Gary Moffat is a writer, former publishing executive and 2000 transplant from Chicago whose family launched one of Old Town Auburn’s favorite entertainment venues, Carpe Vino, in 2002. Moffat, who now has a print outlet for his opinions in a regular Sentinel column, has written for the Chicago Tribune, national shelter magazines, telecom industry publications and two self-published Internet newsletters. And, oh yeah, he wrote more than 100 columns on wine for the Auburn Journal. Carpe Vino, his latest venture, is a local magnet for lovers of fine wine, fine dining and fine art.
It’s not often that I write about what goes on in my building in Old Town, but last Saturday evening something important happened there, and I thought you might be interested in hearing about it.
If you’ve ever been there, you know that my joint—Carpe Vino, a restaurant, wine shop and wine bar—is crammed into three small storefronts and seats just 32 people in the dining room. Add up to 24 more in the Wine Mine (an ancient stone building in the rear not visible from the street), 12 patrons seated at the bar, and that is as large a group as we can accommodate.
If you ever wanted to run far away or lose yourself for all time, the densely wooded hillsides and the deep ravines at the end of the Foresthill Road are places where you could attempt to do it.
In fact, it would not surprise me a bit if the Foresthill Divide was a prime destination for former mobsters turned stoolies who are newly ensconced in the Federal Witness Protection program. I can almost hear a Federal attorney trying to sell a candidate, Louis (Louie Bagels) Daldone, on the upsides of Foresthill: “Look, Louie, they even have a great little market there called Worton’s where you can get anything ... okay so maybe they don’t have those chewy bagels with a schmear, but they’ve got a killer wine aisle.”
I just returned Sunday from a relaxing week in San Miguel de Allende – hence the temporary change in the title of this column – a colorful and historic town of 80,000 people about two hours north of Mexico City. Founded in 1542 by Franciscan monk Juan de San Miguel, I felt genuinely at home: the “Policia Federal” (Mexico’s highway patrol) tool around in blacked-out Dodge Chargers.
Separated from Auburn by a vast cultural divide plus a four-hour flight and a 90-minute car ride through tiny hamlets in the high desert of central Mexico, San Miguel nonetheless is evocative of our town in many ways. It is in a struggle to preserve its historic texture while accommodating wild growth at its edges. Huge box stores — including an under-construction WalMart and “Mega,” a giant discount grocery and clothing chain — are challenging the traditional Centro markets and the Tuesday “Tiengas,” a once-per-week, open-air “traveling mercado” where you can purchase anything from just-picked squash blossoms to sticky sweet charros to bootlegged DVDs of first-run movies.
That’s what Brand Little of Little Fish Company told me at the Farmers Market in the Courthouse parking lot last Saturday morning as he sat slouched back in a lawn chair behind a display of fresh fish buried in crushed ice.
“Breaking even is one thing,” he said, “but I can’t afford to lose money coming here.”
It wasn’t all that long ago that people were lined up six deep in front of Little’s refrigerated truck to purchase sushi-grade ahi, line-caught salmon, San Francisco Bay sturgeon, petrale, white sea bass ... even tubes and tentacles if you ordered in advance. Each week, Little sends out an e-mail on Wednesday letting his regular customers know what he will have available. Place your order before Thursday at midnight and he will have it ready for you, otherwise you take your chances on what he has in stock.
With less than 12 hours to go, I just couldn’t do it to him.
My little buddy, Willy Gee, a nearly 12-year-old Springer spaniel, had an 11 a.m. appointment the next day with his veterinarian. I was assured that the waiting room would be empty when I brought Willy in, and that the procedure would be fast and painless. I was given options for handling his remains, and I was advised of the costs associated with the process. My plan was to write a check out in advance so that I could just get the hell out of there, knowing that my companion for more than a decade was lifeless on a cold, hard table in a cramped examination room.
