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Sail Away

Place

Vela

1 Park Boulevard (at Harbor Drive), 4, San Diego




“Hotel restaurant” used to be shorthand for “What’s that slop you’re eating?” — back in the era of moldy “colonial” inns and all-one-mold “family” chains (remember Howard Johnson’s Motor Inns?). But not now, and certainly not here, where hotels constitute about half of San Diego’s culinary hot spots (e.g., 1500 Ocean, A.R. Valentien, Arterra, El Bizcocho, Nine Ten, Quarter Kitchen, et al.). While many stand-alones have had to scrimp on ingredient quality and staff to survive the slump, major hotels still partially subsidize fine in-house restaurants, as they do in European and Third World capitals — as both an attraction and a convenience to high-paying room guests.

Say hello to Vela (Latin for “sail”) at the sparkling new Bayfront Hilton. My posse and I found it a kick and a half. We loved the food, ambiance, and service and loved the value — even the à la carte menu is reasonable by current standards, as are the wines. Starters, especially, were so rewarding that, as we left, we were talking about returning for “scenery breaks,” grazing-meal mini-getaways — big pleasures, no pressures. “This would make a great first-date spot,” said Samurai Jim’s horndog evil twin. “Share some appetizers and desserts, bring another bottle out to the patio, watch the moon, get a room…”

The bayview dining room (one floor down from the lobby, by escalator or elevator) is huge, bright, air-conditioned, and thoroughly soundproofed, so even as it filled up with conventioneers, it never got loud. When I stepped out to the patio, I saw (and heard) about 30 little kids in matching blue bathing suits run squealing joyously toward the pool — maybe a day camp? (Certainly not typical resort guests’ blasé offspring, who probably have pools at home.) Above the pool, a huge screen projected videos of undersea life. On this inlet of the bay, speedboats were speeding in from wider waters. From certain angles, you could see Coronado and the bridge. A few people lounged at umbrella tables outside the restaurant windows. It seemed a playground for the blessed.

I was lured by enthusiastic but somewhat overstated emails from the publicist. She promised a great view (totally true) and a monthly changing “exotic” prix fixe (true only the first week of the month). She promised an “early bird” inexpensive prix fixe (not!) and also free valet parking. (True only if you possess the secret Vela decoder ring, which we didn’t. See “Need to Know” for the procedure.) She could win the title of Most Promising PR Pro, but once the dishes started coming, I didn’t care because her most important promise came true: really good food. And something she didn’t even know about: a spirit of kindness and generosity, what New Orleans residents call lagniappe, “a little something extra.” (To be a bit sexist: Restaurants managed by women — in this case Susan Carré — seem to get the lagniappe concept more often than other restaurants. I’m thinking of Lisa Redwine, the sommelier who became manager at dear, departed Molly’s, another place with a sense of generosity; she’s now at the Shores.)

The bargain prix fixe ($36, $50 with wines) is not an “early bird” but an “early in the month” bird. From the first through the seventh, chef de cuisine Adam Bussell prepares a four-course dinner on the theme of “Epicurean Explorations,” featuring a monthly changing national cuisine and its wines. Adam is a local guy, trained at the CCA in San Francisco and subsequently mentored by the great Jimmy Boyce (at the Phoenician in Scottsdale) and by Michael Mina of San Francisco’s Aqua (Adam opened the Laguna Beach location for him). In August, the prix fixe featured Spain; in September, it will be Chile. (I may return on my own dime for this, since the only other Chilean food I can revisit here is at Berta’s in Old Town.) These “explorations” allow Adam to stretch out and show his stuff and for diners to enjoy his creativity. He and German-trained executive chef Patrick Dahms share credit on the regular menu.

The amuse did amuse: A tablespoonful of chopped-fruit salad (apple, peach, cantaloupe, sweet mango) hit the spot on a muggy day. The bread was fresh house-baked sourdough baguette, crusty and yeasty, accompanied by an irresistible blend of softened butter and olive tapenade.

