Uta and I spent the afternoon at a friend’s private vineyard over the hill and to the east of our place in Berkeley. The sun was shining, row upon row of vines held clusters of purple grapes, you might get a whiff of rosemary from the breeze, and my senses told me I was in Burgundy or Provence.
Mind you, three or four years ago, this was a typical Northern California hillside, a tinderbox of brown, dry grass. These bountiful vines weren’t grown from seed.
The tastes, the ambiance, the conversations, wow, it doesn’t get much better than this. Eat your heart out.
California is a chameleon. France is cool. Get me one of those.
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