Darkness was thick on the Mekong River delta that night, making it difficult to keep my bearings, but I was able to orient myself by the light of shell flashes to the West, near Saigon. The larger bursts were like cameraflashes, and my eye took pictures, etching onto my memory the sirensong beauty of the land we were about to quit in defeat. A hundred or so Vietnamese refugees crowded the open deck of our vessel as we made our way past the Vungtao peninsula and out to sea. They were exhausted and dispirited after the chaos and tumult of evacuation and the losses they had suffered. I was bitter and angry. As a military man, a U.S. Navy weapons specialist since 1971, I was bitter at our failure and the sudden haste of our withdrawal; at the blood, the treasure, the hopes and plans and all else we left behind. As an American I was in anguish over the ugliness we had visited upon a land and culture too beautiful for my powers of expression. It was the night of April 29, 1975, my last night in Vietnam, the last night of the war.
In my anger I cursed the enemy, and I even cursed the land. I cursed the war and defeat, and all the politicians and generals on either side. I swore I would never return. Though veterans often visit their old battlefields later in life, I vowed I would not. I would leave behind forever the land whose presence I had grown up with, and had come to both love and hate.
But while I might leave Vietnam, she would not leave me. For nearly two decades the Land of the Ascending Dragon has invaded my dreams. I awake from them with the stink of cordite in my nostrils and cries in my ears. A friend has told me that I sometimes walk in my sleep, uttering Vietnamese words that have long faded from my conscious memory. Walking almost any city in California, Vietnamese restaurants send their culinary songs wafting through the streets, never letting me forget. They awaken a thousand sensual memories of the urgent fragrances of chile and garlic, the New Orleans style charm and exuberance of Saigon streets bursting with color, of steam billowing from little noodle shops and of the taste of life being savored in defiance of an evil war.
My memory floods with visions of women in the ao dai, the Vietnamese dress of knee length split tunic and sheer trousers, worn with a limpet hat or a parasol to guard the lady's tea and cream complexion. There was never a garment designed to better flatter the female form while still covering the woman from neck to toes. The ao dai makes a woman at once as modest as a nun and yet winkingly provocative; to me the very metaphor of the land that has held a grip on my imagination since I was in seventh grade.
In that dizzying rush of events in 1975 there had been no time to give a proper ending to the long relationship between America and Vietnam, and between Vietnam and me. For me it began when I was 13. My Dad was on his first tour there. I watched for glimpses of him or his unit on the news every night. I told my mother that I wanted to serve in Nam, too, when I came of age. "Don't be silly," she said. "Wars don't last that long."
But it lasted so long it became almost an institution, a fact of daily life. The looming presence, and my subsequent experience, of Vietnam became a part of my psyche, like a tempestuous and demanding lover. And the severance was so quick, the parting so sudden. There was no time to say good-bye. After a long and frenzied night I awoke and she was gone. No chance to say "I'm sorry," or "I'll miss you. It was good while it lasted; it was Hell while it lasted. I love you and I hate you." I left behind a great, unfinished business. And I left behind a part of me.
The writer Maxine Hong Kingston has said that Homer causes Odysseus to wander for twenty years because that is how long it takes to bring a warrior home, fully and completely. That is how long the human mind and spirit need to come to grips with something as large as war. Little wonder then that it was not till recently I felt the stirrings to return to Vietnam, to somehow finish the unfinished. And to stop the dreams. For as long as I walk Vietnam in bad dreams, I am not yet fully and completely home.
I chose Tet, that span on the Vietnamese calendar where over a period of days the old year blends into the new, as the time to bring my odyssey to a close.
"Well if it looks just like chicken, and it tastes just like chicken, why don't they just give me the Goddamn chicken?"
–Bobcat Goldwait, In Performance
Raptly I looked through the window of the trés elegant restaurant on the Rue St. Germain in Paris. Smartly dressed and perfectly coiffed ladies of fashion sat with pinstriped men who drank Champagne from Baccarat crystal and smoked big fat cigars (they still smoke in Parisian restaurants). They ate snails and Steak Tartare, and eyed each other hungrily. The tables were set with Service al a' Russe. "I ain't afraid of you," I thought. "I know the drill now. I can do this as well as any of you high-toned airheads. The Sultan's birthday is history!" Turning to my lady companion I said, "C'mon. Let's eat," and led her inside.
