Wine. Because no great story starts with a salad.
This is what stops me. It’s a sign scrawled on a chalkboard outside a beautiful old Victorian cottage, huddling between three concrete buildings. It makes you think of those churches you see dwarfed between skyscrapers in Manhattan. It’s also a nice contrast to the moderne black corner building with the Influx coffee shop in it, right next door.
Ain’t nothing new about this house. “1888,” says the historical marker on the clapboard wall.
It’s happy hour. I have hopes they may go to snacks as well as bargain-basement vasos de vino.
But not really. Their house wines go for $6. The board says they have guac and chips for $9, olives for $7, and a cheese plate for $16. These are HH prices?
I head into the cute little room and ask for a glass of the house red. I choose Maggio Petite Sirah from Lodi, California, 2014.
I decide not to ask “Why no San Diego wines? I mean, San Diego is where the California wine industry was born, right? In 1769?”
I hold back because the Maggio is a lovely smooth glass of plonk, and I don’t want to start a fight in this sympatico intimate atmosphere, complete with a wide wooden bar and mustard-colored walls packed with bon mots and vintage pics. Plus, the upstairs, with its sloping roof-walls and window looking out over India Street and Piazza Basilone, is a great place for a secret rendezvous. And hey, there’s supposed to be a ghost up there, too.
Me, I’m at the bar downstairs. I decide to get a long plate of walnuts, candied peanuts, and toffee slabs. They cost $6 as well but do go great with the Sirah and are filling.
The best part? I take it all outside and nab one of the three tables on the front porch to munch, glug, and watch the world go by. Beautiful spot, if you’re into people-watching.
My two complaints: the stools at the bar are uncomfortable and clash with the well-worn woody character of the place. Two? Some food other than candied nuts would have been nice. Even a salad.
Wine. Because no great story starts with a salad.
This is what stops me. It’s a sign scrawled on a chalkboard outside a beautiful old Victorian cottage, huddling between three concrete buildings. It makes you think of those churches you see dwarfed between skyscrapers in Manhattan. It’s also a nice contrast to the moderne black corner building with the Influx coffee shop in it, right next door.
Ain’t nothing new about this house. “1888,” says the historical marker on the clapboard wall.
It’s happy hour. I have hopes they may go to snacks as well as bargain-basement vasos de vino.
But not really. Their house wines go for $6. The board says they have guac and chips for $9, olives for $7, and a cheese plate for $16. These are HH prices?
I head into the cute little room and ask for a glass of the house red. I choose Maggio Petite Sirah from Lodi, California, 2014.
I decide not to ask “Why no San Diego wines? I mean, San Diego is where the California wine industry was born, right? In 1769?”
I hold back because the Maggio is a lovely smooth glass of plonk, and I don’t want to start a fight in this sympatico intimate atmosphere, complete with a wide wooden bar and mustard-colored walls packed with bon mots and vintage pics. Plus, the upstairs, with its sloping roof-walls and window looking out over India Street and Piazza Basilone, is a great place for a secret rendezvous. And hey, there’s supposed to be a ghost up there, too.
Me, I’m at the bar downstairs. I decide to get a long plate of walnuts, candied peanuts, and toffee slabs. They cost $6 as well but do go great with the Sirah and are filling.
The best part? I take it all outside and nab one of the three tables on the front porch to munch, glug, and watch the world go by. Beautiful spot, if you’re into people-watching.
My two complaints: the stools at the bar are uncomfortable and clash with the well-worn woody character of the place. Two? Some food other than candied nuts would have been nice. Even a salad.
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