Entries about cia

Flannel sheets, cashmere socks, crackling fires.

Turtlenecks, tights, chunky scarves.

Toasted marshmallows, hot cider, caramel apples.

Pumpkin patches, piles of leaves.

Cozy. Crisp. Colorful.

I love fall.

And it's hard to think of a better way to spend a fall weekend than being holed up together in a cozy little cottage deep in the woods.

Well, unless that weekend includes lots of food and wine. Which, you know, my weekends sometimes do.

We decided to return to New York's Hudson Valley, which has been named one of National Geographic Traveler's Top 20 Must-See Places on its "Best of the World" list for its scenic beauty, artsy vibe, and trendy, transplanted-from-NYC restaurant scene. Yes, you might still see folks in flannel and overalls here, but don't panic: They're just hipsters from Brooklyn who've moved to Hudson to make artisanal goat cheese and small-batch pickles.

Our autumnal adventure began, as it did the last time around, at the Culinary Institute of America, which is home to one of this country's best cooking schools, along with several student-run restaurants.

The most elegant of these is Bocuse, a $3 million classroom where students recreate the quality and ambiance of a Michelin-starred French restaurant, at half the price with twice the nice.

The restaurant is named after the French gastronomic giant Paul Bocuse, who has held trois étoiles, the highest accolade from the Michelin Guide, continuously since 1965, and in 2011 was honored as “the chef of the century.”

I was barely inside the front door, and already I knew I was going to like this place.

We were seated at a comfortable banquette with a view of the spacious, bustling kitchen, which is always fun for us, since our own kitchen in the city has exactly enough room for one stove, one refrigerator, and one fork that we are forced to share.

While we waited for our drinks -- a glass of Pinot Noir for Angel, and a classic Hemingway daiquiri with bitter orange for me -- we played around with the electronic wine list and cheeky cards left on the table for our amusement.

Or our embarrassment, as the case may be.

I started with a classic 1975 recipe from Paul Bocuse himself, a decadent black truffle soup topped with a mound of puff pastry so buttery that it literally melted into the soup when I poked it with my spoon.

It is of course impossible to top a soup made from the world's most expensive mushrooms and pot-pie crust, but the Arctic char with garlic scapes and shishito-pepper vinaigrette was a good runner-up.

Angel decided to try the butter-poached lobster with sweet corn puree and chorizo broth, followed by the olive-oil poached halibut with zucchini blossoms.

Yes, that's two dishes poached in fat. Next time, he'll save the kitchen the trouble and just have a bowl of whale blubber.

While our entrees at Bocuse were classic French preparations, the desserts were anything but. Angel went all molecular with the rum cake with chestnut vermicelli and tangerine ice milk. Oh, and liquid nitrogen, bien sûr.

I chose the "modernist lemon bar" with lemon curd, coconut ice cream, and tamarind sauce, which was downright boring by comparison. Maybe next time they can light it on fire?

Finally, out came an assortment of macarons and other miniature delicacies, perfect for tucking away in your pocket for later.

After lunch we took a look around campus before rolling ourselves out to the car.

We then headed north to the tiny hamlet of Elizaville, where the house we'd rented for the weekend was hidden in the woods and accessed by a private, unpaved road. That probably sounds great to most people, but to New Yorkers like ourselves, it sounded like a cross between "Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter" and "The Hills Have Eyes."

But any reservations we had quickly faded away when we stepped inside the front door. The house was bright, airy, chic, and comfortable.

And, we happily noted, it was rustic without being too rustic. Glass doorknobs and claw-foot tubs, we can do. Mounted moose heads, and we have to check out early.

Best of all, huge, wrap-around windows allowed us to enjoy the view without having to actually go outside, which greatly reduces one's risk of being mauled by bears or punctured by deer antlers or whatever else happens when you leave the city for a weekend.

