So, now you have heard the glamorous stories from my Pebble Beach Celebrity chef adventure. Keller, Pepin, champagne and caviar. Sure, it was all that and a bag of truffles. Now, the flip side.
Nearly all of my culinary wanderings have a reality check and actually, I love that. Coming back from Monterey went from a simple, quick and wonderful Amtrak ride to quite another thing all together. Through no fault of my own, I missed a shuttle from Pebble Beach to Monterey and, consequently I missed the last train back to Emeryville on Saturday, April 17th. I was happy, in the end to spend another day in Monterey. It is so rare to be somewhere where all I have to do is... well, nothing but sip wine and walk along Cannery Row weaving in and out of tourist shops looking out at that spectacular bay. It is a bit strange for me, but I adjusted. Now, those of you who know from public transportation will know that traveling on Sunday is no picnic. My quick shuttle to Amtrak became a wild ride through time, place and literature.
After pursuing every transportation angle, I was stuck taking the bus. I took a local bus out to Salinas at around 10:30 am. With my bag of now wrinkled chef coats, my jammies and my cook's tools and lugging a big shoulder bag, I was already ready to be home. Salinas is a famous farm area known as "the Salad Bowl of the World" and former home to magnificent author John Steinbeck. It was incredible riding through miles of endless fields, strawberries and greens on both sides all the way to the mountains. Workers picking miles of rows of lettuces, grape vines just beginning to awaken for the season. My mind traveled back through Steinbeck's stories about this area and its history as we rolled into town.
My other bus, yes, bus was 4 hours away. No train today. I bought my ticket in the cavernous, forlorn bus station. "So, where can I get a book, paper or magazine?" I asked. The agent and his rough looking female co-agent looked at me as though I had asked for moon rocks. "Books, uh, nowhere round here." " Um, news stand or something?"I continued. More blank looks. My inner dialogue was saying "You know BOOKS, those things with the covers and lots of words inside", but as I looked around, seeing dozens of newly released prisoners milling around in standard issue sweat suits and slip on shoes fresh out of Salinas Valley State Prison, I figured it was no time to put on airs. They did hold my bags for me (the agents, not the prisoners) so I went for a very late breakfast.
Sadly, Salinas is also very famous for very violent gangs, lots of intense gang on gang crime. The city had a very wild west forgotten town look with a few bright spots. But really, no books, no magazines, no kidding. Lots of closed stores, 101 degree heat and all I had to wear was a hot sweater, chef coats or my jammies. I went with the sweater. I was determined to find a book, I looked and looked. I was actually running short on time when I spied a big, out of place looking building at the end of town. The FREAKING National Steinbeck Center. Book central, open, nearly empty of guests. An oasis, I entered the beautiful modern air conditioned center. I bought East of Eden and hauled ass back to the dusty terminal to hip the agents to my find. They just did not know about it, sad.
"Found you a book." the lady agent said as I got my bag. She handed me a tattered paperback copy of Steinbeck's Travels with Charley. I was amazed at the parallels of this book with my own journey. I began to devour it, looking up now and then to regard my fellow travelers. I used to teach cooking at San Francisco Women's Jail, I am somehow just as comfortable around prisoners as celebrity chefs. Does that make me special, no. My chosen career is just so full of criminals, near criminals and the like, no big deal. I have never felt threatened. The bus was a four hour journey packed full of every type of person, each carrying their own stories and secrets, like the characters in the book I was reading. I finally reached the terminal in Oakland around 7:30pm and found a nearby quick mart down the street in another rough area. The store manager joined me as I sat on the sidewalk chair drinking down my 32 oz Corona, not a "40", but close. Long day, you know. He regaled me with tales of neighborhood violence and said we had to watch out. He handed me a lime, saying that he had no knives to cut it. I started to laugh and pulled my luggage closer, pulling a sharp, shiny 12 inch chefs knife from my bag. "I have a knife," I said. I cut the lime with that huge knife and we were still laughing as my husband pulled up to pick me up. Home at last.
Degrees of separation: 2, Jail is a whole other world, but I am not afraid to care, plus I have big knives.
Next up, back to fancy: gorgeous herbs from Smith and Hawken and how to use them.
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