A rare pampering at a high-end winery

October 7, 2025

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

I am loath to attend wine tasting at prissy venues. I just don’t feel comfortable at such places. I don’t even like wine and wouldn’t know the difference between good and great wines, only the cheap stuff, which I don’t drink. But my sister and brother-in-law were up here belatedly celebrating my birthday, and after years of being unable to drag me to wineries, they finally succeeded and drove me some 50 miles to one of the most luxurious and beautiful wineries possibly in the world.

The view from a rise was spectacular. The entire layout was first class with superb attention to detail. I was impressed.

Admittedly, I was not dressed for the occasion in my “Cheers” T-shirt and thrift store shorts, but did not feel out of place because most of the patrons surrounding us were dressed in what I observed to be only a step above my attire in that their clothes were new and not creased.

I was not upset when we were placed at a table completely cut off from the main dining area. But my sister insisted we be move inside, and we were, and almost immediately our waiter, a fine young fellow in his 30s, asked me “what I did?”

I told him I was a bartender who had for over 20 years worked in fishermen’s dives and Irish pubs. He nodded and my sister quickly added that “he’s a writer and has two books out there and writes for CalCoastNews.”

“CalCoastNews?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve been writing for them for over six years and accumulated quite an audience, most of whom see me as a rabid Marxist and Commie and a fool.”

He nodded again. He smiled. Nice fellow. Respectful. That’s what I like. Even if I appeared to be somebody who looked like he’d been picked up on the side of the road by good Samaritans, he was going to make me “feel at home,” which I did, because everybody at this venue was kind and attentive and in good humor.

The quality of food—a salad—was far above what I am used to and I expressed my thankfulness and relished it. I sipped my little splashes of wine, not knowing what it was, only that it was sometimes white and sometimes red and supposedly very expensive at close to $100 a bottle!

By God, I was enjoying myself and feeling also that after 82 years of generally scarfing down just about anything available, I deserved a little pampering and luxury.

When asked how “everything was,” I said, “Excellent. Thank you.”

We were sampling a variety of cheeses, some of which I couldn’t name, but were excellent, as well as bread and olives and tiny pickles and some sort of thinly-cut ham, fruit, etc. All good. I was living like a king!

Meanwhile, the young waiter continued to press on about what I wrote. I told him I had a book about baseball and another about a riverboat. He didn’t seem impressed. So my sister suggested he try and find me at CalCoastNews when he had time.

He thanked her for that information. Poured more splashes of wine. Also, because this magnificent establishment caters to dogs, I sneaked some of the goodies to my sister’s Golden Retriever.

One lady, on a wine tasting tour from Montana, came over and petted the dog because she missed hers back in Billings and we had a nice conversation, as I felt more and more at home in this milieu.

Then our waiter came by again as we were finishing, and, instead of asking us again how things were, he asked me how my coffeemaker from the thrift shop was doing. Obviously he had read my article about four straight coffeemaker failures from the local thrift store in CalCoastNews, possibly to verify my standing, and all was well around the table. I was legitimate.

Before we left, I told him to read my political diatribes and then check out the comments, as I felt this young man was just too nice and needed to sample some real poison in the atmosphere.