We had a few hours to kill before dinner, so we spent the time acquainting ourselves with the house and unpacking. Angel claimed the second master suite for his own, hoarding all the coat hangers for himself and hanging a sign on the door which read, "NO GIRLS ALLOWED."

Before dinner we took a short detour to Rhinebeck, a charming little village dating back to 1686. Originally called Kipsbergen by its Dutch settlers, Henry and Jacob Kip, today Rhinebeck boasts interesting shops, upscale restaurants, and an underground -- literally -- wine bar called the Shelter.

Tucked away below street level underneath the town's former hardware store, the Shelter is a speakeasy-style bar offering "spirits, tapas, and refuge."

All three sounded good to us, so we cozied up on one of the oversized leather couches near the fireplace and ordered up my new favorite cocktail, the "5-finger" milk punch with applejack, allspice dram, Chinese 5-spice, mole bitters and, of course, milk.

The drink was perfect for an October evening, with fall spices, bitter chocolate, and apple brandy mingling in the glass and warming our bellies.

After finishing our milk punch, we headed north to the tiny town of Saugerties for dinner at Miss Lucy's Kitchen.

Although it was 8:30 on a Saturday night, the town was practically deserted, and as we exited the car I suspiciously eyed a small pack of teenagers coming down the sidewalk.

As they drew closer, I whispered to Angel, "Do you think it's safe here?" But before he could answer, the group had come upon us, with one of the little urchins calling out to me, "Oh! I love your shoes!" Fine. I guess our hubcaps will be safe for another night.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, we understood why Saugerties was deserted: The entire town was apparently gathered at Miss Lucy's for dinner. Or at least that's how it felt when 50 pairs of eyes simultaneously turned to look when we walked in. "City slickers," I could tell they were thinking. "You can always tell by their fancy shoes."

Miss Lucy's might look like a simple country restaurant, but what came out of the kitchen was anything but simple: Everything from a martini made with house-infused persimmon vodka, to pan-seared scallops with butternut squash risotto, to a perfectly roasted pork chop with Sriracha-honey glaze, to a bracingly spicy ginger margarita, was sophisticated, well-thought-out, and, most importantly, absolutely delicious.

After swooning over every bite of our first two courses, we knew we couldn't pass on dessert. So we decided to share the harvest crisp, which was bubbling over with apples, pears, and quince and topped with a decadent brown-sugar ice cream.

The next day we planned to bike a section of the Harlem Valley Rail Trail to make up for the crimes against moderation we'd committed at Miss Lucy's. A paved trail reserved for pedestrians and bicyclists, the Rail Trail was built over the New York and Harlem Railroad, which ran from New York City to Chatham, NY in the mid-1800s. Eventually all 46 miles of the railroad track will be paved, but for now it's just 16 miles, accessed at the various abandoned railroad stations that once served the railroad commuters. We'd biked one of the shorter sections on our last visit to the Hudson Valley, and were excited to take on a longer stretch this time around.

But first we had to fuel up . . . and at least one of still had to wake up.

Although it took us a bit out of our way to the blink-and-you'll-miss-it town of Milan, I insisted that we fuel up for the ride at Another Fork in the Road. Owned by chef Jamie Parry, who cooked at NYC's Tribeca Grill and Montrachet before heading north, Another Fork is a "finer diner" known for sourcing virtually all of the ingredients for its carefully prepared dishes from the local farms surrounding the restaurant.

The sun-drenched room is quaint and cozy, with a chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs and pillows, and simple votive candles serving as decor.

We started with an order of the patatas bravas, which were slathered with a spicy, mayo-based Sriracha sauce. Now Angel's awake!

Next it was on to the biscuits with mushroom gravy (and a couple of eggs thrown on top for good measure) for me, while Angel kept things spicy with the curry scramble with caramelized onions and cilantro yogurt.

After breakfast we headed over to Taconic State Park, where we picked up our bikes and took in the glorious day.

The only thing scarier than a field of sunflowers is a field of dead sunflowers.

