I'm starting this post backyards, because, I mean, look at that sky (I suggest opening the picture to full size for full effect)! You gotta get out of town, get out of every last light-bright village, even, to see that. But you can, and not too far from my Santa Barbara home. That's the nocturnal view from the Alisal Guest Ranch and Resort in the Santa Ynez Valley, but as you know if you've been, it's sort of in a valley off the valley, tucked snug to the back of the mountain range. Even the ribbon of the 101 vanishes as you move into the 10,000+ acre property.
That's the fun, getting to pretend you're somewhere, perhaps some time, else. Alisal leans into that, and while it's certainly luxe, it prefers to be cowboy chic. I mean, here's the table setting at the recent Chapter & Hearth Dinner (that does sound like some secret society, doesn't it?) as part of the ranch's celebration of its 80th year.
Of course the attendees all joked about trying to sneak one of the hefty horseshoes home, as if its weight wouldn't rip any pocket one might slip it surreptitiously into. And then we joked they'd no doubt make us traipse through metal detectors on the way out to prevent just that. So while the Alisal does take one back to a simpler time when we all lived off the land with the smell of saddle leather nearby, it still can't quite shake our awareness of the surveillance state. Speaking of that, there's no cell coverage out under the mighty, moss-draped sycamores by the adobe where Alisal likes to have outdoor fests and feasts (and weekend breakfasts after horse rides--very recommended.) So phones turn into cameras only. As you'll see, that means I shot a lot of photos.
Those are just two such photos from the trailer ride out from the resort's office to the sycamore grove. Lots of gorgeous, happy to finally get a sip of rain, hills, a view of the property's 100 acre lake, and the horses running off to their barns for nighty-night. And deer. And wild turkeys. Even though you're being powered by a combustion engine, you feel like the modern world slips away. It's a lovely trick.
Note those sycamores are prime specimens, taller than most I feel I've seen. Probably part of being on a property owned by the same family for 80 years, after being part of one of the original California land grants, I'd wager. I also need to get a cowboy hat for my giant noggin before the next time I get up there. I felt nearly naked. At the Old Adobe, we were welcomed by the current leading Jackson family scions, C.J., VP of Alisal Properties, and Jim, VP and COO of the Alisal Guest Ranch and Resort. They had a good time joshing with each other--C.J. brought up the Smothers Brothers as a comparison, which says something about demographics--and explaining the history of the property. And we all got wine or cocktails--one tequila-based, another an Old Fashioned (what else?).
Inside the adobe we were greeted by many heads on the wall--think of that top photo as tax-i-deer-my--and Richard Barnitz of Farm to Frames, who snaps daguerreotype-style black-and-whites with his 1906 Conley homemade box camera. Talk about a fun, fitting souvenir of the evening.
Out the backdoor of the adobe was the large dinner area, big enough for a horse trailer snazzily converted into a mobile bar for out-of-SLO, so therefore kinda local, Rod & Hammer's, where guests got to sip a range of their liquor, primarily whiskey because, well, consider where we all were. (As you might remember, I wrote them up not too long ago for their tasting at Vespera in Pismo.) That delicious Old Fashioned featured their bespoke Alisal Label Bourbon, btw. Upon sitting down, we all were led in a toast by the property's cowboy poet, Chris Henrich, who gave a quick history of the poet position there, going back to the legendary Jake Copass. You, of course, win me over instantly when you can work poetry into your evening, and Henrich recites splendidly.
So, there's the menu for the evening, and despite that first horizontal rule, everything short of dessert got served in rapid succession. That cornbread had a bit of bite thanks to the jalapeño, and there was way too much artfully swirled cultured butter to slather on it. Made me think we needed more cornbread. (Yes, that's an easy thought to have.) The salad honored fall harvest well, hitting all the yummy sweet, sour, tangy, creamy, crunchy notes you might hope.
The tomahawk was savory and succulent, and it wasn't me, but someone at our stretch of long table couldn't resist gnawing right off the bone. (At another table, someone got it wrapped up and took it home. Might have been the wife of a famous 1970s rocker who lives in these parts. That kind of night.) Some of the salsa atop made it sing of Santa Barbara. The vegetable dishes showed how much treating good produce simply and directly is an easy win. OK, lots of good cheese on one and the kiss of fire roasted char on the other didn't hurt. Somehow, despite their ubiquity--we got platters of the poor little birds--I missed getting a photo of the quail. Kept moist thanks to that fennel sausage stuffing, they were mini-delights. One fellow diner kept suggesting he'd eat as many their diminutive drumsticks as he could, as we all lamented not hiding Tupperware to sneak out leftovers. Of course if we did that, there'd be no room for the horseshoes.
OK, I did not know of oatmeal pie, evidently called poor man's pecan pie, but don't tell the bewigged dude on the Quaker Oats box. It's an Alisal specialty, and after eating a slice, I can see why. Sweet, but not too, gooey but not gloppy or gummy, crispy/crunchy on the top. It gets a hint of island exoticism from a bit of coconut, and cinnamon ice cream seals the deal. There was also music from a talented country trio that for no fault of their own become mostly background music. Didn't seem like a two-stepping bunch, at least on this evening.
We got full, we got to share good craic, we got history and poetry, we got old-timey photos of ourselves. We all got a copy of the glorious coffee table book 175 Years of Ranch History: The Alisal Ranch Story. But more than anything, for me I can't get rid of my head full of stars.
