Marinated Lamb Chops
The Girl
It was December of 2001 and, despite having protested for years that I'd never live in California, I'd moved to Sacramento three months before. On this particular day, the Thursday evening after Christmas, I was driving around the town of Sonoma in a steady, chilly, drizzling rain looking for my B&B.
One of the nice things about the publishing business (I was a magazine editor at the time) is that it's no problem for a monthly magazine to just take a week off with minimal notice. I mean lock the doors and leave a message on the answering machine and everyone take a long holiday. Provided you still hit the two or three drop-dead dates for getting the current issue out the door this is relatively painless for a small company. So we'd given everyone the week between Christmas and New Years off and I decided to take my first trip to The Wine Country.
My problem at the moment was I couldn't find the B&B I had reservations at. I had a map I'd printed out from MapPoint but for the first (and so far, only) time MapPoint had led me astray. I tried calling but there was no answer. Finally I spotted a UPS truck and I accosted the driver as he got out to make a delivery. Luckily he knew where the place was and so, about 6:30 I pulled into a gravel driveway next to a rambling house that appeared to be some sort of strange hybrid of Queen Anne and Craftsman bungalow.
I got out, and dashed up the stairs to the front door. Locked. Coming back down I missed a step in the dark and fell, badly bruising my back and hip. I hobbled around back. There was a light over the back door but it, too, was locked. In desperation I limped over to what I'd thought was the garage and found a note on the door addressed to me along with a key to the house and my room. I dumped my bag in the room and sore, wet, and hungry went looking for supper.
Sonoma has a lovely town square -- in the daylight, with the sun shining. But on a wet Thursday night in that purgatory between holidays it's not particularly welcoming. More or less by default, I walked into a restaurant named The Girl and the Fig. Surprisingly, it was packed. It looked like my day was only going to get worse
There was a large woman in jeans and sweater working as hostess who told me there'd be about a 15 minute wait and asked if I wanted to wait at the bar. Apparently she'd sized up my frame of mind because she escorted me to the bar and told the bartender: "Take care of him." A few minutes later she came back and directed me to an empty bar stool. And I'd just ordered my second bourbon and water when she returned to take me to a table.
The waitress recommended the costelette (Italian marinated lamb chops). They were excellent and the wine she suggested was an equally excellent match. In fact, the service could not have been better -- attentive, competent, and ubobstrusive. When I got the bill, my first drink had been comped: the bartender had taken care of me.
I went back to the restaurant twice more during the two years I lived in California and also ate at the sister restaurant, The Girl and the Gaucho. It was always good. And the hostess who recognized someone in need of some TLC? She was The Girl.
Sidebar: I fixed Stephen's Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta, Garlic, and Basil to go with the costelettes -- except that basil didn't strike me as the right herb. So I used fresh tarragon instead. Very good!
It was December of 2001 and, despite having protested for years that I'd never live in California, I'd moved to Sacramento three months before. On this particular day, the Thursday evening after Christmas, I was driving around the town of Sonoma in a steady, chilly, drizzling rain looking for my B&B.
One of the nice things about the publishing business (I was a magazine editor at the time) is that it's no problem for a monthly magazine to just take a week off with minimal notice. I mean lock the doors and leave a message on the answering machine and everyone take a long holiday. Provided you still hit the two or three drop-dead dates for getting the current issue out the door this is relatively painless for a small company. So we'd given everyone the week between Christmas and New Years off and I decided to take my first trip to The Wine Country.
My problem at the moment was I couldn't find the B&B I had reservations at. I had a map I'd printed out from MapPoint but for the first (and so far, only) time MapPoint had led me astray. I tried calling but there was no answer. Finally I spotted a UPS truck and I accosted the driver as he got out to make a delivery. Luckily he knew where the place was and so, about 6:30 I pulled into a gravel driveway next to a rambling house that appeared to be some sort of strange hybrid of Queen Anne and Craftsman bungalow.
I got out, and dashed up the stairs to the front door. Locked. Coming back down I missed a step in the dark and fell, badly bruising my back and hip. I hobbled around back. There was a light over the back door but it, too, was locked. In desperation I limped over to what I'd thought was the garage and found a note on the door addressed to me along with a key to the house and my room. I dumped my bag in the room and sore, wet, and hungry went looking for supper.
Sonoma has a lovely town square -- in the daylight, with the sun shining. But on a wet Thursday night in that purgatory between holidays it's not particularly welcoming. More or less by default, I walked into a restaurant named The Girl and the Fig. Surprisingly, it was packed. It looked like my day was only going to get worse
There was a large woman in jeans and sweater working as hostess who told me there'd be about a 15 minute wait and asked if I wanted to wait at the bar. Apparently she'd sized up my frame of mind because she escorted me to the bar and told the bartender: "Take care of him." A few minutes later she came back and directed me to an empty bar stool. And I'd just ordered my second bourbon and water when she returned to take me to a table.
The waitress recommended the costelette (Italian marinated lamb chops). They were excellent and the wine she suggested was an equally excellent match. In fact, the service could not have been better -- attentive, competent, and ubobstrusive. When I got the bill, my first drink had been comped: the bartender had taken care of me.
CostelettesIt was somewhat cloudy for the rest of my visit, but I had a great time touring wineries and playing tourist.
4 ea lamb chops
1/2 c olive oil
1/3 c fresh lemon juice
1 clove garlic -- crushed
1 sprig rosemary -- bruised by rubbing between palms
1 pinch salt
Combine everything except lamb chops in a one gallon ziplock bag and allow floavors to meld for several hours. Add chops to bag and marinate for about 3 hours, turning over every now and then.
Grill chops on a charcoal grill to preference -- about 4 minutes per side for medium rare. Serves two.
I went back to the restaurant twice more during the two years I lived in California and also ate at the sister restaurant, The Girl and the Gaucho. It was always good. And the hostess who recognized someone in need of some TLC? She was The Girl.
Sidebar: I fixed Stephen's Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta, Garlic, and Basil to go with the costelettes -- except that basil didn't strike me as the right herb. So I used fresh tarragon instead. Very good!
3 Comments:
That sounds goo-oo-ood! And a great story too...I'm going to make this as soon as possible (which means after the holiday, in my case). Let's see how long we can keep this pingpong match going...
Nothing slow about me. I could not for the life of me figure out why your "latest post" (about lamb loaf) had any relevance whatsoever to my email to you regarding Sonoma. . . : )
LOL, I need to change the name of my bread-bakery-in-progress from Farmgirl Fare to something else due to potential lawsuit action (don't ask). And so far my first choice is The Girl & The Sheep. The only remotely similar name of anything I could think of was that little restaurant in Sonoma, The Girl & The Fig (which I believe she stole from some literary reference or other, but don't quote me on that).
Can't wait to hear how the beer rolls turned out.
Dang man, you were right. That did come out nice and probably tasted even better. I don't see any plastic farm animals though, what up? Heh.
Biggles
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