Soon we were ready to tackle the trail, so we wrangled the bikes into the back of our SUV and drove 10 minutes south to the tiny town of Millerton, which serves as one of the trailheads for the Rail Trail.

Our plan was to start at Millerton Station and bike 10.7 miles south to Wassaic Station, then ride back to Millerton, for a total of just over 21 miles roundtrip.

The ride started off innocently enough, as we pedaled easily past woods and hills and ponds, the sun warming our faces as we rode.

It turns out, though, that biking is a lot like exercise, to which I am allergic. And so my narrative of the 21-mile ride went something like this:

Mile 5: This is really fun!
Mile 10: I have to pee.
Mile 15: I can't believe we've biked 25 miles!
Mile 17: I really have to pee.
Mile 18: I can't feel my legs.
Mile 19: I'm going to need a donut cushion for the rest of my life.
Mile 20: I'm just going to lie down in this pile of leaves now.
Mile 21: I can't believe we biked 29 miles!

That evening we showered, slathered ourselves in Ben-Gay, then headed off to dinner at Mercato, a comfy, candlelit spot in Red Hook.

After biking 33 miles roundtrip, I'd clearly earned a bowl of gnocchi . . . and a bowl of penne.

Or, more precisely, goat cheese gnudi with local Lacinata kale pesto and penne with smoked pancetta, spicy tomatoes, and fresh cream from Ronnybrook Farm in nearby Ancramdale. And maybe a few bites of Angel's homemade fettucine Bolognese.

Mercato is warm and welcoming, which is probably no surprise given that the chef is Francesco Buitoni, a seventh-generation member of the Buitoni pasta-making and Perugina chocolate-making families.

After three bowls of pasta, it was time for dessert. Someone had to make sure the chocolate was good, too.

We also ordered the cheese plate. I'm telling you, that 39-mile bike ride really took it out of us.

As we enjoyed our desserts, the chef came by to say hello and share some amaro on the house.

As you can imagine, we slept like logs that night. That's what happens when you go on a 44-mile bike ride.

The next day was on the cloudy side and a bit chillier than the warm temps we'd enjoyed the day before, so it was time for snuggly sweaters.

I am sure Angel intended this photo as an homage to all those times I've belted out, "Wagon wheel, watermelon" in a bar somewhere. It works surprisingly well when you don't know the words.

With the skies holding the possibility of rain, we scrapped our plans for a walk along the Hudson and instead decided to return to Rhinebeck, since we'd been too busy downing milk punches on Saturday night to do any shopping.

On our way to Rhinebeck we stopped at Migliorelli's picturesque farm stand to buy some pumpkins.

Along with mini-pears, apples, cider, and a couple of jars of Migliorelli's homemade tomato sauce.

(Later, after I'd harvested all the seeds for roasting, Angel surprised me by carving up the largest pumpkin of the bunch in honor of Chloe, my beloved kitty who passed away last year. And yes, that's a power drill.)

After the pumpkin patch it was on to lunch at Terrapin, which is housed in the gorgeous old First Baptist Church, built in 1825.

Terrapin's bartender is a master mixologist, shaking and stirring ingredients like house-made cherry liqueur, ginger-infused moonshine, and fig-infused cognac into perfect-for-fall creations, like this sour-cherry bourbon Manhattan for Angel and the spiced caramel apple martini for me.

I started with the beer and cheese soup, made with India pale ale and aged cheddar, while Angel decided on the macadamia nut tempura calamari, which was served with a spicy-sweet pineapple dipping sauce.

For the main course, I decided on the mizuna salad with teriyaki sockeye salmon, crispy leeks, and a fantastic sweet onion-soy vinaigrette, the recipe for which is probably more closely guarded (and contains just as many addictive substances) as the one for Coca-Cola.

Angel went with the shredded flank steak quesadillas with huitlacoche, which are delicious little fungi that grow on ears of corn. Think of them as corn truffles.