I put on no airs. I spoke to no one down my nose. (My nose was too busy appreciating the smells emanating from the kitchen.) Having acquired it the day before, I already knew the menu, and had studied it well. I ordered with casual confidence for the two of us. So far, the waiter seemed to have recognized a kindred spirit in me, and was even willing to speak English, a thing almost unheard of among French waiters, though almost all of them know how to speak English. Then came the wine list. It was not the one I had seen the day before! I recognized nothing on it. The Sommelier was off somewhere. I faked it. I ordered three different wines and I hit the jackpot. A buzz went through the restaurant that, according to my lady companion, who spoke a little of the lingo, the American gentleman at table #3 really knew his onions. To this day I don't know what I ordered, but it was good. And the chef came out to congratulate me! He was very gratified that he was attracting patrons of such careful taste. Some days, if you've prepared yourself, you just can't lose.
TIPS
–Before you go, get good, up-to-date advice about the restaurants on your route. A restaurant guidebook is handy, but they can be very out of date as the restaurant business is "fluid." Get the latest edition.
–Study the local cuisine before your journey so that you can discuss your dinner intelligently when ordering. Waiters appreciate the serious diner, and will take pains to see you well served.
–Just in town and don't know where to go for a really fine dinner? Ask the hotel desk, or even a taxi driver, "Where would you go if you wanted to propose marriage?"
–Make reservations, even if only an hour ahead. If you don't speak the language, your hotel can do it for you.
–Be punctual. A busy establishment can only hold a table for 15 - 30 minutes. If you're going to be late, or not show, call.
–If possible, get the menu in advance and study it.
–On the menu, disregard anything you can get elsewhere or from a can: caviar, paté, steak or roast beef, ice cream (unless they make their own). What remains are the classics and the restaurant's signature dishes. These are why you're here.
–Be aware that nowadays most Hor d'oeuvres either come from a can, or are scaled down versions of entrees without accordingly scaled down prices. They won't show the kitchen's talent, but they will improve its profit margin. Soup will often be a better gauge of culinary character, and cost less.
–Remember that "today's special" may in fact be today's "hard-sell" item. They gotta move it or lose it.
–Truly great wines should be paired with very simple foods, otherwise they distract from each other. Avoid their only-the-sultan-of-Brunei-can-afford-them prices in restaurants. Buy them at a wine shop (or a discount store if you can) and enjoy them in your hotel with cheese, or oysters, or Steak Tartare.
If there is a beating heart of the city it is the area around Union Square. If there is a locus, a loadstone that draws all attention, find it here. Other zones, outlying neighborhoods, ethnic enclaves may feel unique and self-contained, shunning intercourse with other parts. But all of San Francisco owns Union Square and considers it the communal front yard. And so it should be. This is San Francisco’s happy face, its most public face, its most glamorous, exuberant and kissable face. It’s open to all. Whether your budget is measured in dimes or dollars, you’ll find succor: lodgings, provender and amusements, and all of it of good quality and priced to fit your purse. The city’s grandest hotels and restaurants are here, as well as its best hostels and hof braus. Entertainment ranges from street theater to the lyric stage. Enough art galleries open to the streets that you’ll not want for museums. You can shop for diamonds or just a pair of jeans. If you have only a couple of days for SF, you can spend them here alone and they will have been spent wisely. The blocks surrounding Union Square comprise San Francisco’s prestigious shopping and theater districts. Macy’s, the old stalwart American department store, still presides over the square, as do relative newcomers Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman-Marcus, Disney, Levi’s, and Nike. The theaters on and around Geary St, and the restaurants everywhere, draw people from all over the bay Area. The hubbub typical of a thriving city center defines Union Square.
Like the interlocking fingers of a pair of hands folded in prayer, the Tenderloin district insinuates itself into neighboring Union Square. Or is Union Square trying to muscle in on the Tenderloin? The question is a good one, but grist for another mill. The tenderloin is SF’s land of hope and despair. It’s the gritty, grotty low rent zone that draws beggars and thieves, down and out rummies, a lesser breed of prostitute and end-of-the-liners living out their days in squalid residential hotels. It’s a place that hosts musical events of highest importance. Struggling musicians and other artists truly struggle. Impoverished but ambitious immigrants get their start here by opening small businesses and fine little restaurants, and once established, get the hell outta Dodge. It is a place that is always becoming, and yet always dying. It is dive bars that are truly dives, serving a cup of sorrow along with the gin; colorful playgrounds for local children, all secured by chain link fences and heavy locks; houses of worship where people truly pray in earnest; industrious shop keepers and the shell-shocked survivors of life’s vicissitudes; blue collar people just holding on, and people who just love being there. It is SF Noir at its best.
