puff, powered sugar cake, a "beehive cake" provided just the right sweet touch to get us through the afternoon.

 

    Sometimes you are just so tired of the hustle and bustle, so sick of the words economic crises, you can't even think straight. That's when you REALLY need a plane ticket the heck out of Dodge and you might be willing to rent out the cat, sell the Jaguar, or throw your house keys in the gutter for all you care.
    That's about where I was recently when the Traveling Pooka flashed a ticket to the southern coast of Jamaica in front of me for a long weekend. OMG. It was better than any medicine and three times as nice as a vial of valium.
    We landed in Montego Bay, rented a car, and headed over the mountains for 3 hours to travel about 40 miles to Treasure Beach. It's a remote string of fishing villages with one fabulous refuge to stay called Jakes. There's great conversations, local patois, and a sense that you are someplace real rather than disneyesque. And, yes, it is gorgeous.

Peaches for Dinner: A Vail Treat

I've never considered a dinner of peaches until my friends and I went to the Vail Farmer's Market over Labor Day weekend and carried a basket of beautiful orbs back home. To celebrate the unofficial end of summer, I was invited by friends who own a wonderful house overlooking the golf course in East Vail. We were about to throw a steak on the grill when one of our group cut into the peach. Her eyes nearly burst out of her head, "Oh, my god," she exclaimed, as peach juice dribbled down her chin. Before long, everyone was digging in, assuming he would be more cool than the initial peach dribbler. But each of us collapsed in ecstasy as soon as the flavor burst into our mouths. The texture was perfect. The flavor was the best peach, the most intense flavor I have ever experienced. We continued to pour excellent red wine, cut another slice of cheese, and found our hands drenched with sticky peach juice. We ate until we could eat no more. It was one of the most memorable and refreshing dinners I have ever experienced.

The Perfect "Big Night" in Boston

Oh, oh, I found it! Or better said, it found me. The absolutely perfect romantic Italian restaurant in Boston. No gimmicks. No joke.

There I was in Boston, a foreign and fascinating city to a Southerner like me, attending a conference, when who - to my surprise - should be sitting in the lobby waiting for me, but The Traveling Pooka! It was a dreary early evening at the boring old Marriot Cambridge, even if the hotel's afternoon cranberry oatmeal cookies were a bright spot. (Side note: best thing about the hotel- a conference of MIT physicists arriving for a dinner dance, decked in their dancing shoes and escorting their lady loves.) True, everyone was perfectly nice at the hotel, even if Pooka couldn't have fit a big toe into the concierge-level postage stamp sized bedroom, but it was not a culinary mecca overall and it was about as charming as a potato peel.)

So, here one is wondering how one is going to entertain oneself when the most delightful personage in all of the world appears, waiting as if there were nothing in the world better to do than to wait, just for me In the lobby. Pooka, whom I haven't seen in weeks and weeks. Pooka, Dear Pooka! I was never so glad to see anyone! It was a Saturday night and I was becoming ever so lonely with whatever it was that we were required to do at a business conference where there was some degree of wit but very little art. And there he was. The Perfection of Pooka, because he knew just what to do in Boston on a Saturday night.

""I know exactly where we are going for dinner." he said. And I was absolutely STARVING! Where, Pooka, where? " I asked as we got into the car.

Before I knew it, we were twisting around narrow Boston streets in the North End a few blocks from Paul Revere's house to find a parking spot, then a brisk little walk in the crisp spring evening, past blooming fruit trees, and the purple petals of tulip trees dripping over sidewalks and draping a tiny cemetary in fauvist tones. Past the ice cream shop where later we shared a cream puff lobster, and up to a little door one easily might have passed by the unpretentious door 67 Prince St- if one hadn't been traveling with a pooka.

A tiny, 35 seat spot with brick walls and simple white tablecloths, Trattoria di Monica is a classy charmer. Sincere, and authentic, not fancy, not over the top prices, nor foo foo silliness, just absolutely delightful and delicious food, with a lovely wine list.

Casual in tone, the restaurant is blessed with perfect lighting! Just the right quality of softness to peer into some one's special eyes. Sensual and warm, Trattoria di Monica is the picture perfect the kind of place one dreams of finding in Boston and rarely does. I'd thought to myself a few days before I left for Boston, "You know, what I have always, always wanted to do and never have is go to a really wonderful Italian restaurant in the North End." And I thought no further, because I assumed there wouldn't be time and there woudn't be anybody who wanted to go, and so on and so on and I was so wrong.

"How do you know,Pooka?" I asked, "my every wish?"

"Isn't that what friends are for?" he answered with a smile and another sip of his Prosecco aperitif.

We observed the magic of a beautiful young couple, in the dance of romance, sitting against the brick wall, he looking for all the world like a Ralph Lauren model, she with wide checkbones and forehead, as if Russia were not too far removed from her whispers that were just for him tonight.

We ordered, Pooka and I. Tender fried artichokes, an olive oil drenched spinach salad laced with parmesan slivers and goat cheese, followed by homemade pastas. I chose a ravioli filled with butternut squash that radiated with sunbursts of flavor. Had there been room in the cozy dining room, I think I would have danced around the table every time I took a bite. If my body didn't, surely my heart did. And of all things, Pooka enjoyed "Spaghetti con Polpettine al sugo di pomodoro," or, reliable as rain, spaghetti and meatballs with fresh tomato sauce. it was all simply heavenly. Simply heavenly.

Savoring the last of our red wine, I remembered the hearfelt film Big Night, a story about two Italian brothers determined to bring "real" Italian food to an American neighborhood during the days when mediocre meatsauce and tough storebought macaroni masqueraded in place of the delicate cuisine we call Italian.  In the movie, the two immigrant brothers gambled everything but their integrity in a culture they didn't completely understand,.... and sadly, lost - after one BIG NIGHT of trying - in the marketplace.