After lunch we explored the town a bit.

By which I mean, "scoped out restaurants to try on our next visit."

Rhinebeck is home to the Beekman Arms, which is America's oldest continuously operated hotel. The Beekman was built in 1766 and hosted troops during the American Revolution (the 4th Regiment of the Continental Army conducted drills on its front lawn).

Aside from renovating the rooms in the 1980s, little has changed here since the 1700s. Well, except that guests are no longer required to list the number of horses they brought when they check in.

Next, we made a scary stop at Oliver Kita Chocolates.

The hand-made confections here are gorgeous, and come in inventive flavors like lavender and lime, banana and bee pollen, and honeycrisp apple.

Even the chocolate-covered Oreos were decked out for the season.

Soon it was Happy Hour, or close enough. Several local spots looked enticing, but the drinks we'd enjoyed over lunch at Terrapin had been so good that we decided to return to the adjacent bar, called Red Bistro.

This time, though, we each tried something different, which turned out to be the gooseberry mojito for Angel, and the tart-but-sweet pomegranate passion martini for me.

We'd planned to stay in that evening with a bottle of wine, a couple of pizzas, and a nice, long soak in the hot tub. I wasn't willing to pick up at just any pizza joint, though. Tucked away in a courtyard behind Rhinebeck's main street is Pizzeria Posto, which is known for its Neapolitan-style pizzas baked in a wood-fired oven imported from Modena, Italy.

We ordered up two pies and got to chatting with the owner. For future reference, it is maybe not the best idea to distract someone whose head is inside a 600-degree oven.

When we told the owner we had a 25-minute ride back to the house with the pizzas, he wisely recommended that we order a spare to eat on the way home. I'm just going to assume that's because the pies smell so enticing, and not because my reputation precedes me.

The pizzas were perfect, with a puffy, blistered crust, garden-fresh herbs, and local fennel sausage, then finished with a generous drizzle of olive oil while still hot from the oven.

We'd brought along one of our favorite bottles from our trip to Napa, the Freemark Abbey Bootleg, a delicious blending "mistake" only available at the winery, and redolent of fall with its black cherry, black currant, and blackberry aromas.

We devoured the pizzas, then hopped into the tub for a moonlight soak, helped along by an assortment of candles we'd found scattered about the house.

As we sipped and soaked and chatted, we agreed that it had been a pretty perfect weekend: Good weather, great food, fun cocktails, and fuzzy sweaters.

And no one got mauled by a bear.
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California's Napa Valley is famous the world over for its rolling green hills, sun-dappled vineyards, and high-end wines. The Napa lifestyle is a coveted one, featuring exquisite table settings, farm-to-table cuisine, and wine-soaked afternoons.

But as we found on our visit back in May, this carefully cultivated image is not quite accurate. That's because the mornings are wine-soaked, too.

Which might explain why it's taken me almost five months to write this blog post: I'm still recovering.

After a whirlwind weekend with friends in San Jose, we arrived in Napa on a sunny Monday afternoon just in time for lunch, which was exactly how I'd planned it. That's because while some people never forget a face, I never forget a cheeseburger, and there was no way I was going to miss Gott's Roadside a second time.

See, about eight years ago, Angel and I spent a long weekend in San Francisco, and after a fantastic lunch at the famed Slanted Door, we spent the afternoon milling around the Ferry Building, one of this country's biggest and best food markets. Already full to the point of bursting from lunch, I was exercising the kind of willpower usually seen only in monasteries when I spied the holy grail of the Ferry Building: Taylor's Automatic Refresher, an old-school burger joint that is part classic diner and part all-American roadside stand (that has since been appropriately renamed Gott's Roadside). I knew that even if I resorted to what my sister calls my spare "cow stomach," I wouldn't be able to force down a cheeseburger after the multicourse lunch we'd just had. And so I stared longingly through the window as flames licked at the juicy burgers and tears rolled down my face and I vowed to return and stuff myself silly someday.

