A Dream

It’s a heist. I’m repelling down from the ventilation system into the bank’s maximum security vault. My feet hit the floor and, nothing. We haven’t tripped the alarm system, we’re safe. The rest of the crew drops out of the ceiling without a sound, there is cash stacked all around us, and no one to stop us from taking it all! As I am furiously loading it into my duffel bag I see something, a light scanning the room. It’s a flashlight, and it’s coming right towards us! I reach for my gun but before I can get to it I am woken from my slumber by a crisp knocking on the rear window of the bus, inches from my head.

“Campus Security!” a disembodied voice rumbles.

With an equal mixture of panic and confusion I scream back, “HEY!!” as loud as I possibly can.

Again the voice comes, this time with a flashlight pointed at my head, “Campus Security, step out of the vehicle.”

I realize I’m not dreaming anymore, I am parked in student parking at Occidental College, in Los Angeles, California. Struggling to free myself from my sleeping bag I stumble to the front of the bus, and throw open the driver’s side door, “Can I at least put on my pants?” I call out into the pitch black night.

“Yes, please put on your pants...” he responds. I take a step backwards and catch my heel on the stick shift, sending me reeling backwards until I break my fall with the back of my head. On the sink. Finally my bare feet hit the cool pavement, and I start towards the headlights pointed in my direction. It is somewhere between 3 and 4 am and I am thoroughly disoriented.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em!” the security guard belts out. Fuck, I have had some pretty terrible experiences with security guards before. Nothing but Police Academy dropouts on a power trip in my experience. Pulling my hands out of my pockets I turn them palms up, in submission.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” The back of my head is searing with pain. As he starts to speak I survey the situation. Two security guards, two sets of headlights both focused directly on my bus. To my left is what looks to be a trainee, with “Tim” on his name tag. He can’t be more than a couple years older than me. Front and center is “Officer” Molina, standing with his feet wide, one hand behind him and the other toying with his oversize flashlight. Standing about 5’ 9” he has the standard security guard uniform; navy blue fatigues adorned with plenty of emblems and pins, a utility belt clinging for dear life to his oversize belly, and a boyish grin that seems to be permanently plastered to his face.

“The problem?” he inquires rhetorically. “The problem is this,” he continues. “I’ve got a suspicious bus, with the curtains pulled, parked in front of a female dormitory on my campus at 3:30 in the morning. And the individual inside of this bus has no pants on, that’s the problem.”

“I know how this must look but..” I trail off. He looks at me with contempt.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Tell me.”

I respond slowly, wanting to choose my words carefully, “I’m visiting a friend, just passing through actually.”

He eyes me suspiciously, and then follows up with, “Oh ya? Who is this friend of yours?”

“William Joseph Swan IV.” I lie. (Sorry Joe, apparently you are my go to fake name..)
I’m actually visiting a friend from my hometown named Anna Dalton, but for some strange reason think that I might get her in trouble by identifying her.

“Alright, and where does this William live?” retorts Molina. I realize now that I have definitely made a big mistake but can’t turn back.

“Umm, he lives over there..” I gesture to the East end of the campus, which is out of sight. I’m just digging myself even deeper down the hole now.

Molina, with his hand dangling limply at shoulder height, mocking me, asks, “What is the name of his dorm, over there?”

“ I dunno sir. I can’t remember the name.” I respond dumbly. Molina instructs me to take a seat on the hood of the campus security cruiser. Turning on his heel, he takes a couple brisk strides to the driver’s side door, and, after rummaging around for a couple seconds, returns with a binder as thick as the Bible, dropping it with all the authority he can muster on the hood next to me.

“Well this shouldn’t be a problem,” he mutters with a touch of sarcasm. “we will just look up Mr. Swan’s room number here and then take you right on over there.” As he flips through the pages I know my lie has just about expired.

“Hmm, there isn’t any record of a William Swan!” he exclaims with mock surprise. After weighing my options for a moment, I reply, “Anna Dalton.”

“Which one is it? Anna Dalton or William Swan?”

Conceding, I say, “It’s Anna, that’s the person I’m visiting.”

Molina, with his grin wider than ever, comes back with, “Does she know you’re here?”

“What do you mean? Of course she knows I’m here, I was hanging out with her just last night.”

“So you would deny that you are stalking her?” questions Molina. My eyes dart to the left as I try to gauge Tim the Trainee, trying to determine whether or not he is actually serious with this line of questioning. Getting nothing but a vacant stare in return, I turn my attention back to Molina. I’m almost laughing at this point.

“No, I am not stalking her. That’s not me, this shifty guy you think I am? Not me.”