The “Tribute to the Spanish Armada” exploration dinner didn’t go down in flames like its namesake off the English coast (or we’d have to eat bangers and mash). It began with an heirloom tomato gazpacho shooter paired with two rectangles of tortilla española (the Spanish version of frittata), filled with tuna, potato, and olives. Neither Jim nor Dave cottoned to the gazpacho, but Marty and I, who normally aren’t gazpacho fans, enjoyed it: it tasted intensely of puréed summer-ripe tomatoes with hints of other vegetables, with just a waft of sherry vinegar — like the V8 of the gods. I was the only taker for most of the tortilla, which, though bland despite the olives and tuna, tickled me with an interesting, spongy-fluffy texture.

The à la carte starter that made us sit up was a Baja White Prawn Escabèche. “Omigod, I haven’t tasted prawns this sweet in 30 years, since I ate ’em just caught in Guaymas!” I gasped. Prawns once made shrimp cocktail a steakhouse treat, but they’re rarely this thrilling anymore. All those cheap, farmed Asian shrimp are okay, but — wow, what a difference! “These taste almost like lobster,” Marty said. Huge, perfectly cooked, they were plated in three ramekins over a riveting mixture of Haas avocado purée, red chili, preserved lemon, and basil, not even a bit like ordinary guacamole but depth-charged, extra-rich. And here’s where the generosity comes in: three ramekins, four eaters, so the kitchen (or waitress) snuck a fourth prawn into one of the ramekins.

Marty was the first to try the Meyer filet carpaccio, and with each bite she was moaning like Meg Ryan (but quietly). When I tasted what she was having, I moaned the second verse. The beef, ethereally tender, was plated over just-right caper aioli and “micro Dijon” and sprinkled with fetal four-leaf greens (yes, the baby mustard), with intensely sweet, pickled red onion dice on the side. This was not just another carpaccio, it was perfect carpaccio.

Heirloom peach salad had a heap of well-dressed young greens hemmed around with wonderful peach slices mingling with thinner slices of pata negra — the best Iberian ham, made from a special breed of pigs fed on acorns. Lagniappe again — they could’ve used regular prosciutto but instead casually wafted in one of the world’s most precious foods. (Most restaurants would serve a few slices solo and bankrupt you to try it.) Alongside was a bruschetta of fresh artisanal goat cheese, while the plate wore streaks of sweet and tart glazes, orange and dark red.

The matching appetizer wine on the tasting menu was a Spanish brut sparkling wine, Mont Marçal. We also ordered two flights for the rest of us, a white and a red, with three two-ounce pours each. (I suspect a little extra came in the pours, as they lasted through dinner.) Each flight was set on a paper mat giving the names and the sommelier’s description. “Pacific Rim Whites” had something for every taste: Dave liked the gentle St. Innocent Pinot Gris, Jim and Marty favored the full-bodied Dutton-Goldfield Chardonnay, and I fell for the big tropical-fruit nose of the St. Lukes Sauvignon Blanc (“gooseberry, white currant, passion fruit”).

With the “Reds of Highway 101,” the lush Cabernet was the overwhelming favorite. “What’s this called again — John Gott?” I asked, seized by a senior moment. “Joel Gott,” Dave corrected. “John Gott is Joey’s mobster brother,” Marty said. “Well, whatever, Gott is good!” I said. An Ash Hollow Merlot was mannerly, self-effacing. Jake Ryan Cellars Zin was the opposite — aggressive, tannic, spicy.

The Armada dinner included two entrées. The first Spanish main was gambas a la plancha, the same great prawns grilled, with lush piquillo peppers and a devastating vino blanco garlic sauce. “You have to dip the bread into this!” said Dave. “It completes the dish.” He was right. The sauce was utterly sensual, an army of lightly sautéed garlic slices cooked until sweetened, but still slightly crisp, amid a jungle of fresh-minced herbs in a slightly thickened liquid that reemphasized those flavors. The prawns were fine, too, although more cooked than that ideal escabèche version. This came with an interesting white wine — a chewy Albarino. The waitress compared it to Riesling; I thought it had a creamy, cheesy undertone.

There was a little shrimp left to take home at the end of dinner. “Hey, throw in more gravy,” said bold Marty. “And more bread!” They actually did both — in fact, the chef even made extra gravy for the doggie-box. I know we weren’t busted as a review party, but the waitress did pick up that we were locals falling in love with the food, who’d gladly share our pleasure by word-of-mouth.