"Someday" had finally arrived. I mean, just look at it.

The burgers at Gott's are served on buttered egg buns, and both patty and bun are grilled to order, then assembled and stuffed into a small paper sack to keep all its juicy goodness intact. (Personally, I could do without the paper sack, since I got so excited when I saw this burger that I almost ate it, too.)

Gott's serves other stuff, too, of course -- thick, old-fashioned milkshakes and their famous ahi-tuna tacos, among other things -- but all of those will have to wait until I get tired of their cheeseburgers, which is likely to occur right around the time that I get tired of living.

After lunch we headed next door to the Oxbow Public Market, because if you think a cheeseburger and some fries is going to cut it for lunch, then five months really is too long to go between blog posts.

A 40,000-square-foot ode to all things edible, Oxbow features local food vendors, artisan cafes, an organic produce market, and of course wine. Who needs coffee and donuts when this place is serving up pizza and red wine at 7:30 in the morning?

I made a beeline for the Olive Press, where I loaded up my arms with olive-and-fig scented soap, artichoke-and-lemon tapenade, and as many of those little specialty vinegars (coconut! fig! black cherry!) as I could hold without stuffing them down my bra.

Oxbow houses everything from a small-batch distillery to an oyster bar to a VPN Certified Pizzeria Napoletana, and sells everything from steaks to spices to rock candy.

Don't get too excited, though. This is still California, after all.

In a textbook case of "the grass is always greener," the Wine of the Month in the Napa Wine Club is a white wine . . . from the North Fork of Long Island. Angel and I thoroughly enjoy Long Island wines, but let's not get crazy here. Offering a Napan? Napa-ite? Napette? a Long Island wine is like offering an Italian some canned Spaghetti-O's.

Soon it was time for a drink, and the handcrafted Lidia cocktail at Ca' Momi, featuring their own Ca' Secco Frizzante, or sparkling wine, caught my eye.

And it matched my necklace -- a win-win.

Afterwards, we took one more pass around the market to ensure that we'd sniffed, scarfed, and swilled everything on offer.

Satisfied that we had, we then headed north to the town of St. Helena to check in at our hotel, the Wine Country Inn.

A cross between an upscale inn and a homey B&B, I chose the Wine Country Inn because many of its rooms feature private patios for enjoying a sunset (or, as we were to find out, sunrise) glass of wine.

However, the real draw at the WCI turned out to be - surprise! - the food.

Accustomed to B&Bs where the owner doubles as the resident egg-flipper in the mornings, we were thrilled to find that the WCI employs an actual chef for both its fantastic breakfasts and for its over-the-top afternoon "social hour," featuring generous tastings from neighboring wineries and finger foods ranging from crostini with bacon-Pt. Reyes blue cheese spread, sliced pears, and house-made candied pecans to garlicky clam dip to cilantro-pepita pesto.

That evening at WCI we enjoyed a Champagne tasting from nearby Charles Krug and a platter full of snacks, which I find is the best way to prepare for dinner.

Later we made the short drive north to Calistoga for dinner at Solbar, at the elegant Solage Resort.

The chef at Solbar, Brandon Sharp, has a decent resume -- he was Sous Chef at the five-star Gary Danko in San Francisco, Chef de Cuisine at the acclaimed restaurant August in New Orleans, and Chef de Partie alongside Thomas Keller at what is arguably the best restaurant in the country, the French Laundry -- so we figured we'd be in good hands.

Angel started with the chilled ginger carrot soup with avocado, radish, and spearmint, while I went whole hog (heh-heh) with the Sonoma pork belly, which was served with sticky rice, pickled shiitakes, chili-lemongrass sauce, and a broccoli-stem salad.

That's right, broccoli stems. Also known as the banana peels of the vegetable world. A great chef really can get you to eat anything.

