Roadhouse redux

Port Costa, March 10, 2013—

QUALIFICATION FOR CATEGORY "roadhouse": the cluster of motorcycles in the parking area at the end of the street.

Well, that, and the fact that the tiny town of Port Costa could in no way support a restaurant-bar like this on its own; it depends on out-of-towners for its clientele. But, first, you really have to want to go there; Port Costa hasn't been on the beaten track for a hundred years. And, secondly, I bet this place has plenty of regulars.

Perhaps the best part of the place, on the basis on one dinner hear with a couple of friends, is the bar: a delightful period atmosphere; plenty of energy; an interesting list of well made cocktails. I had the "roadhouse Martini": Plymouth gin, Dolin dry and semi-sweet white vermouths, orange bitters, and lemon oil — remarkably like the one I make for myself most Fridays and Saturdays, balanced and supple.

(Lindsey's "Martinez" was a trope on the original Martini, with Cocchi vermouth and maraschino in its gin, along with the bitters. Very good, she said.)

Dinner was, well, copious: the four of us ate family style, sharing everything: nice crisp deep-fried green beans in chile salt; bourbon-flavored chicken-liver paté with capers and sweet pickled peppers; an iceberg salad with lardons, chives, and blue cheese dressing.

Then the main course: a half chicken, buttermilk-battered and fried, with mashed potatoes and gravy; pork stew over creamy polenta with tomatillos, chile, lime, and sour cream; a nicely grilled rib-eye steak with porcini and trumpet mushrooms and pommes Anna.

Three desserts, too, for the four of us: pound cake with honey and whipped cream; banana cream pie; chocolate pot de crème with salt caramel and crème fraîche.

Everything organic, sustainable, and hormone-free, according to the menu; and deeply flavored. Also, every dish seemed to me expressive of the location, on the edge of Northern California history, mediating between the Gold Rush era and the happy culinary present. I'd go back.

Bandol, Domaine Tempier, 1989: absolutely perfect condition, fully mature, deep, rich, completely expressive of a great wine (thanks, John)

• Bull Valley Roadhouse, 14 Canyon Lake Drive, Port Costa, California; 510-787-1135

Prime rib

Eastside Road, March 9, 2013—

THE ROADHOUSE RAMBLERS are back in business, I'm happy to report. Lindsey and I and a couple of dear old friends, two comfortable couples, spending Saturday night following the rules: an old-fashioned place, preferably unchanged in fifty years, by the side of the road in the country or a small town, with beef and a Martini at the head of the menu.

The snapshot above will give you an idea. This dining room is essentially unchanged since 1945, though I suppose that shiny chrome espresso machine to the right of the upright piano is a fairly recent addition.

Dinner began with a bowl of good hot hearty soup and a small plate of antipasto whose heart wasn't really in it: three slices of salami for the four of us, a couple of juicy pickled peppers, a small bowl of beans and ceci, one strip of raw carrot, another of celery.

Next came a small bowl of torn lettuces and thinly sliced red onion. Most of us opted for the oil and vinegar in cruets on the table, and I must say the olive oil was pretty darn good.

But we were there for the Saturday special, prime rib of beef. My piece was enormous and, as you see, as rare as I like it. It came with a small cup of what's called awjuss, spelled au jus; and another of blistering horseradish cream. And, of course, a baked potato, which I took nature, no sour cream or butter or chives, just another splash of that nice olive oil and a shake or two of salt.

Dessert? What could be more appropriate to a retro meal like this than spumoni?

Pinot noir, Castle Rock (California), 2010

• Dinucci's Italian Restaurant, 14485 Valley Ford Road, Valley Ford, California; 707-876-3260.

Urban roadhouse

Eastside Road, October 13, 2012—

FOR A WHILE NOW — when did it start? A year ago? — we've had an irregular Roadhouse Survey going with a couple of old friends. And what constitutes a roadhouse, you may ask. Well, in general, it's in the country, by the side of a road that was an important through road in its day but has probably since given way to a parallel freeway.

It has a full bar that tends toward beer and bourbon, though vodka has begun to shoulder its way in as well. The menu runs to steak and chicken and overcooked pasts. In my opinion no true roadhouse is found in a town or city. In fact what distinguishes a hamlet or village from a town is the permitted presence — permitted by my definition; it's not a matter of organized licensing — of a roadhouse.

Our friends insisted that we had to experience an old standby they'd known of for years, though, even though it is within the city limits of perhaps the third largest city in the county, Petaluma, known in my boyhood as The Egg Capital of the World. And so there we went tonight, Saturday night in an urban roadhouse, and we had a good time.

Martini at the bar under the taxidermy: a careless Martini, no measuring involved unless the bartender was counting under her breath; and the Cinzano vermouth was the sweet white, not the dry; and it was barely shaken, and so not terribly cold. Oh well. Martinis are like baseball: a poor one is better than none at all.

After moving into the capacious dining room — there are two; the other is only slightly less capacious — we had "family style" dinners: tureens (well, serving bowls) of good house-made minestrone and clam chowder; a big bowl of mixed green salad; a platter of overcooked macaroni in a cream sauce heavily flavored with vinegar, I thought (or was this some kind of yoghurt sauce?)

Then I went on to lamb shank, a little dry but full of flavor, in a reduced sauce with plenty of garlic, with plenty of sautéed squash, pepper, and onion on the side as well as a nice creamy serving of white polenta, nicely seasoned. And dessert: Spumoni! This is not a gourmet destination; it's a roadhouse, in spite of being in the center of town. But it's comfortable and reassuring, and old-fashioned and picturesque as hell, and honest to a fault. I can imagine returning.

Primitivo, Layer Cake (Puglia), 2010: not bone dry, good fruit and varietal, generous.

• Volpi's Ristorante & Bar, 124 Washington Street, Petaluma;(707) 762-2371

Omar's

Gresham Street, Ashland, July 29, 2012—

LAST NIGHT OF OUR WEEK here in Ashland, where we stay every year with three other couples, as I mentioned yesterday. The Ashlanders, I call us. Four very different couples, with otherwise different enthusiasms and preoccupations, coming together for this purpose and, as an entire group, occasional dinners, maybe quarterly, back home in Sonoma county.

Tonight we ate at what can only be called a roadhouse, a kind of restaurant we like to patronize maybe once a month or so — we have a very informal monthly roadhouse schedule with one of the other couples, in fact. It's the kind of place for a Martini, a steak, and a salad, and that's exactly what I had. Okay green salad, with chick peas and croutons and a decent vinaigrette. Okay grilled top sirloin, buttered, with decent french fries and rather nice sautéed vegetables.

Chianti Classico, Rocca delle Macìe, 2009: characteristic, balanced

• Omar's, 1380 Siskiyou Blvd, Ashland; (541) 482-1281

Six of the eight Ashlanders, outside New Sammy's Cowboy Bistro: Marjorie, Rhoanne, Gaye, your blogger, John, Mac. Lindsey's holding the camera; Stefan's off in the bushes somewhere.