THE CENTRAL CALIFORNIA COAST

We drove up the central coast of California last weekend to celebrate my mother’s birthday in Cambria, a little resort town between Morro Bay and Big Sur. It’s a beautiful drive, with tantalizing glimpses of the Pacific Ocean, and giant rocks that look like petrified dinosour bones. The trip is mostly through Sycamore trees, with tufts of yellow grass and Pampas growning inbetween. When passing through a city, everything turns to Oleander. Occasionally you are graced by a sweeping panorama of ocean, and on this trip I spotted a whale and a school of dolphins. It must be time for migration.

Our first stop on the way up was the Candy Shop, just south of Santa Barbara. It is in a little strip off the freeway, at the Santa Claus Lane exit. There is no reason for it to be called Santa Claus Lane. Santa Claus is long gone. Namely, the gigantic bust of Santa Claus that used to adorn the roof of the Candy Shop is long gone. Santa Claus now resides in a vacant lot somewhere in Oxnard. The Candy Shop makes their shakes by hand, with fresh milk and ice cream, and quality mix-ins. Only perfectly ripe fruit is used in their shakes. So I decided to throw caution to the wind and order the infamous date shake, after having read a Sterns’ review of date shakes near Palm Desert. I was concerned when I saw the girl scraping the last dregs of dates out of the container. My worst fears were confirmed when I kept getting dried bits of date skin caught in my throat. Maybe date shakes are good when the dates are moist, but I will never know. I had to return and exchange it for my usual banana shake, which was again, perfection.

Our next stop was for lunch in Beullton at Mother Hubbards, as recommended by a fellow Roadfooder. Unfortunately, lunch did not live up to breakfast’s reputation. My French Dip was dull and skimpy on the meat. My husband didn’t even eat his Caesar salad, but he was a little out-of-sorts anyways. The décor was typical small-town diner, with a surprising number of healthy, live plants. I liked the special hat racks for hanging up your trucker hat. The daily special perplexed us… “pineapple-maple glazed hamlets”. We asked the waitress for a definition of “hamlet” and she said, “They’ve explained it to me a million times and I still don’t understand it…OK, fine, I’ll ask ‘em again.” She returned and recited, “It’s like a drumstick, but it’s the hem.” I was thinking, “Ham? Hen? Ham? Hen?” She repeated more slowly, clearly enunciating, “It’s like the drumstick, but it’s the HEM.” I tried to order it, but they weren’t serving dinner specials yet. Later, my brother and mother, who were making the same trip in a different vehicle, happened to spot our car in the parking lot and stopped by. We all gathered in front of the “specials” board to collectively ponder the word “hamlet”. My mom volunteered, “Well, a piglet is a little pig, maybe it’s a little ham.” “Maybe it’s like a cutlet, but with ham,” I volunteered. My husband opined, “It’s the DRUMSTICK, so the drumstick of the ham would be like the foot.” “That would be a ham hock” I rejoined. Stumped, we returned to our respective vehicles and continued on our journey up the coast.

Cambria Pines Lodge is a beautifully landscaped wedding factory. One of those places that just churn them out, three a day. Instead of the weddings being disruptive, they were kind of fun to watch from afar, because some people were dressed like cowboys or wore top hats like Abe Lincoln. One couple inexplicably had hand puppets. And kind of creepy hand puppets at that.

My family all met for dinner at Cambria Pines’ restaurant. It was fantastic, which surprised us a little. The crab cake appetizers were plump little buttons, with crispy outsides and perfectly done centers. Even the vegan ravioli were sumptuous and velvety. An appetizer platter of make-your-own crostini was earthy and fun. For entrees, my filet mignon was tender and buttery. I don’t like salmon, but my brother insisted I try it. It had all the flavor of salmon, with none of that metallic intensity that can be so off-putting. Later, my mother complained that her prime rib special was awful, but I was unclear as to what was wrong with it. I wish she had mentioned it earlier, so I could have split my filet with her.

The morning breakfast buffet was also surprisingly not bad, but not great like dinner the night before. We had a large party, so I picked a bus boy and tipped him five dollars ahead of time to make sure we got plates and chairs as needed. The chef saw me tip the busboy and came to thank me. I asked if she had been the chef night before and we had a nice talk. I should have gotten her name. Back at the buffet, the biscuits and gravy were good, which is an accomplishment in and of itself. The eggs and sausage were also good. But the pastries! They had rich, buttery, moist butterscotch scones that I would drive all the way back for. And end a sentence with a preposition for.

We went to check out the elephant seals. I thought I saw a bunch of them on the beach at Cambria, but Piedras Blancas is their official habitat, or “rookery”, so we continued up the coast for another 10 minutes. Off in the distance, you could barely make out some lumpy, irregular shapes. The lumpy, irregular shapes were pale and various shades of brown, the exact same color as the driftwood. I assumed we had missed the season. My brother insisted the lumpy, irregular shapes were elephant seals, but I was so certain it was driftwood, I made him bet me five dollars. We walked along a wooden walkway, and finally got close enough to see a huge bunch of lunpy, irregularly-shaped elephant seals. They just laid there, and we just stood there, and then we left. On the way back, we stopped at the beach at Cambria, to see if there were really any elephant seals where I thought I had spotted them. My brother said, “Let me guess…driftwood?” Yep.