For our entrees, I went with the decidedly tropical-sounding lemongrass-poached petrale sole with jasmine rice, hearts of palm, coconut milk, charred green onions, pea shoots, and lime, while Angel took the waiter's advice and ordered the one thing that you should never order in a gourmet restaurant: A boneless chicken breast. As anyone who's ever been to a banquet, a wedding, or a dinner at my house knows, coaxing flavor out of an essentially flavorless chicken breast is a damn near impossible feat. But Chef Sharp not only served up a tender, juicy, succulent piece of chicken, he wisely paired it with chicken boudin, a rich, decadent pâté-like sausage made from chicken meat, skins, and livers. If this guy can make broccoli stems enticing, you can just imagine what he can do with the fattiest parts of a chicken.

The next morning we wandered upstairs around 9:30 to check out Wine Country Inn's breakfast. The place was empty, despite the chef whipping up daybreak delights like crustless artichoke quiche made from 10 eggs and six cups of cheese, which is a ratio roughly akin to serving an Egg McMuffin with 42 slices of cheese on top.

That's when we realized that, although we had somewhat sheepishly scheduled a few of our winery visits to start at 11:00 a.m., we had nothing on the lushes staying at the Wine Country Inn, who were already three sheets to the wind well before 10:00. I was starting to understand why breakfast at WCI starts at the ungodly hour of 7:30 a.m.: Your stomach's going to need a base coat if you plan to start drinking before most people have even hit the snooze button.

One of the things we liked best about the Wine Country Inn was its location, tucked away on a side road and nestled in the vineyards between two of our favorite wineries, Duckhorn and Freemark Abbey. Freemark Abbey happens to be our go-to Cabernet at one of our favorite steakhouses in New York, so it was a no-brainer that we'd start at one of our neighbors and work our way further afield.

Freemark is one of the oldest wineries in the Napa Valley, tracing its roots to 1886, when Josephine Tychson, one of the first female winegrowers on record, established the original winery on the land where Freemark Abbey still stands today. The building's exterior boasts the original stone, while the interior is warm with sepia-toned wood.

We had booked the Cabernet Comparison tasting, which is an in-depth tasting of Freemark's single-vineyard cabernet releases from the historic Bosche and Sycamore Vineyards on the Rutherford Bench.

We were guided through the tasting by the lovely Diane, whose electric-blue nails and winning personality added some levity to the very serious business of getting drunk on red wine well before noon.

Finally it actually was noon, and that meant lunch. After our visit to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York two years ago, we were beyond excited for our reservations at the CIA at Greystone in Napa Valley.

We started with a warm kale Caesar salad that came wrapped in its own little crouton, and the mussels with fennel sausage and caramelized onion broth.

For our entrees, Angel chose the 5 Dot Ranch skirt steak flatbread with smoked cheese curd and chimichurri, while I carbed out with the mushroom and Sky Hill goat cheese raviolo with sautéed spinach.

Oh, and an iced tea with a thoughtful little beaker of simple syrup on the side.

After lunch, we made our first attempt at getting off the beaten path, with a visit to Gargiulo Vineyards.

I don't know about you, but driving in an unfamiliar area has become my and Angel's very own version of "The Real Housewives": We yell at each other, we dramatically roll our eyes at each other, and, if Angel had hair, I'd probably pull his weave out. It all started about a dozen years ago, when GPS devices first became popular. Angel jumped on the bandwagon and bought a TomTom device for our car. We'd almost never argued over directions before that, but Angel's blind faith in that GPS -- even when it directed us to go the wrong way down a one-way street, or to make a U-turn in the middle of a 6-lane highway -- drove me insane.

Indeed, words cannot begin to convey how much I hated that TomTom, but this photo of what Angel gave me a few years ago for Valentine's Day probably can.