Grand Cafe - French bistro elegance; Map p280
501 Geary St; 415-292-0101 h 11:30am-2:30pm daily, 5:30pm-10pm Sun-Thurs, 5:30pm-11pm Fri-Sat; lunch $8.50-18, appetizer $7-14, entrée $14-25, dessert $6; Powell St BART
Want to wear your tux, or that little black dress you just bought at Nordstrom’s? When you want to look fab for dinner, this is one of the best places in town. This former hotel ballroom with it decorative pillars and massive chandeliers will match your elegance. It really is Grand. Despite the grandure, the food is user friendly, relying on grilled and roasted meats, seasonal vegetables and fish and rich, dense, buttery mashed potatoes that are good enough for dessert. For a snack before the theater, the cocktail lounge has a fine raw bar.
RUSSIAN RIVER VALLEY
If Napa is urbane, and Sonoma pastoral, then the Russian River is the frontier. Here you may drive for long miles without seeing any real estate development. Just river, road and redwoods. And of course the vineyards. The wine road extends from just north of Healdsburg south and west to Guerneville and Sebastopol, and east of Healdsburg through the Alexander Valley, which will eventually deliver you to the Napa Valley.
Healdsburg, the hub of all this, is an emerging center of wine, arts and culture. It’s the new kid on the block. Long an agricultural support town, it is now attracting winemakers, artists, writers, musicians, chefs and others who have had it with Napa’s undeniably high prices and what they see as Sonoma’s overdevelopment. Healdsburg rocks! And Napa and Sonoma don’t seem to know it yet. Shhhhh
Guerneville has an active bar scene and gay community, and there’s no shortage of places to indulge in either. From riverfront microbreweries to Irish pubs, there are plenty of places to soak up the sun, play a game of volleyball, listen to world-class jazz musicians, or enjoy an outdoor barbecue while you’re busy getting comfortably numb. Sebastopol and Forestville are lovely stops along the way.
HAND FAN MUSEUM
The only museum in the nation dedicated solely to the art and artistry of the hand fan. Beautiful hand made, painted and decorated hand fans cover the walls in this little nook at the side of the Hotel Healdsburg. The docent and curator have fascinating fan tales to tell.
707-431-2500; www.handfanmuseum.com; 327A Healdsburg Avenue
STROKE!
The Russian River is within walking distance of the Healdsburg plaza, so why not have a stroke fest with your favorite kind of paddle? Canoes and kayaks are available from Trowbridge Canoe & Kayak. Rent the chosen vessel on your own or let them craft a trip for you. $55-day gets you all the upper body exercise you could desire.
800-640-1386; 13840 Old Redwood Hwy, Healdsburg
FARMERS MARKET
This is a fun, frolicsome and festive farmers market. There are often free concerts, an annual birthday party for the market, chile cookoffs and other events. Check the Chamber of Commerce for a calendar.
Saturday Market is located at North &Vine streets in the city parking lot, 9 to noon, May 4 through November 23.
Tuesday Market is located on Matheson St. on the town plaza, 4 to 6:30 p.m., June 4 through October 22.
CAMELIA INN
Over 50 varieties of camellias cloak the ground around this 1869 Italianate Victorian. The common rooms are richly decorated and invite lingering, conversing and sipping a little wine. The cozy lodgings are equipped with fireplaces and two person whirlpool tubs that invite even more and better lingering. The Camelia is blessed with a palpable feeling of community among the guests and staff. You’ll feel this especially if you’re there for one of the frequent in-house musical performances by Irish folk bands or country fiddlers.
800-433-8182; 211 North St, Healdsburg; $109-229; www.cameliainn.com
BISTRO RALPH
Take a seat facing south so you can watch the fountain playing in the plaza. Sinatra is crooning in the background, martinis are shaking, and the anise scented focaccia goes perfectly with them. The red brick walls and the patterned tin ceiling are sleek and stylish, yet don’t scream for your attention. The menu is always in flux, and will change with season and whim. But chef Guy Maas will always offer a comforting pasta such as potato truffle ravioli. He’ll look to Mexico or even Szechwan to spice up an appetizer like calamari. Main courses always include hearty and aromatic braises and roasts such as oxtail, rabbit, liberty duck and pork loin.