The Spanish meat course was delicious: Carne de Cerdo — grilled slices of pork loin, tender and rosy, with sweet-tart roasted tomatoes, capers, anchovies, and a scattering of chopped Marcona almonds. This came with a full-bodied red Rioja.

The à la carte choices were a bit of a letdown from the scintillating starters. I forgot to specify “rosy rare” when ordering the huge grilled Kurobuta pork chop, which came pink in the center and reasonably moist but ten degrees past ideal. Accompaniments were simple, flawless: creamy polenta, pancetta, wilted greens atop the pork, and in a corner of the plate, “salty caramel,” a wholly unexpected sweet butterscotch sauce.

Organic chicken breast, although boasting crisp skin, was more severely flawed by overcooking. (What’s the magic word for ordering chicken cooked to the exact moment it turns from pink to white?) It was garnished with exquisite, plump chanterelle mushrooms, the reason I chose the dish — and reason enough for the dish to exist. The poached fingerling potatoes were pleasing but the fava beans a tad too firm, as were the “spring onions,” which looked and tasted more like sliced leek greens needing more braising-time.

Meyer flat-iron steak was rare as ordered (not much to say about it...it’s just steak). The “marble potatoes” alongside (describing size and shape, not texture) were sweet treats. The asparagus spears were skinny, maybe feral. “Thin asparagus may be chic, but fat ones taste better,” Marty observed. The dips for the steak were a bright orange streak of piquillo romesco and a little salsa verde.

The Armada dessert was a Spanish-style flan, firm-textured and glazed with lemon. Either you’re a flan fan or not, and none of us are. When our excellent waitress brought out the dessert tray (by pastry chef John Gilbert), we were quite undone by the spectacle, succumbing to the other three choices. A “chocolate espresso” was a demitasse filled with wonderful bittersweet chocolate pot au crème, accompanied by a tiny, nutty muffin, tasting like homemade. A coconut-lemon puff that looked like a Hostess Sno-Ball proved a grown-up version, with a lemon glaze under a waft of coconut shreds, coconut cake, and a filling of tart-sweet citrus jam. Neither of these overdid the sugar. (For that matter, the flan wasn’t oversweet, either.) A much sweeter fourth choice married a dark-chocolate pastry, vanilla ice cream, and fruited cheesecake, for the sugarholics in the house.

Then came the pour for the Armada dessert: an amazing, clearly precious sweet wine, made from dried grapes (aka raisins), called Bodegas Toro Albalá, “Don PX,” Pedro Jimenez. It was so interesting, the waitress brought us the half-bottle to inspect, at our request. “Our sommelier — [Megan Yelenosky, a certified master sommelier] — will only open one of these bottles per night,” she said. It tasted that rare. And remember, Armada wines were only $14 for four pours. Generous is the word. You don’t feel like you’re in a Hilton, hotel of plutocrats. It’s more as though the kitchen, the sommelier, the servers, and the sunset on the waters have created a special, rarefied world of grace, taste, and indulgence. As I wrote about Molly’s a few years ago — don’t waste this one on the conventioneers. It’s for us to enjoy, too.

Vela
****
(Excellent)
Hilton San Diego Bayfront Hotel, 1 Park Boulevard at Harbor Drive, 619-564-3333, hiltonsandiegobayfront.com.
HOURS: Breakfast 6:30–11:00 a.m.; lunch 11:00 a.m.–3:00 p.m.; dinner 5:30–10:30 p.m.
PRICES: Starters, $12–$16; entrées, $18–$36; desserts, $6. Four-course “Epicurean Explorations” international meal first week of each month, $36 ($50 with wines).
CUISINE AND BEVERAGES: “Farm to fork” cuisine of mainly local, organic ingredients enriched by luxury imports. Imaginative international wine list, many by the glass, including affordable “flights.” Full bar, creative cocktails.
PICK HITS: Entire “exploration” prix-fixe menu, plus Meyer filet carpaccio; Baja white prawn escabèche; peach salad; Kurobuta pork chop; chocolate espresso; coconut puff.
NEED TO KNOW: Most direct route to Vela website is via Google (enter “Vela San Diego”). Validated valet parking $20. For free valet and self-parking and other discounts, sign up for Vela Society; however, website version (under “VIP card”) didn’t work when I tried to sign up. Panoramic bay view. Business-casual and resort-casual dress. No direct access via Park Boulevard; approach from west via Harbor Drive. A few lacto-vegetarian dishes.