Back in Cambria, we went into a little used bookstore. The prices were outrageous. I figured if the owner was that picky, she was the person to ask for restaurant recommendations. She recommended the Main Street Grill, which sounded kind of corporate. From the facade, the building looked kind of corporate.

But on the patio was a humongous Santa Maria-style wood-burning BBQ pit. It was the biggest Santa maria BBQ I have ever seen. Even bigger than the ones I’ve seen pulled by trucks. It was covered with slab after slab of ribs. The patio itself was flush with bikers…always a good sign at a BBQ.

The pork ribs were expertly handled, as were the beef ribs, but I just tend to prefer pork. The sauce, which I ordered on the side, was slightly sweet, but well-balanced by a little kick. No single flavor predominated. The beans tasted strongly of green pepper and were closer to chili beans than BBQ beans. Although green pepper was a little heavy-handed, I appreciated the effort to make the beans special, instead of just lazily dumping in BBQ sauce as many places seem to do. I savored the crisp garlic bread, in spite of the lack of an obvious garlic flavor. My nephews were extremely pleased with their monster hamburgers. The only unsuccessful dish was the pulled pork, which had too much sauce mixed in, making it too sweet.

Later that evening we met at the local pizza parlor. They had a stunning array of toppings, but I was disappointed with the pizza. The crust was thick and doughy, an apparent attempt at “California style”. It just came off as indecisive and unappealing.

The next morning, we all said our goodbyes after an unsuccessful attempt at a group picture, which turned into one of those silent movies where people run out one door as other people run in the other and no one could find eachother.

My husband Bob and I went to check out Nitt Witt Ridge, one of those places like the Watts Towers where an enterprising free spirit takes a pile of glass and shells and with a little cement, makes a home. It was something to see, but we were 2 hours early for the tour, so we didn’t see much of it. On the way down the hill, we met a disheartened couple who thought that maybe there was nothing on Nitt Witt Ridge…as in, “Haha, you’re the nitwit for climbing the hill! Gotcha!” We assured them it wasn’t just a practical joke.

We had cleverly wasted enough time at Nitt Witt Ridge so that we could have lunch at the Main Street Grill again before leaving town. This time I went for the tri-tip. Now, I have had very good tri-tip before. Let me correct that, I thought I had had very good tri-tip before. This sandwich brought tri-tip to a new level. It was not chewy. There were no thin veins of gristle running through the meat. You hardy even needed teeth to eat it. A very light slathering of BBQ sauce and a super-soft bun brought it all the way home.

We stopped at the Madonna Inn in Morro bay even though we were still full from the BBQ. Really, I never eat there anyway. The coffee shop isn’t very good at the Madonna Inn. The only thing I ever remember eating there was chicken salad. I’ll put it this way…it would be a nice place to take your grandmother. There is a very high blue-hair ratio there. There are only two reasons to stop at the Madonna Inn:

1. Freakishly huge pastries

2. To blow people’s minds

Since these are two very good reasons, I always stop at the Madonna Inn. It is the kind of place I imagine was created just to freak out people on acid. The Alpine-themed coffee shop has a round counter, with half-moons of wooden booths around it. The restrooms downstairs are a big draw for tourists. The ladies room is reminiscent of the palace at Versailles, while the men’s room has a sort of cowboy theme. Their infamous urinal is a big copper trough. There is also a restroom that boasts a waterfall urinal, but I have yet to see that one for myself.

The banquet room of the Madonna Inn is a special shade of hot pink which I have never seen before. And there is such a profusion of this hot pink, I really don’t ever need to see it anywhere else ever again. The dining room is anchored by a huge golden tree, with boughs snaking across the entire ceiling, enveloping the room. Oh, and did I mention the golden cherubs, the orb lights, and the swings that hang down from the ceiling, ridden by creepy grinning dolls? That is just a flavor, an appetizer, if you will, of what awaits you at Madonna Inn.

Of course, there is also the “silver bar” in which everything is painted gold, and I have not even started on the guest rooms! Some of the rooms are booked up to a year in advance, so I have never actually stayed there. But conveniently, there are post cards, and now a glossy-paged book allowing you a peek into the psychedelic world of rooms in which every single item is an insane shade of Kelly green, or sky blue, or made of patchwork. We picked up pastries the size of footballs, and headed off. Later at home, I took a bite of the ironically tall napoleon; puff pastry with a layer of white cream filling and a layer of chocolate cream filling, covered with chocolate royal icing. Bob was unhappy with his cream puff; puff pastry with a layer of white and a layer of yellow identically-tasting cream fillings, topped with a hot pink royal icing that was laden with an indefinable, yet definite flavor. Bob asked to trade. “This one tastes…too..too...” he faltered. “Pink?” I offered. “Exactly! Pink.”