No. I. Am. Not.
Get ready for a long one:
It was a dark and stormy night, seriously. It was. In the spring of 1973. I was on the coast about 60 miles north of San Francisco helping a friend build a cabin, his dream writer’s retreat, backed up against the redwoods on a ridge overlooking the ocean. We had been working our asses off all week when the skies grew dark and this bodacious Pacific storm blew in. So, we put away the tools and hit Highway 1 to find a place to eat and hide out for a few hours.
A few miles up the road near Ft. Ross, we came across a gravel drive with a sign that indicated a bed and breakfast. Tucked away in tall, violently swaying eucalyptus trees on three sides was this big, old, spooky looking Queen Anne mansion—gables, turrets and all. It was the perfect setting for this storm.
The front door was exactly in the architectural style of 19th century megamoney. Large brass knocker on a thick finely carved redwood door bordered on each side by art nuveau stained glass, opening into a foyer with a large, sweeping staircase with white marble cupids on the first newels, marble jugendstil nudes seductively posing on dark wood pedestals here and there. The walls were covered in dark red silk and punctuated with oil paintings of the famous odalisques, curvacious nude women reclining on silk French day-beds framed in gold-leafed roccoco; the pornography of the late 1800’s. This place must have been a high-end whorehouse at one time. Safe enough away from San Francisco for one’s more puritanical acquaintances not to know.
The maitre’d brought us into a Victorian dining room lit by candlelight and one large crystal chandelier in the center of the high ceiling. It was done in all dark woods with elaborate moulding, wainscotting and sconces, flowers in ceramic vases, thick dark persian rugs and a big stone fire place—the works. It looked like a set from Citizen Kane, only the adult film version.
The maitre’d sat us at a deuce next to the fireplace. Perfect for two wet hounds. We could hear the muffled sounds of wind howling in the trees outside and every other lightening strike made the chandelier blink. Eventually it went out altogether and we were left in the golden glow from the fire in the hearth. I half expected to hear a woman’s scream in accordance wiith the Old Dark House script we’d walked into.
We were two long hairs still dressed in our work clothes and were feeling a bit out of place in all this, but we were starving and with that storm outside, we weren’t going anywhere. My buddy ordered rarebit and I a whole chateaubriand for myself. It had been a long time since this hippie had been in a decent restaurant and I was going to splurge a bit. But it was already getting expensive, so when the sommelier brought the wine list, we settled for a local California Burgundy.
Presentation went quickly and in the darkened dining room neither of us could read the lable and just had the waiter pour the wine. My buddy diid the tasting as he did the ordering and all was routine. When the food arrived, we dug in and went for the wine. It tasted abolutely like nothing I’d ever had before. I noticed the bottle’s shoulders were high like a Bordeaux and not sloping like a Burgundy, but this could’ve been a California thing. When I checked the label, it was a 1953 Chateau Margaux with primier grand cru literally written all over it. I went white. Even if we sold the pickup truck we came in we couldn’t pay for this wine. I told my friend and we summoned the sommelier to bring the owner to us. Shit. We were dead meat.
The owner was the maitre’d we’d met in the foyer. He took it amazingly well. We offered to come back and pay him later, but he wouldn’t have it. We would be charged for the wine we ordered. So, we invited him to sit with us and have some of his wine when things slowed down. We saved him a glass and after we’d finished he and his wife sat down with us and ordered another bottle of wine. This time it was a 1961 Chateau Lafite, another first growth and arguably the best vintage of the century at the time.
The place slowly emptied out and they locked up and the four of us sat by the fire smoking weed and running through some of the best wines I’ve had before or since. They were both retired profs from U. C. Berkeley and had bought his old place for what was a song at the time, then sunk well over the purchase price in recovering it’s former glory. And it was indeed a famous brothel between 1890 and WWI. The clients were the sons and grandsons of old Caifornia gold, banking and redwood families.
They still had the hotel registries with the aliases in them and the Madam’s separate accounts with the fake names with the real ones beside them and their proclivities. I guess so she would could keep track of who she was actually dealing with. There was never any hint of blackmail according to the owners. The old grand piano on a platform on the opposite side of the room was the same one the house “Doc” played for the guests during the “parade” of wares. Eventually my buddy and I stumbled out to the truck under dry, grey skies and weaved our way back to the cabin.
That was the most fantastic dining experience I’d ever had in my entire 64 years. I’ll never forget it.
These were really great people and we became good friends. Years later, while I was living in Sweden, I heard he died of cancer and she sold the place and moved to a nice place in San Francisco where she grew up. Today the former B&B is a private home and horse ranch. Oh, well.
My very good writer friend of many years eventually published a few books, then shot himself in the head in 1986 in that cabin we built together. I could never figure that out. What a tragedy it is to lose an old friend that way.
TJBM also has a restaurant story.