Postcard from Pittsburgh

I traveled this weekend to Pittsburgh to see a baseball game.  I am a huge Dodgers fan, as indicated by my previous post about the happiest moment of my life.  Traveling with me was my girlfriend’s 11-year-old son, who is a huge Pirates fan.  (He is also a huge Yankee fan, thereby ensuring himself at least some happiness in life.) 

On Saturday, the first-place Dodgers played the last-place Pirates.  At stake for the Dodgers was a chance to clinch a spot in the playoffs for the third time in four years.  At stake for the Pirates?  Not much, actually, since earlier this year they set an all-time record for the most consecutive losing seasons.  (Seventeen, I believe, but who’s counting?)

We bought our tickets several months ago, so the fact that this was a game of any significance for either team was sheer luck.  But I am a big believer in luck — in signs and omens from the gods — and so I was feeling rather lucky when it appeared, about a week ago, as though the Dodgers might have a chance to clinch on Saturday.  When they lost to the Pirates on Friday — keeping their “magic number” at one — I was feeling positively flush with luck. 

After all, it’s hard to live on the East Coast and be a Dodgers fan.  They hardly ever play on TV around here and all of their home games start after 10:00 p.m. my time.  Could the stars possibly align to allow me to see them clinch in person?

As we drove to Pittsburgh it became clear that the only thing standing between me and my dream was Mother Nature.  It rained for most of the five-hour trip.  It was raining when we checked into our hotel and it was raining when we sat down to dinner at Atria’s (try the pot roast nachos), right outside of the absolutely gorgeous PNC Park.  It was raining when we first went up to the gate.

“We’re not letting anybody in right now,” the guy at the gate said.  “We’ll be making the call soon.”

Holy shit, I thought to myself, all the while smiling optimistically at my young companion.  They’re going to cancel the game.  We drove 300 miles to be here, my team can clinch a spot in the playoffs, I’m with an 11-year-old dressed in a Pirates jersey and a Steelers cap, and they’re going to CANCEL THE GAME.  What kind of omen would THAT be? 

A few minutes later, the gates opened and in we went.  Thank you, Jesus.  (Best billboard on the trip: “Jesus died for sinners.  That means you.”)

Our seats were ridiculously good.  We were five rows behind the Dodgers dugout — close enough to hear the players talking to each other.  It was still raining a bit — the usher had to wipe our seats off with a ShamWow — but it wasn’t awful and the game started at 7:05 p.m., right on schedule. 

Sitting directly behind us was actor Jake Gyllenhaal of ”Brokeback Mountain” fame, along with some other Hollywood types, including director Edward Zwick.  (I later learned that Gyllenhall is filming a movie in Pittsburgh with Anne Hathaway, who, sadly, was not in attendance.)

I am not a starfucker by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hard not to eavesdrop on some of the dialogue unfolding behind us.  At one point, one of the guys in Gyllenhall’s entourage noted that the Pirates have the least errors of any team in the National League but are still mired in last place.

“That’s just like life,” Gyllenhall replied.  “If you aren’t willing to make mistakes, you’re never going to get anywhere.” 

I can’t quit you, Jake!

Anyway, it was a fine game, with the Dodgers taking the early lead, the Pirates rallying in the seventh to pull ahead, and the Dodgers storming back in the eight to put it away and secure themselves a spot in the post-season.  We saw two home runs and an unbelievable diving catch.  My girlfriend’s son was on the Jumbotron twice and also caught a hot dog launched about 100 feet into the air by the Pirate Parrot.  (No foul balls came our way, but that was OK by me after watching a women behind the Pirates dugout get absolutely murdered by a line drive.  The usher held up a yellow card over her head, as though she had just tripped the midfielder or something.)

It started raining again shortly after we left the park and it poured the next day all the way home.  I must be living right.

Songs That Were Banned at My Wedding

Yes, my marriage ended in a puddle of goo, but, gosh darn it all, we had a lovely wedding and the music was good.  We hired a band called the Rhythm Dogs and they, of course, wanted to know which songs we wanted them to play.

“Let’s save some time,” I said, always ruthlessly efficient.  “Here are the songs we DON’T want you to play.”

And here they are for you now:

• “Shout,” The Isley Brothers – My knees are for shit, so it’s always been a challenge for me to “get a little bit softer now.”  Besides, it’s just stupid.
• “Celebration,” Kool and the Gang – This song is way too prescriptive.  If you have to tell people that “we’re gonna’ have a good time tonight,” you’re trying WAY too hard and you’re probably not going to have a very good time at all.
• “Mony Mony,” Billy Idol – I curse like a sailor, so there is no real thrill for me in chanting “get laid, get fucked,” especially in front of my grandmother.  Didn’t we work these sort of impulses out of our systems in high school, people?
• “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” Meatloaf – The first problem with this song is that it goes on for about 20 minutes. The second problem is that your drunk Uncle Irv is always going to grope a bridesmaid during the Phil Rizzuto part.  Really, there isn’t much else to do.
• “Old Time Rock and Roll,” Bob Seger – I have no problem with people busting out the air guitar on the dance floor.  However, there is no way on Earth to play the “air saxophone” without looking like an absolute ass.

The funny thing here is all the songs that AREN’T on this list.  The “Electric Slide” brings me great joy to this day, and I’m a big fan of the “Macarena.”  If I’m at a party and they play “Hot, Hot, Hot,” I will lead the conga line to the parking lot and back even if I’m sober, sober, sober. 

Hindsight being 20/20, I suppose my wedding should have been banned at my wedding, but what can you do?  Like I said, the music was good.

