Wine Country
14 April 2024
Getting back into the US is more difficult than leaving it. Apparently, I don’t have an I-94 authentication enabling me to stay more than 60 days. I point out I have a ten-year tourist visa but that’s not good enough. Although it’s an error on the part of the US Immigration Services representative at Orlando airport seven weeks ago, that doesn't spare me some brusque and intrusive inquiries.
“When yer leavin'?”
“27 June. I’m doing a motorcycle trip around the USA.”
“How yer payn for this? You can’t work on a B1/B2 visa. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m retired and paying for it from savings”
“Huh… How much y’gat?”
I tell him a figure and he looks vanquished, partially recovering with:
“Can you prove this?”
“Of course. Would you like to see?”
“Err…no. Just $6 for the stamp. Pay at the counter”
I realise this sounds like bragging but that’s not the intent: he was an uppity little shit, easily the most unpleasant American I’ve met since 27 February, who needed putting in his place.
I don’t object to the questioning - it’s entirely reasonable to ensure visitors won’t become a burden on the state or work illegally - but it’s the attitude that stinks. And you can never win against these mediocrities if you tackle them head-on, particularly if they are government employees with the power to mess with you.
Leavenworth is towards the end of Route 2 and the Stevens Pass that forms part of the Cascades loop. I’m going to stop going on about how fabulous the roads are as there is only so much you can say about tarmac. They represent a minor art form when done well though, and most of the ones I’ve travelled have been.
As a rule, they succeed on three measures. Firstly, their course is usually sympathetic to the local geography, but not to the extent that it impedes fast progress. The upshot of this is huge, sweeping bends on modest gradients rather than over-reliance on switch-backs for ascent and descent.
Secondly, the surfaces are near-faultless with repairs to the same high standard. Bearing in mind many of the roads I’ve been on are high, and often covered by snow and ice, there is no evidence of ‘freeze-thaw’ damage. This is the excuse routinely trotted out by British politicians when challenged on why UK roads are such shite, rather than a chronic lack of investment and zero political will, which are the real culprits.
Third is the drivers themselves, and I DO think it is possible to generalise on this point. With very few exceptions, Americans drive at a decent pace with good awareness of traffic around them. Speed limits are respected - plus or minus 15% - and road signs are observed without exception. Critically and surprisingly, they are extremely uncompetitive… If you’re going faster, they tend to move over and often give a quick flash of high-beam in response to a wave of thanks.
Leavenworth is about 90 miles from Seattle on the Wenatchee River. It features Alpine-style buildings with restaurants serving German beer and food. But as a town, it is as convincingly German as the accent of Herr Flick, the SS officer from the BBC’s largely forgotten masterpiece, ‘Allo Allo’.
In fairness, the food is pretty authentic insofar as it’s heavy, features a lot of pork, is unappealing to the eye and is tastier than you might think. The beer is strong and light, just like in München. All in all, it’s a fun place to stop the night with accommodation options to suit all budgets.
15 April 2024
As the I-97 encounters Ellenberg, it undergoes a character transformation. Bavarian-style, deep, rolling valleys studded with neat little farms give way to the dramatic, high-country, Panavision vistas I came to the US for.
Like a spoilt five-year-old on holiday in a rain-lashed British seaside town, I have needed to issue constant self-reminders over the last two weeks that I should be enjoying myself, despite the atrocious weather.
But this is now just bliss. Ninety-three miles of humbling scenery and only ten other vehicles the entire way. Yes, I did count them. It’s not warm, but at least it’s sunny and dry and, should be for the next few days. After the last two weeks, I’m pathetically grateful for such small mercies.
Yakima is part of a major wine-producing area with many vineyards and tasting rooms in the town and surrounding area. So my motel, a mere mile from downtown, I anticipated would be where oenophiles on a budget would stay.
But as I draw up, a Native American is letting his ugly dog have an extravagant piss on the pavement, right outside the entrance to reception. I check in and return to find my bike, annexed by an ocean of dog-piss. This sets the tone for my stay.
Finding my room, I realise this motel (a Days Inn, so usually reliable) is catering for a similar demographic as the ones I stayed at a few weeks ago in New Mexico. It is also indicative of the immediate, surrounding area.
The walk into town involves navigating a shocking sea of homelessness. My fellow guests at the Days Inn are clearly top of the local socio-economic heap.
Unlike San Francisco, where the authorities do seem to be wrestling with a similar problem, it looks like the street people of Yakima are there permanently and nobody cares. Filthy and bedraggled, they are too broken to pay me any attention or even ask for money.
The Kana Winery have a tasting room in the centre of town. I leave at 15:35 calibrating my arrival to be 16:00. Still a good hour earlier than any decent person can start drinking, unless out to lunch, but pacing is everything…
Spot on the hour, I sip the first of four genuinely surprising wines. Easily the best I’ve tasted over the last six weeks, each has an identifiable European character. My pick is their Scarlet Fire Reserve from 2013. It has a similar constitution to Chateau Neuf de Pape, and so is muscular with great depth, or plenty of helmet & throbble, as we say in Essex.
Despite the tiny production (540 cases) and evident quality, it’s just $22 a bottle although sadly not available outside the US. As I’m not likely to be trying it again anytime soon, I have a full pour and sip contentedly, while contemplating the original local art adorning the walls.
Across the street is TripAdvisor’s #1 restaurant in Yakima, the Cowiche Canyon Kitchen & Icehouse. It's so good, it would probably be #1 in any conurbation of fewer than 100,000 people.