Molina, challenging me, replies, “What’s Anna’s phone number? Let’s call her and find out...”
I don’t know the number by heart, and the phone is in the bus. Telling Molina this I volunteer to retrieve it, so I can prove that I am not the creep that it looks like I am.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, I can’t trust you now, you lied to me. What if you have a weapon in the car?”

“Well, I don’t.” Another lie. My thoughts are with my knife case, which has at least 10 deadly weapons concealed inside.

“I can get it for you,” suggests Molina, “but you have to stay here.”

I agree, and as Molina is walking towards the Bus, I’m mentally scanning the interior for anything illegal. The open bottle of wine is tucked away along with the fifth of Captain Morgan’s under the bucket seat. My brand new bag of weed is in the mini-fridge, staying fresh. I’m in the clear. A long minute passes and Molina emerges with my cell phone in hand, shaking his head. He turns to Tim the Trainee and says, “This kid is sick, I’m sorry I went in there.”

“Why?” I ask curiously.
Ignoring me he says to Tim, “He’s got a half-full bottle of urine in there!”

Oh, that. Defending myself I say, “Hey it’s better than doing it in public man! Sometimes you just HAVE TO GO.”

He tosses me my phone, and I read out the number. Keying it in on his cell he says to me, “You better pray to God that she picks up buddy, otherwise your going in the back seat.”

Now, I am not a religious person in any way, but I take his advice, close my eyes and pray that Anna picks up. I do not need to visit a police holding cell at 4 in the morning for trespassing on a college campus. He presses call and we wait, hours pass, time slows to a crawl and I am in agony. She doesn’t answer. Now I am really fucked. He calls again, bearing a toothy smile of joy. She doesn’t answer.

Trying to reason with him I plead, “We could use my phone, maybe she didn’t answer because she didn’t recognize the number.”

Surprisingly, he goes for it. I dial her number on my phone and hold my breath...she doesn’t answer. In my mind I’m done for at this point, resigned to the fact that I’ll be spending a night in the Los Angeles jail system. Molina is weighing his options, and taking his time doing it.

Finally he sends me a lifeline, “Alright, take me to her room, if you know where it is..creep.”
I laugh out loud at this one as we start towards the entrance of the dorm, about a hundred meters away.

“Sorry I yelled when you knocked on the window back there,” I say, trying to break the ice. “I was at the climax of a really crazy dream.”

“Son, neither of us wanna hear about the climaxes of your fucked up dreams.”
replies Molina. Apparently I have finally said enough to provoke Tim the Trainee to speak, “Yeah man, we don’t wanna hear that.”

All I can do at this point is shake my head and revel in the warm glow of my incompetence. First the fake name, then the bottle of urine, now this. I am really on a roll.

“What’s the room number?” inquires Molina.

“No idea.” I respond.

“This just keeps getting better doesn’t it?” Molina says to Tim. But it seems that Tim has already filled his quota for speech for the day, and remains silent. Molina swipes his keycard at the front door and heads toward the elevators, but I have only gone up the stairs in this sprawling dorm and am not confident I can find my way to the room by the elevators.

I gesture towards the stairwell, and Molina, pointing to his protruding belly, says, “I don’t take the stairs.”

On the ride up to the fourth floor I am thinking that if I can just manage to find the room, I’ll be a free man. Exiting the elevator I take a wrong turn down a dead-end hallway, and we have to backtrack. Molina’s patience is wearing out. Desperately searching for landmarks to point me in the right direction, some clue as to which way I should head, I finally see it. A pile of radishes and lime wedges scattered about the floor down the hall. The discarded extras from a meal at a Taqueria. I remember those radishes! We take a right turn at the radishes, and there it is, finally, Anna’s room. Relief washes over me, all of the anxiety I had been feeling melts away and I smile, a big, toothy, smile of joy. Right at Officer Molina.

Tim the Trainee stops me short of the door, while Molina knocks loudly with his night stick. He has my I.D. in hand. Anna’s roommate, Sadie, opens the door.
“Anna Dalton?” Molina guesses.

“No, she’s asleep.” Sadie replies groggily.

“Can you wake her up for me?” asks Molina.

A moment later I hear Anna’s voice, and Molina, back in interrogation mode holds my identification up. “Do you recognize this individual?”

“Yeah, I do.” Anna says.

“Is he bothering you?” questions Molina.

“What? No, he’s just visiting..”

