The first thing people say when you mention The French Laundry is how impossible it is to get a reservation. Then they talk about how it’s the best restaurant in the world and that if you’re lucky enough to eat there, you’ll remember your meal for the rest of your life. All of these things are true.
In an area where there are more wineries than leaves on trees, you pick up on things.
I may have cringed at the thought of flying to Los Angeles earlier this week as visions of bleach, boobs, and traffic swarmed my naturally colored head.
Before last week, I had only been to San Francisco once. I was eight years old and other than riding the boat to Alcatraz, my giddiest recollection was an elderly man named Ed handing me a $10 bill at a diner.
