Salt Lick, True Texas BBQ

The Salt Lick BBQ lies about 45 minutes Southwest of downtown Austin, Texas. It is definitely worth the drive. Feeling the after effects of a weekend marked by over-consumption, both of alcohol and tacos, my brother Damon and I are finally able to get going close to noon. We meet up with Wes Mickel, the primary instigator of said over-consumption. Wes' soon-to-be brother in-law, Jay, is along for the ride.

First stop: Gas station for a cooler, beer, and ice.

Salt Lick is BYOB and I cannot think of a better way to spend the 30 minute wait for a table than draining a few beers in the parking lot. I finally feel like I have officially arrived in Texas! The aromas dancing their way through the parking lot from the wood-fired BBQ pit are more complex and ethereal than I can put into words.

As the four of us wedge our way back into the crowd at the front door, I catch my first glimpse of the enormous pit to my right. Sausages suspended from the hood are soaking up all of the amazing smoke coming from the ribs and briskets slathered in BBQ sauce below like a sponge. I immediately realize that this smell is going to be with me until my next shower, which will probably be a matter of days the way this trip has been going!

A quick glance at the menu is all we need, the All You Can Eat Family Style Platter will do just fine. Within minutes the first plates arrive; a mountain of assorted meats, brisket, baby-back ribs, country sausage, pickles in all different forms, a huge bowl of coleslaw and potato salad each, two different types of BBQ sauce, one laced with the tear-inducing heat of habanero peppers, and a huge loaf of white bread. Eyeing the mountain of food before us, I trade an almost nervous glance with Wes, before going to town. As it turns out, we all are armed with quite the appetite from the heavy drinking of the night before, and manage to make our way to a 3rd serving before calling it quits. Salt Lick is not a meal to be taken lightly...

The Pit-Master..

Couldn't pass up the Kodak moment!

The Grand Canyon and the Trail of Oil Tears

It's just after 1 a.m. as I jump in the bus to get it warmed up for the drive I have ahead of me. I've been in Phoenix, AZ for the past couple of days, but it is time for something a little bigger, something a little more exciting! I have been hell-bent on getting to the Grand Canyon at some point during this trip, and the warnings that there is snow on the ground, and freezing temperatures, do absolutely nothing to quell my excitement. In fact, the thought of the upcoming hardship I will have to endure in a VW with no heat, heading to the Grand Canyon in the middle of the night so that I can hope to catch a glimpse of the sunrise, only heighten my anticipation.

On the quiet, almost deserted drive there I keep hoping that my engine won't cut out because of the cold. I've heard of it happening before from fellow Bus owners, but until now I had dismissed it as an impossibility. Two hours into the four and a half hour drive and the temperature inside the Bus is dropping steadily. This tends to happen when driving down the freeway at 65 mph sounds like you are strapped to the back of a rocket. There are so many nooks, crannies, and cracks throughout the exterior that I may as well have no windshield.

Luckily, I was prepared for this. Wool socks, long johns, wool gloves, a hat, and four layers of thermalwear and jackets should do the trick. Flying down the frigid highway I am constantly gaining elevation, and the only other vehicles on the road are Semi trucks that barrel past me as if I'm standing still. This can be disheartening during a long drive when, try as you might, you can only build up enough speed to pass when there is a downhill... Coming to the base of another long climb there is suddenly a strange feeling being transferred to my foot through the gas pedal, a hesitation, and then a loss of power that I immediately realize is entirely my fault. I am out of gas, it's pitch black, freezing, and it has dawned on me that this is how 90% of horror movies start. As it turns out my saving grace is that I am the only idiot who wants to drive to the Grand Canyon in the middle of the night!

After filling up and buying some coffee for my hypothermic hands, I can barely get the bus running for the last hundred miles, but finally I'm on the road again. Pulling into the National Park the entrance gate is deserted, and I get to skip the fee, the one positive so far! I'm ahead of the sunrise by about 45 minutes, but I can't kill the engine or it may not start back up again. At this point I have lost all feeling in my feet and ankles, my fingers will barely function, and my runny nose is starting to freeze, with little chunks of ice forming on my upper lip. I am not in good shape. Crawling into the back of the Bus and pulling my sleeping back over my head is the only option now, I have to get warm if I'm going to be able to stumble out into the sunrise and enjoy what I came here for!