Molina, sounding disappointed, says, “Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure.” Molina apologizes for the intrusion and closes the door. I am on cloud nine. Vindicated! Myself, Officer Molina, and Tim the Trainee walk silently back to the elevators. On the ride down I feel like I just won a sporting event, I’ve triumphed over adversity, and am basking in the victory.
Exiting the dorm Molina turns to me and says this; “Kid, for the future, don’t park at college campuses, especially with a bus. It doesn’t look good. And for Christ’s sake, don’t piss in bottles!”
Words of wisdom falling on deaf ears..

Santa Barbara -> Las Vegas - 353 miles

I woke in Santa Barbara with two URGENT issues to deal with;

1. The immediate realization that I drank way too much last night, signaled to me by a gurgling, steaming, witch's brew that was fighting its way back up with an almost Thomas Keller-like sense of urgency.

2. A bladder so full with beer and other mysterious alcohols that it occurs to me mid-vomit that I may actually piss myself as well.

Luckily I am parked in a residential area of Santa Barbara, where my neighbors seem to be more amused than angered, as they stop their morning walk to savor the sound of my previous nights antics hitting the pavement.

A picture will be best to describe my feelings at the time.

On top of this, I realize that my Cannondale mountain bike, the one I have had since I was 12, has been stolen. I'm trying to push through the haze that is clouding my mind to remember how this happened, and I recall that I drunkenly returned my bike to its rack on the back of the bus, taking care to latch every component properly, and then forgot to actually lock it. Welcome to Southern California!
I hit the road early, ready for a change of scenery and make my way to sunny Las Vegas, Nevada

4 Day Stage at Michelin two-star Alex in the Wynn Hotel, Las Vegas.

Langoustine

pickled jicama disc, caviar, celery leaves, dehydrated roe.

Canapes

Tuna tartare with domestic caviar, Pork head cheese, roasted pepper veloute, Gruyere gougere

Amuse

sunny side-up egg, bacon chip, brown chicken jus,

white truffle hollandaise(made with REAL truffle, no oil)

"Caesar Salad"

toro tuna belly, caesar dressing, romaine, fried caper, shaved parmesan, and basil powder.

Roasted Foie Gras

caramelized persimmon, puree, and a winter spiced syrup.

King Crab Risotto

finished with whipped cream for a lightness I have never had in a risotto.

Ricotta Gnocchi

Roasted chicken "oyster", roasted chanterelle and black trumpet mushrooms, jamon, and pecorino on top.

Roasted Veal Chop

broccoli puree, glazed romanesco, oven dried tomatoes and veal canneloni.

John Dory

pan-roasted and served with salsify, littleneck clams, mussels, baby octopus, razor clam, and giant squid. All of this was picked up in a butter sauce that was finished with a French white wine, Chateaux Chalon.

Escargot

parsley puree, sweet garlic custard, oven dried tomato and a light jus.

Chef Stratta, jumping in on the line to cook veal brains for a VIP. They were poached just like you would with sweetbreads, then roasted in a rippin' hot pan. He started them in olive oil then added whole butter as soon as they stared to pick up some color. Once they were almost to the perfect golden brown he added shallots, whole garlic, thyme, and basted them for about a minute. Then capers, parsley, lemon juice and segments were added off the heat. By now the butter had acquired a rich, nutty aroma. This mixed with the acid of the lemon and the saltiness of the capers was perfect. It brought me right back to Skills One in school, simple but amazing!

Looking down the plating area, closest is Meat, the marble is Fish and Pasta, and the far end is for Hot and Cold Apps.

Lamb rack and saddle

basil chutney, roasted peppers and a chickpea crepe.

Mo, the Cold Apps Chef de Partie, helping out on a pickup for the fish station.

Hazelnut and caramel dessert.

The ice cream was a caramelized goats milk base, flavor was out of the park!

I had the good fortune of eating every one of the dishes pictured above, and almost made my way through the entire menu. If half of the restaurants I visit over the next six months are as generous as Alex I will finish this roadtrip a happy, happy man...

Carmel -> Big Sur -> Santa Barbara - 251 miles

Carmel -> Big Sur -> Santa Barbara - 251 miles

The drive through Big Sur is absurd. I know its early, very early in the trip but Highway 1 is the best stretch of road in the US. I’m callin’ it. Mountains piercing the clouds on your left, and rolling panoramas of the Pacific on your right make it really difficult to watch the road! Fortunately I make it to Pfeiffer beach in one piece and hike up into the hills for lunch. Another gorgeous pit-stop...

Trekking farther south on Highway 1 comes with the mountains slowly leveling out into wide plains rolling right up to the ocean. Cows in all shades of brown are grazing in the long, lazy rays of winter sunlight. I feel like I want to stop and explore every couple of miles but I am on a mission to get to Santa Barbara before sunset. There is no time to waste.