The exterior and interior design is a high-quality example of nordic simplicity. All stone, wood, glass, straight lines and minimal adornment. It’s matched by surprisingly brilliant food incorporating a wide spectrum of modern Eurochef techniques.
The salad pulled no punches with a full, mini-Brie round that had been quick-roasted at a high temperature so the edible rind crisped, leaving the inside gooey. Along with arugula, citrus oil, prosciutto, honeycomb and broccoli microgreens, it would be well at home in any of the many superb restaurants that dot the French-Belgian border.
More surprising still was the short rib of beef, rosemary-garlic mashed potatoes, balsamic onion jam, crispy garlic breadcrumb, and red wine reduction. It featured a calf shin, sawn precisely down the middle and roasted to liquefy the marrow.
My neighbour at the bar, a local fireman and regular here, sees me slurping and mopping up the elemental goodness of the marrow with bread. He says he’d seen it on the menu but squeamishly, wasn’t sure he would be able to eat it. “It sure looks good though” was his conclusion.
I tell him it’s the sort of thing experimental, British chefs get up to and he vows to try it on his next visit.
I ask the server where the chef is from. To of best of his knowledge, he’s never set foot out of Washington State and has definitely not trained in Europe.
Making my way back to the motel, a man in a wheelchair I’d seen earlier by the road is still there. He asks, as a greeting and out of instinctive politeness, “How’s it going?”
Given the sybaritic excess of the last few hours, I’m frankly embarrassed to answer so just ask if he could use a little help. I don’t wait for an answer and give him the few dollars I have that weren’t quite enough for the tasting at Kona that I paid, frictionlessly, by card.
A few minutes later, a ragged cyclist asks if I have any spare change. I tell him I gave all the cash I had to the guy in the wheelchair.
He just says “Thank you for that sir, and have a good night”
‘Yakima: where even the beggars are charming’ doesn’t have the bombast of the ‘Welcome to British Colombia, The Best Place of Earth’ sign I saw a few days ago at the Canadian border. But it would be an equally valid claim and better than mentioning the dogs.
16 April 2024
The Seven Hills Winery is one of founding wine estates of the Walla Walla Valley, dating all the way back to 1988. Previous to this, the land was used for wheat production and the grizzled farmers took some convincing by a bunch of glass-twirling ponces to repurpose it for viniculture.
Five wineries are now over 150 with a commensurate increase in land values. The farmers and their descendants have, apparently, had a change of heart.
Seven Hills have an elegant tasting room in an exposed brick, industrial building. It's made homely by the staff, good art, good furniture and two pale Golden Retrievers that lollop about the place, only exerting any energy when padding up to give a waggy-welcome to each new visitor.
The five-wine ‘Ethereal Experience’ is available for $35, so I book onto the last one of the day. Five wines turn into nine once various bonus pours and comparisons are included and, given the quality of the wine, has to rate as exceptional value.
There is one ‘experiment’ that compares two 2020 Cabernet Sauvignons. One is from the McLellan Estate and the other from Seven Hills itself. The two parcels of land are separated only by a narrow, gravel path, so share an almost identical terroir. Both wineries are owned by the same Holding Company, Crimson Wines, who mandate that both wines are made using an identical process.
The difference you are tasting, therefore, is that of the ‘Geneva Double Curtain’ method of cultivating vines versus the 'VSP' (Vertical Shoot Positioning) approach, for those of you who are still awake.
The difference is not startling but it’s there alright. I try and come up with some plausible bollocks to describe the subtle variance but Yvonne Davis, the Tasting Room Manager, has probably heard quite enough of this sort of semi-informed twaddle in her time and nails it as follows:
“I go for the Seven Hills when I want a warm cuddle” she says, dreamily “and the McLellan when I’m after something dark and lovely” This, with a knowing smirk. “The 2021 Pentad is for when I want a right good seeing to”. I made the last of those quotes up, by the way.
Walla Walla is much more the ritzy wine town I had in mind when I replanned the last few days. Like Yakima, it's still got a turn-of-last-century grittiness about it but with the edges smoothed off. The period buildings are handsome, fastidiously maintained and there is zero homelessness.
Indeed, a local social worker I meet later that evening sniffily says they have nicknamed Yakima, ‘Crackima’, given the role of Crack-Cocaine in the town’s problem.
“What problem do you most deal with here?” I ask.
“Oh, alcoholics - both functioning and dysfunctioning - we are a wine town after all. Everybody here drinks all the time.”
An incongruous French bistro, Brasserie Four, on Main Street offers the classic combination of Foie Gras with apricot chutney on toasted brioche followed by Steak Frites but made with local produce. Resistance is futile. As the style of the reds in this region is modelled on high-end Bordeaux, for ninety-minutes, I’m transported to Paris, to a narrow street in Montmartre, minus the snotty waiters. As a final, authentic touch, there’s a great old photo in the gent’s loo of the end of a Tour d’France stage, showing the leading riders enjoying a reviving cigarette.
The town is also very proud of it’s beers so it would be remiss of me not to report on the Walla Walla Beer Parlour. I’m pleased I did, as Henry Reinhard’s Private Reserve Lager at a mere 4.7% ABV is a refreshing, cleansing ale in the truest sense of the phrase.
They also feature No Boat Marley Was Dead 2023, a 14.5% ABV stout from the Snoqualmie brewery at the dangerously appealing price-point of a mere $7 a pint.
“Does anyone actually drink that?’ I ask John, behind the bar.
“Some do” he says, “but only in the morning…”
Two weeks ago, a San Franciscan barman asserted that “After Lord Whangdoodle” (the effeminate, 11.5% stout I reported on) “there is nowhere left to go.”
Oh yes there is…
