Happy Boy Farms: Circa 1999

Note: I am rerunning this piece from 1999, when I first went to a farm with the chefs from Outstanding in the Field (farm dinners and tours).

Thursday, 16 September, 1999

My Terroir-ist Experience
When I look at "terroir" I think it means "terra" [earth] and "savoir'" [to know]. So I wonder how to put "terroir" into a paragraph. Do I say, "I went on a terroir"? Or that I "wanted to terroir"? I promise to never say, "I attended a terroir." That's so Martha Stewart-y.

2:00 PM I hear an unseen and indeterminate automobile crunch in my gravel driveway. This crunch will be heard often today, but I'm not thinking about that yet. The "halloo" from outside but I know it's them: the chefs. Tom and Jim. Thomas and James, if they were wearing their tocques and their white coats, but of course they aren't. I don't even have a passport, but I am certain that we are going to Europe in a certain way. "Europe" to me is somewhere that feasting in the field is a possibility, in the way that winemakers (I imagine) feed their crew: where love of the food is as immediate as love of a baby or a tree.

The TerroirMobile is comme de la mode for our outing. Alas, my cushy Volvo with Buena Vista Social Club and Lyle Lovett in the CD player, and more importantly, the acceleration of an Apollo rocket, will remain unscathed today. Little do I know that, two hours hence, we will almost be airborne in a comical maneuver by the median on Highway 101, witnessed by two extremely amused farmers whom we are following. Correction: whom JIM is trying to follow. I feel no fear, as I am clearly being saved for better things. I scoff at 18-wheelers whose passage makes the car shudder: we are on a quest for terroir. We are Terroir-istas, and this is our getaway mobile.

We meander out to Aromas; I'd thought we were going to Gilroy, otherwise I'd have spoken up with actual directions. Jim loves maps (he once studied cartography) but apparently doesn't want one in captivity. I'm along for the ride, and I can't stop giggling. The chefs are very funny. They are completely intent on our mission, but inside that intention, we're permitted a great deal of breathing room for amusement. My casual effort to assist becomes actual usefulness when I hear that we're looking for "Old Chittenden Road." I know there is a sign for it, and soon enough, sure enough, there is the sign. If you grew up across the street from a whiny little boy named Bob Crittenden, who would upend the Monopoly board if he was losing, you'd remember the street name, too. Jim makes one of his wide turns, and we cruise up the driveway to find Greg.

Aromas
Greg is suntanned and energetic, and he's slinging boxes of those beautiful heirloom tomatoes around, apparently unaware that, in my house at least, they are sacred objects. Tom and I find a row of flowers: the Bachelor's Buttons are enchanting. Tom gives me a seedhead from the Echinacea (cone flower) to bring home. Several kittens follow us; others flee. Probably from those large feet of Jim's; the guy is tall.

We follow Greg to another farm in Gilroy; this is where Jim almost missed the turn and where we were unsure that his brakes would keep us off the median. I have brief flashes of "Mod Squad" episodes (I'm Peggy, of course) and airborne autos, and collapse against the door, laughing. Greg and the other man in his truck are red-faced and howling, and Jim backs up calmly to make the real turn. Understand that at no point in this entire ride have I have been concerned for my life. I am grooving with the chefs, and we're doing the terroir, and it's just so much fun that I am melting.

Gilroy
We turn down a long, beautiful tree-lined driveway onto the farm, and we think we've found it: the spot for the Farm Dinner on October 10. The beautiful hills, dotted with live oaks and reddish shrubs, roll endlessly away, and the crops are brilliant and green at their feet. As soon as we get out of the car, though, the wind is whistling and cold. This doesn't bode well, nor does the proximity to the freeway, which is rumbling with trucks and cars.