707-433-1380;109 Plaza Street, Healsdburg; mains $16-23
PSSST
Lengthy menu and you can’t decide? Many chefs are happy to put together a “tasting menu” featuring small portions of several selections. Sometimes it’s even posted on the menu. If not, just ask. Cost is usually equal to one of the high end main courses.
MILL CREEK WINERY
Part of the charm of this place is the drive between twin rows of Japanese flowering plum trees, with their leaves the color of wine. Just seems to get your juices flowing. The wood burning stove in the tasting room makes this especially good in Winter, and the two picnic areas looking upon the water wheel make it great in Summer. Chardonnay and gewurtztraminer are king and queen here.
707-431-2121; 1401 West Side Rd, Healdsburg; open daily 10am-5pm; www.mcvonline.com
RIO NIDO POOL BAR & CAFÉ
A charming dive with Monday night dinners of comfort food. But best known for the annual Tour de Bar. For a reasonable fee they’ll give you a t-shirt, stuff you into a bus with about 50 other soaks and take you on a tour of all the lesser watering holes in the region. A buffet brunch and snacks are included, but many don’t keep it for long. Cheers!
14540 Canyon 2 Rd, just off River Rd, Rio Nido
THE SPA IN HOTEL HEALDSBURG
Treat yourself to a hot stone or Thai massage, or indulge in one of the edibly-delicious sounding skin treatments (lemon chiffon manicure, wine and honey body wrap, chamomile tea facial) at this state-of-the-art, zen-elegant spa. If you prefer your treatments a deux, luxuriate in a twin treatment in the couples suite, then sink into the ergonomically-designed tub-for-two. This place is what all spas should be; $45-210
707-433-4747; 327 Healdsburg Ave.; open daily 8an-9pm.
As the story goes, it was in 1862 that the famous “Proffessor” Jerry Thomas concocted the first Martini. He was the head bartender at San Francisco’s Occidental Hotel on Montgomery Street where he daily attended to the needs of his “patients.” A traveler whose name is lost to history entered the bar and told the Proffessor that he was proceeding to the nearby town of Martinez and that he need fortitude for the journey. Seizing the moment, the good Prof put together a mixture of gin, vermouth and some other bits and bobs and proclaimed the drink the “Martinez Cocktail.” The recipe for this potion later appeared in Jerry’s best selling book, The Bon Vivant’s Companion, or How to Mix Drinks. Other well known creations by Thomas also are included in the book, such as the Tom & Jerry and the flaming Blue Blazer.
All real San Franciscans know the infallible truth of this matter of the Martini’s origin, though there are liars and boasters elsewhere who say otherwise. There are Brits who patriotically claim that the drink is named for the Martini & Henry rifle employed by Her Majesty’s army in the late 19th Century. Though they cannot say when or where the drink appeared, only that it has a kick comparable to the rifle. And there is an obdurate clutch of pitiful old soaks in that nearby town of Martinez who hold it as an article of faith that their little spot on the map is the true site of the Nativity. But when duelling pistols are produced they are wont to retreat.
Despite differences over origin, we can all agree that the estimable Martini began as a quite different drink than what we are used to nowadays. Thomas’ recipe calls for a gin known as Old Tom, a sweetened London gin. It also calls for vermouth to equal about one third of the volume. By the 1890s, however, it had got much drier with the Old Tom being replaced with a dry gin, but it was still one third vermouth and would remain so for decades.
By the mid 20th Century Martini aficianados were demanding drier and yet drier drinks. (The same held true for wines as well as cocktails.) By the end of WWII the standard Martini was being mixed at about 10 to 1, gin to vermouth. Those who desired a very dry Martini took it at 15 to 1 and would ask for a “Monty.” This was a sly dig at the British Field Marshall, Bernard Montgomery of WWII fame. He was known for being cautious, and his detractors said of him that he would never attack the enemy until he outnumbered him 15 to 1.
By the 1960s the Martini had become little more than a chilled glass of gin with a mere insinuation of French vermouth, usually Noilly Pratt. The decade also saw the advent of atomizers with which to spray the glass with a gossamer mist of the French stuff. Some mixologists took to the “rinse,” wherein they poured a bit of vermouth into the glass, swirled it around and poured it out. Those with a greater sense of the theatrical merely bowed towards France in homage of the vermouth, then slugged in the gin.