Fortunately, in real life, Trattoir di Monica's two chef, brother owners Pat and Frank Mendozza, practice their art with intact integrity and a crowded following.

Traveling Pooka, you did it once again! A Bellisima Big Night! 
   

Pooka's Favorite Scottsdale Haunt: The Royal Palms

Especially now, when everyone is weary beyond reason with "winter," Pooka says it is a good time to stop off in Scottsdale. One of the best things about Phoenix, of the exotic name, is Scottsdale, which sounds so preppy and isn't. It is unusual, though, squat in the desert surrounded by segura cactus and dusty rust-colored rocks, except when a brilliant bouganvilla blossom erupts in fushia out of the ocre earth.

Recently, Pooka popped in to check out the Mondrian, which is hip, glamorous, and cool located at is is in the middle of the shopping area and arts. It is  sexy. Unfortunatley, Pooka wasn't in an Elton John mood. Pooka wasn't interested in the silettos, rhinstone, or big white sun glasses strut. If you're in the mood for such a romp and pomp, go for it. Nothing wrong with it, just more theatricality than sometimes one wants.

Besides, Pooka had a little favorite down the road. You see, with scads of excellent accomodations, fromt the Four Seasons, to the monumental Phoneician, to the trendy Hotel Valley Ho (a 1960's retro fit), it's not easy to pick a favorite - unless you are Pooka, who feels completely comfortable at the Royal Palms. This idealized hacianda fit perfectly with Pooka's need for R & R. With beautiful furnishings, frescoed walls, fireplaces, gardens, fountains, and restaurant T Cook's, where even the locals dine, Pooka couldn't have been happier sunning the winter palor away for a few days.

 

Hittin' On the Ritz in Dallas

Even on a Tuesday night in December, the New Dallas Ritz Carlton is a hopping with more sensuous sexuality than a rabbit's burrow. This means, the Beautiful People are out in droves to see, be seen, and ... find a date. No one is exactly sure the place looks like yet. You can hardly see it; because, well, there are just so many adorable people milling about.....We'll get our bearings before long, of course. In the meantime, the main view is the one in the bar, rather bars, which are nestled around Dean Fearing's new restaurant. There's the inside bar and then the outside area with fireplace and warmers for cold evenings.

Pooka had dinner at Dean's. And it was a good time. The restaurant is divided into several rooms with distinct personalities. Pooka sat at the Chef's Table one evening which is near the open area of the kitchen. Of course, Dean Fearing is about the most charming man. He can even charm Pooka with his warm personality, if anyone is capabable of charming Pooka. Whereever Dean is you're going to enjoy.

The food, well, it is not the best in town even though it's good and you'll have fun .

Also fun is the experience with the Unisex Bathroom. Not exactly what one expects at a Ritz when a daity little lady strolls off to powder her tinsy little nose and is met by a 295 pound six-foot one African American gentleman to help her with the facilities. Pooka was fascinated....All bathrooms are little rooms opening onto a hallway with sinks and lovely contemporary tiles, immaculate, and frosted glass doors, allowing you to see who is just outside. You just never know, do you, until you get out and about?   

Le Souffle

I like Paris. I like French Fries. I like Notre Dame. So does Pooka, who has a fondness for a little restaurant in Paris that is not the most foo foo, not the coolest, not the hippest. It's a pleasant place where the food tastes good. Moderately priced as Parisian jaunts go, it feels Parisian. It feels French with its blue, blue doors. Plus, they serve souffles galore... Pooka says, "Yes, it's been done, but then so has sex; and that hasn't stopped anybody."

Point taken.

Pooka also likes it, because it's the kind of place one goes when one's toes are cold, or one's neck is hot from sightseeing, where one can rest, calm down and relax with Parisian comfort food. It's calm. There's lots of other things besides the delicious souffles, chicken, fish, other dishes. It's just one little corner of the world Pooka enjoys. Le Souffle. 36 rue du Mont-Thabor Paris 75001, Tel. no. is 01 42 60 27 19 and you probably do need reservations.

The Traveling Pooka Returns

Pookas rarely stay in one place for long, so it was no suprise, when Pooka mysteriously disappeared some 20 years ago from his frequent guest appearances in my Dallas Morning News column, only to return tonight ready to roll once again with his pics and pans in the travel industry. He insisted I open this blog and start a venue. As always, the conversation with TP is enlightening and amusing.  TP always delivers perspective.

Although we expect to hear future accounts of his recent whereabouts, for now, Pooka's mum on that account. He is harrumphing though about the sorry state of travel these days, "Unless you are a genuine Traveling Pooka, where time and space are matters of little relevance, travel ain't what it used to be."

Sad, but true. It's not too much fun, packed into steerage and often treated with little kindness. TP notices, "Wealth helps." Indeed. But wealthy or not, most of us travel, so Pooka talks. Always voicing an opinion, TP states one of his favorite hotels in the world right now is the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, of all places. Elegantly Asian, TP says the service is superb. Gracious and restrained for a change. No pretense. No posturing. Not the same to be said for the W in Dallas, which he finds not even preposterous. "Preposterous would be a step up," says TP. "Look, they have some decent views, and that's saying something in Dallas, which is basically viewless."  That's about the big plus. On the other hand, TP's eyes roll at what he describes as "anti-service."

"I wouldn't call it a joke," he says. "Someone spent way too much money for it to be called a joke."

Mandarin Oriental Hong Kong - A Pooka Pick

W Dallas -  A Pooka Pan