Greg shows us the first field: squashes and melons. We all pick some Chanterais, filling four or five boxes that he will take to the market. He shows us the long rows of heirloom tomatoes next to the row of poplars lining the driveway. Those tomatoes closest to the poplars are considerably punier than the farther-away rows; Greg explains this phenomena as being the poplars trying to get rid of the tomatoes for being unlike them. Who'd have thunk that trees could be like all-white country clubs? Jim and Tom are just in heaven; it's plain on their faces. They are indeed...out standing in the field! I take a few photos that look good on the tiny LED screen on the back of the camera. Tom educates me as we walk; I like that. He tastes things and smells the leaves. On the other hand, Jim is a man of fewer words. He'll bend over and pick a lettuce leaf and put it into his mouth like Clint Eastwood, gazing at something that isn't yet there on the horizon. Then there is the barbed wire fence. I've worn hiking boots that have traveled farther than I have; these boots, which I inherited from my friend Scott's dead mother, have been to the Alps. They have a passport; I do not. They're broken in; I am not. Jim walks over the barbed wire like the acrobat he is; Tom finds a spot farther down that suits him. I think to myself that I'd at least like a little advice on how to do this, but they both think that I'm a country girl from Georgia and are halfway up the hill before I find a spot that might work.

I have been unthinking enough to have worn leggings on the terroir, but I figure I'll get over somehow. Note to self: bring a backpack next time, for carrying camera and tablet in; carry less stuff; wear sneakers like Jim "Cirque du Soleil" Denevan.

I manage to get over the fence, but not before Tom and Jim have looked back to see if I'm alive. They're briskly striding up the hill, which has a lovely flat cut in it, to see if that would be a good spot to set up the tables for a dinner. Tom calls down, "It's a cow bathroom up here!" before I get to the top, and I laugh, or try to. I'm not that out of shape, and this is actually an answer to a prayer I have been saying: "Get me out of the house." Here I am, with two men I scarcely know, climbing to view cow pies on a hillside in Gilroy. No one can tell me the Almighty doesn't have a sense of humor.

The climb down the hill and over the fence is easier, but I am parched. Note to chefs: remind me to bring water for us all next time.

They decide that the wind and the climb are less than ideal, and we decide to go to the third site in Gilroy, known as the Secret Farm because of reasons best left alone here. Before we climb into the TerroirMobile, we pick up the produce Greg has given us, and help ourselves to some very very ripe tomatoes that are bursting their seams like Sophia Loren in a tight, wet, red dress. I have a little stash of potatoes, enormous orange peppers that are easily six inches across, and several kinds of tomatoes, plus the Echinacea seedheads from the first farm. I'm a Happy Girl at Happy Boy Farm.

Aromas Again: The Secret Farm
Jim has to make one of his interesting turns here again. He passes the dirt road the first time, and loops back around to attack it from a new angle. He's a casual driver, but it's fun. He's already admitted that he enjoys getting lost and enjoys running out of gas, but he'd never inflict these things on other people.

Happy Boy's "Secret" Farm is directly across the road from the place where we met up with Greg the first time, and it has a completely different feel. The road is long and straight and cries out for the Allman Brothers, but Jim's radio isn't an option.

Tom says, "This road would make a great place to scare people," and launches into his Blair Witch Dinner idea. We're driving between railroad tracks and the woods; I suggest tying a mannequin to the tracks. We have many ideas, and every so often for the rest of the day, Tom blurts out another one, like some kind of Blair Witch Tourette's Syndrome. Each idea is more exaggerated than the one before, and I'm getting slap-happy.

We arrive late in the afternoon, perhaps five-thirty. The sun is strangely overcast in orange clouds; there must be a fire nearby. But the land! It's flat and private and very beautiful. It abutts the Pajaro River, and is lined on the banks with trees. If your back is to the trees, you're facing the railroad tracks, elevated somewhat; beyond those are the rolling, golden hills. We walk the muddy road between the two fields (Greg and Andy, of Mariquita Farm, share the land), and look to see what's growing. Beautiful tiny leaves of lettuce, basil, and other herbs. Wild amaranth in spots. I am swimming in visions of the meals they conjure, but listening to Jim and Tom talk. Tom greets some workers, "Hola, caballeros," as we walk through the sprinklers and get a little wet; everyone smiles at us. So would I.

Hidden in the woods as we walk down to the river, we see an abandoned school bus nose down in a little gully. Tom and his lofty ideas: "The Outstanding in the Field corporate office!" The river is low and smooth and greenish.

I stop to take some photos, though I think it's too overcast to present on the website. I've gotten good at doing panoramas, and hope there's a chance this one will work. But the strange light on the clouds makes me think it won't. No matter. I've got enough to work with. They're already talking menus when we get in the car. The terroir is over, but the glow remains.