Then came vodka. And James Bond. Gin is little more than vodka that has been flavoured with juniper berries and anywhere from 6 to 18 other “botanicals.” Vermouth starts as an unremarkable white wine that is flavoured with wormwood and many other botanicals. So many competing herbacious tastes and aromas can get to be a bit much for the modern palate. Enter 007. He softened the mix with a splash of the neutral taste of a finely distilled vodka. The idea caught on, the vodka increased, and it wasn’t long before the gin had been entirely displaced for many drinkers. The vodka Martini has actually gained recognition, even in San Francisco.
The garnish for the Martini is an item of much dispute. Patricians claim that only a Spanish olive is acceptable. Iconoclasts demand a rasher of lemon peel, twisted over the drink to express its oil onto the surface of the liquid, then rubbed on the rim of the glass. (Jerry Thomas’ original recipe called for a slice of lemon fruit dropped into the drink.) If using the olive, adding a splash of olive brine produces what is known as a “Dirty Martini.” FDR was said to favour this. Granishing with a small pickled onion renders the drink entirely anew and it is then called a Gibson.
Nowhere more than San Francisco is the the Martini considered a Protected Species. Even the most untutored barkeep in the most degraded dive in the Tenderloin district can render a proper Martini when called upon to summon his powers, limited though they be. There are NorCal folk who will drink but one Martini a year, yet demand perfection once every 365 days. It just goes with the territory. But then there is LA.
When you journey to La-La Land you will find the landscape loony by SF standards. You may have a Martini in LA, Hollywood, Brentwood, Beverly Hills. Every bar and disco will offer them. Indeed, your server will produce the house’s “Martini Menu.” This is usually a list of drinks (some very appetizing) that will incorporate no gin and no vermouth. They may use chocolate, coffee or green tea. The alcohol may be Mexican mescal, Polish vodka, or even Japanese sake. It might be served in a Martini glass or in a tumbler or a beer glass, on the rocks or no. It may have a pair of staws in it, or a paper umbrella. It might be finished with a dollop of sparkling wine! In Los Angeles, you see, a Martini is anything the bartender calls a Martini. If you want the real thing in Hollywood, well, it is Hollywood, where some will say there is no such thing as a real thing.
So when you go to the California bar and order a Martini how should you do so? If you want the genuine artcle, instruct the barkeep thus: Bombay or Boodles gin poured generously over ice in a cocktail shaker. It should not be too dry. Give it a good splash of vermouth. Maybe half an ounce. Make a cocktail, not a straight shot. Keep in mind that the opposite of dry is not wet, but sweet. Most barmen these days do not know this. Here is your opportunity to perform a public service and educate them. Now shake it into submission. Shake it till it cries for mercy. Shake it so that the botanicals will volitalize and so reveal themselves to your senses while still remaining glacially cold. Shake it so that when you pour it into a chilled glass a patina of ice crystals floats upon the surface. Now garnish. Now taste. Mmmm. Perfection.
Framing this colorful square are the main shopping streets (Stockton Street, Powell Street, Geary Boulevard, and Post Street) and the city’s densest concentration of major department stores, tony boutiques, restaurants and cafés, big hotels, and corner flower stands.
Moving clockwise from the Saint Francis Hotel on Powell Street, you’ll find the following: Disney Store (400 Post Street at Powell Street; (415) 391-6866), Borders Books and Music (400 Post Street; (415) 399-1633), Saks Fifth Avenue (384 Post Street; (415) 986-4300), Tiffany (350 Post Street at Union Square; (415) 781-7000), and Neiman Marcus (150 Stockton Street at Geary Boulevard; (415) 362-3900), which each year sends the city’s most spectacular Christmas tree soaring to the top of its stained-glass dome. Who says New York’s windows are the only ones to see? A megalithic Macy’s (170 O’Farrell Street at Stockton Street; (415) 397-3333), which took over the building vacated by the sadly folded San Francisco institution I. Magnin & Co., recently underwent a handsome renovation. Sprawling over three city blocks, it includes a new Wolfgang Puck Express, where you can nosh on made-to-order pastas, salads, entrées, and sushi; Boudin’s Bakery, where you can get clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl; and fresh-squeezed smoothies and soups at Jamba Juice. The