I have been on the road for a month. I thought that by now I might be slowing down, that the trip might lose some of its luster, that the newness might be wearing off a bit. Not in the least. Every time I get behind the wheel I cannot wait for the next stop! I have put about 3,000 miles, give or take, on the bus since Napa, and back in Tucson I decided it was time for a tune-up. Turns out I chose the wrong shop, and ended up paying $200 for a tune-down.

Leaving the Grand Canyon at 8:30 a.m. I notice the enormous oil slick that has built up underneath my idling engine. This is not an oil leak that will be measured in drops. There is already a solid half-cup of oil littering the ground where I am parked. I have over 1,200 miles of driving ahead of me over the next two days if I am going to be able to make it to Austin, Texas on time to pick up my brother at the airport Saturday night. Damon is flying out from Portland, OR because he has a 3-day weekend from work and was originally supposed to join me on this cross-country journey! I have to make it there in time, have to. My solution to the oil leak turns out to be a simple one. All the environmentalists out there should skip this next part if you know what's good for you.

Gus, my Bus, averages about 200 miles on a tank of gas. This is not a small gas tank issue, this is a big, boxy, least aerodynamic vehicle of all-time issue. However, my gas gauge doesn't work properly. I am left writing down my mileage every time I fill up and then hopefully noticing when I am almost dry. All I have to do is buy a quart of engine oil every time I fill up, so now I am paying to fill up my gas tank and then paying to fill up my engine with oil. On the 1,200 mile marathon drive from Flagstaff to Albuquerque, Albuquerque to Abilene, TX, and Abilene to Austin, I end up blowing through 6 QUARTS OF OIL!

Finally limping into Austin around 5 pm Gus is one sorry Bus. Coughing and spitting, the engine sounds more like a dying rhinoceros than what it really is. I am gridlocked in traffic, some streets have been blocked off and traffic is being redirected. I finally get my turn to scramble through the intersection on the 5th green light I have seen and the Bus dies. Flatline. there is nothing as I'm frantically trying to get him restarted. Throwing it into neutral I hop out and start pushing and steering myself out of the intersection, a two-man job I might add. Safely maneuvered out of the way into a closed down turning lane I am cursing my luck as traffic creeps slowly by. Punching the steering wheel, pulling out my hair, I'm getting a bit animated about it. Looking to my left I see two of the most attractive blondes I have seen on the trip in the backseat of a cab, and they're trying to get my attention!

Rolling down the window I hear the belle closest to me ask, "Is that your Bus?"

"Yeah..." I reply, holding off on the "...obviously"

I try to start it again with no luck, and the stunning girl next to her pipes up with a giggle, "It looks really, REALLY good!" she gushes.

I can't take it anymore and blurt back to the pair, "Well, it's a good thing that is all that matters!" and the cab slowly creeps away...

San Diego coastline and Joshua Tree, Ca

Joshua Tree, CA

Morning after a freezing night spent in the desert.

These rock formations were amazing!

San Diego, CA

Beach Hike

Los Angeles, CA

I lived in California for almost 3 years and never made it to L.A. Not necessarily by design, but during that time I traveled South to Las Vegas twice, and North to Portland, all by car. So to say the least my motivation was not very strong. Heading back to California after a week + stint in Vegas I didn't really know what to expect. A slideshow running in my mind of scenes from Entourage promised to disappoint. While I wasn't quite as fortunate as Vince is, I did luck out in the food department! Two stellar stages, one at the Michelin two-star Providence, and the other at the wildly raved about Animal, formed my impressions of Smog City.

Providence

Located in West Hollywood, Providence sits on the wrong side of Melrose Avenue. Nestled in between "Pinky's" Automotive and a deserted storefront, the restaurant feels completely out of place, but in a good way. Chef Michael Cimarusti uses top-shelf seafood and mild Asian influences to create some amazing dishes. Let's get to it...

Avocado and Crab Salad.

This dish had an amazingly fresh and acidic element to it.

Avocado, lump crab meat, citrus in various forms, and spicy mizuna.

Kona Kanpachi Sashimi.

Soy creme fraiche, smoked sesame seed, micro cilantro,

cilantro flowers, compressed cucumber, and wood sorrel.

Two of the line cooks, Andy and Stephanie, plating.

Wild Striped Bass.

Tomato confit, shiso leaf, lemon, espelette, and burdock.