Although that TomTom met the violent end it so richly deserved, it was unfortunately replaced by yet another circle of hell: Google Maps on the iPhone. About ten years ago we spent two weeks in Italy, roaming the Tuscan countryside in a rented car. I cannot remember getting lost a single time, even though we had nothing more to go on than some hand-written directions I’d gleaned from travel forums and a bunch of road signs written in a language that neither of us understands.

On this trip, we spent five days in Napa, roaming the countryside in a rented car with Google Maps. I won’t bore you with the details of how many times we got lost thanks to one of us being convinced of Google Maps' omnipotence, but suffice it to say that things aren’t going well when the other one of us starts referring to the disembodied Google Maps voice as “that dumb-ass girlfriend of yours.”

And so, after lunch, we climbed back into the car, plugged in the directions, muted She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and made the short drive over to Gargiulo, an exclusive family winery tucked away on Oakville Cross Road (read: you can barely find this place without Google Maps, let alone with it.)

Have you seen those Dos Equis commercials featuring The Most Interesting Man in the World? He's played by an actor, of course, but that's because the real Most Interesting Man in the World is busy making wine. That would be Jeff Gargiulo, who started his career as a tomato-picker in Naples, Florida; parlayed that gig into owning one of the largest tomato growing companies in the world; sold the company and became the CEO of Sunkist for a number of years; started a music producing company with some partners in Nashville; and finally, at the point when most of us would have dropped dead from exhaustion, bought a vineyard in Napa and started making world-class wines.

Which is kind of funny when you consider that his real talent is in interior design.

The vineyards at Gargiulo, Money Road Ranch and 575 ovx, are spread across a two-mile-wide swath that extends to 600 feet in elevation up the Vaca Mountains to the east and the Mayacamas Mountains to the west. Screaming Eagle, whose wines regularly sell for close to $2,000 a bottle, is their next-door neighbor, and the two share the same soil.

After a cellar and vineyard tour with Garrett, we settled in with some snacks and, of course, a tasting of Gargiulo's incredible wines.

That evening we took in St. Helena's charming downtown area, shopping and eating and plotting our next day's adventure.

As much as we enjoyed our visit to Gargiulo, I was even more excited about the following day. That's because we were headed to Chappellet Winery, which sent us a map, some written directions, and the following message: "Please bring these directions with you, as GPS devices cannot locate us." Finally! Written proof that GPS devices are useless! And so we set off with some good old-fashioned printed directions, which seamlessly directed us up twisty Sage Canyon Road to the tippy-top of Pritchard Hill.

The winery building at Chappellet is stunning -- a pyramid of gleaming wood and glass woven seamlessly into the surrounding woods.

We were greeted by Dominic Chappellet, one of six siblings involved in running the winery with their parents, Donn and Molly Chappellet, who founded the winery in 1967.

After a tour of the storage facilities and tasting rooms, Dominic led us out back to Chappellet's bottling facility, where we had the good fortune to be there on bottling day.

As the yet-to-be corked, not-yet-labeled bottles chugged by on the conveyor belt, Dominic swiped one from the belt and asked if we'd like to try it.

That's like asking Angel if he'd like to throw out the first pitch at a Yankees game. During the World Series.

Soon it was lunchtime, and we had reservations at Farmstead at Long Meadow Ranch.

However, we'd had such an enjoyable morning that we were already running a bit late when we left Chappellet, and we knew we'd have to eat light if we were going to make our afternoon plans.

So we had a couple of clearly intriguing cocktails, then split a cheeseburger with home fries, an order of wood-roasted asparagus topped with lemon ricotta, and a skillet full of cheddar biscuits with honey butter.

The aforementioned afternoon plans involved shooting over to Sonoma to have a glass of wine with someone I knew only by his online screen name, Manpot, which refers to a Caribbean concoction also known as the "Altoid of Aphrodisiacs."

You know me: If I'm not hitching a ride on a golf cart with a couple of suspected sex traffickers, I'm getting drunk with an amorous stranger I met on the Internet.

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Click here for Part 2 to find out if your mother was right about meeting strangers online!