Santa Cruz -> Carmel - 45.9 miles

Santa Cruz -> Carmel - 45.9 miles

After dropping Zucca and the two humans off in Santa Cruz and grabbing a bite to eat on the boardwalk I decide to make my way to Carmel for the night. Carmel is the closest approximation of a quaint beach side European town that I have seen in the States. With narrow streets and alleyways, no addresses, and the sound of the Pacific crashing on its shores throughout town, it is an ideal spot to stay the night. A short walk through town proves that I am much too young, and not nearly rich enough to afford any restaurants here for dinner. Top Ramen it is!

Carmel + Pfeiffer Beach

San Francisco -> Santa Cruz - 82 miles

San Francisco -> Santa Cruz - 82 miles

Heading south on Highway 1, one of the most beautiful drives of my life, was proof in itself that I made the right choice to ditch Napa Valley. Just south of San Francisco I see two hitchhikers with a sign reading SOUTH. Having never hitchhiked or given a ride, I decide that my trip is going to be full of firsts, and pull the bus over. Moments later a breathless trio arrives. Jaded, as he introduced himself to me, is carrying a pack that seems to just about match his weight. With week old growth, a nose ring, and plentiful tattoos he fits the image of an aimless wanderer perfectly. Dahlia sidles up to my driver side window, with Highway 1 traffic blaring past just feet from her back, and introduces herself with a dead-fish handshake. Curly haired ginger that she is, (thats for you mikey) she has tried to tie it back with a bandana, but the bandana is losing. She makes her way around the front of the bus and I finally lay eyes on the third member of the troupe, Zucca, an exhausted German Shepherd. As it turns out, Zucca is the entertainer. Dahlia belts out the first lines of “I’m walking on sunnnshinne” by Katrina and the Waves, and Zucca, right on cue howls “hooo ohhhh!!”

Again, I made the right choice...

Setting Sail

My last day in the Napa Valley and my to do list is daunting. Trying to cram all of the belongings I have accumulated over 22 years into a 1973 VW Bus seemed impossible. Turns out it was. Three trips to the Salvation Army and one to the neighborhood dumpster made some headway but there was still a mountain of work to do if I had any hope of leaving on time. Fortunately my motivation is STRONG. Living in the Napa Valley for two and a half years may seem like a dream for some people, and for a long time it was for me, but the claustrophobia had officially set in. There were temporary fixes to this problem; travel to Europe and stuff your face full of foreign eats, move from St. Helena (pop. 6,500) to Napa (pop. 75,000), quit your job as the Fish Cook at a Michelin two-star, and go to work at a vegetarian restaurant. (where surprisingly I would eat more unhealthfully than at any point in my life, but more on that later..)

However, none of these quick fixes solved the ultimate issue that I had been born into, and had cultivated over the course of living for 19 years, isolated and yearning, in Anchorage, Alaska. Born and raised in a city where it takes 8 hours of steady driving just to reach the next and only other town with a population over 100,000 makes you wishful. It starts a steady sparking inside of you, sparks of curiosity that continue to flare for years but will die out without the proper fuel. Lucky for me I happen to have that fuel. For me it is a combination of being a cook, which you can do ANYWHERE, a newfound freedom that I have found living in the contiguous US, an almost built-in desire for travel and newness, and, now here is the most important part, a house on wheels!

So, back to the task at hand. How do I fit the necessities for living into a space the size of a Tokyo Micro-Hotel room? The answer was to give away about 90% of my belongings, my own personal Into the Wild moment. I am left with only the bare essentials:

• condoms
• crossed fingers
• three pairs of pants, one work, one jeans, one for some faraway special occasion
• a patagonia polar-fleece
• my only warm jacket
• two pairs of socks, one wool for good luck
• pillow, blanket, and sleeping bag
• two chef coats, two aprons, and my trusted Birkenstock clogs
• my knives
• portable stove and camping pot
• tons of ramen and oatmeal, for living on the cheap
• laptop, camera, and journal
• small stockpile of wine, sake, beer, and grain alcohol for those colder nights
• assorted cookbooks
• master list of 45 different restaurants across the country that I'm hoping to cook in

With the brilliance of German engineering, and utilizing all of the hidden and stowaway compartments in my Bus I finally get everything crammed in and am ready for the road. My first stop is just a baby step, heading to a city I have been to countless times over the last two + years but this time is decidedly diferent.

Napa -> San Francisco - 49 miles