(Burdock, as I later found out, is a root vegetable very similar to salsify. It's used widely in

Japanese cuisine, where it is usually braised with sake and mirin or soy. Here they soak it

in water to remove some of the muddy flavor, then fry it in little bundles with sesame seed

and nori.)

Sous Chef, Sam Baxter helping out at the pass.

Animal

Unfortunately, I shit the bed during my stage at Animal. I didn't cut myself, and I didn't burn anything, but I did forget to take pictures. Rookie mistake! Now we are going to have to rely on my complete mastery of the language we call "Amurrican" to get the job done. I'll give it my best.

Animal has no sign. Just an address. 435 Fairfax is all I have to go by. Alright, I'm not kidding anyone, I have an iPhone so finding the resto was a breeze. Walking in the back door I wander down a blank, unembellished hallway until the kitchen appears through a doorway to my right. The first thing I realize is that I am overdressed. My first two stages on this trip have been Michelin-starred restaurants, and the uniform that I have come to see as the standard; black clogs, black pants and a pressed chef's coat, clearly do not apply when you are cooking at Animal. All but one of the cooks are wearing shorts. And the only one that isn't, Joe the Sous Chef, is wearing capri's. I take the cue and quietly unbutton my chef's coat before introducing myself. To say that this kitchen is crowded is an understatement of the highest order. Working in the kitchen at Animal is like trying to find some wiggle room in a tin box of sardines. I had better get used to it, I'm going to be here for the next 13 hours.

Checking in with Joe, he gives me a case of Hedgehog mushrooms to clean, and I start to spin in circles. There is not one open space for me to set up shop! I spy the prep sink in the corner and pounce. On the minuscule counter next to me, Raymundo, one of the a.m. prep cooks, has his cutting board set up and eyes me suspiciously.

"This is my station, O.K.? My station." he grumbles.

I can see why this is a territorial kitchen. You have to fight tooth and nail just to have the possibility of doing your job. But, as any cook who is reading this surely knows, we tend to like a challenge. Tiny prep area for a restaurant that is going to do upwards of 150 covers tonight? Fuck it let's get the catering crew in here too and cut the space in half! The only blessing I can think of for myself in the current situation is that it is January, and I don't mind getting cozy with my neighbors. If this was August everyone would be singing a much different tune.

The food here at Animal is clearly much more rustic than at Providence, which is definitely not a negative. The menu here has obvious soul, is designed to satisfy the masses and does what a restaurant is designed to do. Make money. There are so many fine dining operations that never turn a profit it is scary. Animal has no support system. There is no multi-billion dollar hotel backing it up. While there is a complete lack of a safety net, the food is gutsy anyways. That's why Animal is so popular. Dishes like Seared Foie Gras with Country Sausage Gravy and Maple emphasize this fact. Vinny Dotolo, the de facto Restaurant Chef and his partner, Jon Shook, Chef of the catering operation, clearly have the stones to run a place like this. When you have a dish on your menu that includes Foie gras, a hamburger patty, spam, AND a fried quail egg, you are clearly not cooking scared.

Animal is not traditional, not in a way that I could recognize. From the cooks uniform to the food, there is something unique going on. There is no pastry chef. There's not even an ice cream machine, something I thought a restaurant was almost required to have. Naturally the desserts are simple, Doughnuts with Caramel, a Bacon Chocolate Crunch Bar, that despite what I see as the overuse of bacon in desserts these days, is absolutely delicious. (Thanks Yinny!) The ceiling in the kitchen is vaulted, at least 20 feet. There is a ladder leading from the dish pit to a catwalk that houses all the extras that a restaurant has to keep on hand. (Linens, paper towels, plastic wrap, etc.) Climbing it to retrieve some paper towels my only thought is how dangerous this is! But then again, what fun is cooking without the danger? Service at Animal runs until 2 a.m. on the weekends and I am reminded of how brutal it can be to work in a late night spot. When the kitchen closes at 2 you are lucky to get out of there before 2:30, and that is only if you don't have some disrespectful asshole order the bone-in ribeye 4 minutes to close.

Animal is fun, and it's busy, as a good restaurant should be. It is a chef's restaurant, a restaurant that draws a large proportion of the surrounding restaurants cooks to it's bar, to humbly pay their respect. And after all, what better indicator of quality is there than that?

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.