Postcard from Napa Valley

I spent several days last week in the heaven on earth that also goes by the name of Napa Valley.  My girlfriend and I rented a car in San Francisco – a convertible, of course – and headed North across the Golden Gate Bridge, still one of the most awe-inspiring man-made structures in the world. 

(Two quick Golden Gate Bridge stories.  First, my 80-year-old father told me once that the happiest moment in his life was when he was sailing back to the United States after serving for several years in the Korean War and spotted the Golden Gate Bridge.  “I knew I’d made it home,” he said, a rare display by my dad of… well, of actually speaking.  My dad makes Gary Cooper look like Jim Cramer.  Second, I once biked across the Golden Gate Bridge and nearly froze to death about halfway across.  It was 80 degrees on either side of the bridge – and about 40 degrees in the middle.)

Base camp for us in Napa was the Westin Verasa Napa, an absolutely beautiful property built, rather curiously, in the middle of an otherwise empty field.  I love Westin hotels.  Yes, they have the Heavenly Beds, which are, indeed, quite comfy.  But more than that, I love the Westin vibe, which is sleek and cool and contemporary – just like me.  (Stop laughing, goddamn you.)

After dropping off our luggage, we walked over to the Oxbow Market, where we sat down for an afternoon snack of – what else? – wine and cheese. 

Let me say right here that I am not a “wine guy” by any stretch of the imagination.  When given the choice, I will generally have beer, rather than wine, and when I do drink wine, it’s almost always wine purchased at Trader Joe’s for no more than $7.00 a bottle.  (We actually passed the Hacienda winery, which is one of our favorite Trader Joe’s labels.  It was reassuring to know that it is an actual winery in California, not five guys in a basement in New Jersey peeing into a bottle.)

Still, when in Rome you do as the Romans do and when you are in Napa you drink wine or you go home.  Or, as one local put it, “If you don’t like wine, this really isn’t the place for you.”

For dinner on our first night, we headed to Tra Vigne, which is on all of the “best of” lists and for good reason.  The food was ridiculously wonderful.  We started with some padron peppers, grilled then drizzled with a little bit of olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt.  One bite and I realized that I was in the presence of genius and that the rest of the night was going to shape up just fine.  For my main course, I took the advice of our waiter and ordered half portions of two pastas: a risotto with sausage and a pasta with lamb.  My girlfriend ordered a different kind of pasta with rabbit.  Should I ever find myself on death row, I will order one of these three dishes as my final meal.

We grabbed breakfast the next morning at the downtown Napa branch of the Model Bakery.  Excellent. 

Then it was time for some pampering at the Greenhaus Spa.  I had a deep-tissue massage and a pedicure.  My girlfriend was exfoliated and then basted with some sort of Chardonnay-based cream.  Smooth as silk.   

And then it was time to hit the road and get down to some serious drinking.  (I’m already a bit hazy on the order of the vineyards we visited.  It doesn’t really matter.)  Our first stop was the Cliff Lede vineyard.  (It’s pronounced “lady,” by the way, which will allow you to avoid making an idiot of yourself, as I did, by asking if Mr. “Luh-day” was still active in the winery.)  We sampled two tasting menus, one of sparkling wines, the other of “regular” wines.  All good.

From there, we went to lunch at another local favorite, Taylor’s Automatic Refresher, which is just downright fun to say out loud.  Go ahead, say it.   The line was about 40 deep, but worth the wait. 

In the afternoon, we visited Sterling Vineyards, which is distinguished by an aerial tram that takes you up, up, and away to where the winery is and to some absolutely stunning views of the valley.  At one of the tasting stations, we met a Sterling employee who chucked his career as a tax man in order to work at a vineyard.  “Is your life better now?” I asked.  “Oh, yeah!” he said, laughing.   Dumb question.

Our final stop of the day was Peju, which I think was the most beautiful winery we visited.  The grounds were absolutely gorgeous, as was the main building, which included a spectacular 50-foot tower.  Oh, and the wine was good, too.

Dinner that night was at Cole’s Chop House.  My girlfriend had the filet mignon and I had the rib eye.  Man, there’s nothing like a good steak every once in a while, and these steaks were VERY good.

The next day, we drove through Sonoma and up to Healdsburg, a sweet little town in the Russian River Valley.  We ate lunch at the Bear Republic Brewery, where we drank…beer.  It was excellent.

Having gone more than five minutes without a glass of wine, we dropped by the tasting room of La Crema Winery, where I ended up plunking down $90 for a bottle of Nine Barrel Pinot Noir.  (That’s a lot of Hacienda, baby.)  I couldn’t resist and the description on the web site explains why: “Each vintage, our winemaking team tastes through every barrel to find the nine barrels which best characterize the distinctive personality of the Russian River Valley for that particular vintage.”  Yes, I am special!  (And, no, you cannot come over for a glass!)

Our final meal was at La Toque, which recently moved to a beautiful new location right there at the Westin.  We decided to let it all hang out by ordering a three-course meal, complete with wine pairings for each course (and lovely descriptions of each wine by the sommelier).  I started with the foie gras (which I always confuse with pate because I’m just that stupid), then the halibut, and, last but certainly not least, the antelope.  Yes, I said antelope.  It was absolutely fabulous. 

On Sunday, we headed (sadly) to the airport, each with a box of three bottles of wine ready to carry on.  Precious cargo.  About halfway there, it occurred to me that if you can’t carry a 10-ounce bottle of shampoo onto an airplane, you probably can’t carry on three bottles of wine.  We decided to roll up the bottles in our clothing, pack them into our checked luggage, and pray to the Gods of Wine for mercy.  At the Newark Airport luggage carousel, our prayers were answered – and how many times can you say THAT?

The perfect end to a perfect few days in paradise.