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Place

Vela

1 Park Boulevard (at Harbor Drive), 4, San Diego




“Hotel restaurant” used to be shorthand for “What’s that slop you’re eating?” — back in the era of moldy “colonial” inns and all-one-mold “family” chains (remember Howard Johnson’s Motor Inns?). But not now, and certainly not here, where hotels constitute about half of San Diego’s culinary hot spots (e.g., 1500 Ocean, A.R. Valentien, Arterra, El Bizcocho, Nine Ten, Quarter Kitchen, et al.). While many stand-alones have had to scrimp on ingredient quality and staff to survive the slump, major hotels still partially subsidize fine in-house restaurants, as they do in European and Third World capitals — as both an attraction and a convenience to high-paying room guests.

Say hello to Vela (Latin for “sail”) at the sparkling new Bayfront Hilton. My posse and I found it a kick and a half. We loved the food, ambiance, and service and loved the value — even the à la carte menu is reasonable by current standards, as are the wines. Starters, especially, were so rewarding that, as we left, we were talking about returning for “scenery breaks,” grazing-meal mini-getaways — big pleasures, no pressures. “This would make a great first-date spot,” said Samurai Jim’s horndog evil twin. “Share some appetizers and desserts, bring another bottle out to the patio, watch the moon, get a room…”

The bayview dining room (one floor down from the lobby, by escalator or elevator) is huge, bright, air-conditioned, and thoroughly soundproofed, so even as it filled up with conventioneers, it never got loud. When I stepped out to the patio, I saw (and heard) about 30 little kids in matching blue bathing suits run squealing joyously toward the pool — maybe a day camp? (Certainly not typical resort guests’ blasé offspring, who probably have pools at home.) Above the pool, a huge screen projected videos of undersea life. On this inlet of the bay, speedboats were speeding in from wider waters. From certain angles, you could see Coronado and the bridge. A few people lounged at umbrella tables outside the restaurant windows. It seemed a playground for the blessed.

I was lured by enthusiastic but somewhat overstated emails from the publicist. She promised a great view (totally true) and a monthly changing “exotic” prix fixe (true only the first week of the month). She promised an “early bird” inexpensive prix fixe (not!) and also free valet parking. (True only if you possess the secret Vela decoder ring, which we didn’t. See “Need to Know” for the procedure.) She could win the title of Most Promising PR Pro, but once the dishes started coming, I didn’t care because her most important promise came true: really good food. And something she didn’t even know about: a spirit of kindness and generosity, what New Orleans residents call lagniappe, “a little something extra.” (To be a bit sexist: Restaurants managed by women — in this case Susan Carré — seem to get the lagniappe concept more often than other restaurants. I’m thinking of Lisa Redwine, the sommelier who became manager at dear, departed Molly’s, another place with a sense of generosity; she’s now at the Shores.)

The bargain prix fixe ($36, $50 with wines) is not an “early bird” but an “early in the month” bird. From the first through the seventh, chef de cuisine Adam Bussell prepares a four-course dinner on the theme of “Epicurean Explorations,” featuring a monthly changing national cuisine and its wines. Adam is a local guy, trained at the CCA in San Francisco and subsequently mentored by the great Jimmy Boyce (at the Phoenician in Scottsdale) and by Michael Mina of San Francisco’s Aqua (Adam opened the Laguna Beach location for him). In August, the prix fixe featured Spain; in September, it will be Chile. (I may return on my own dime for this, since the only other Chilean food I can revisit here is at Berta’s in Old Town.) These “explorations” allow Adam to stretch out and show his stuff and for diners to enjoy his creativity. He and German-trained executive chef Patrick Dahms share credit on the regular menu.

The amuse did amuse: A tablespoonful of chopped-fruit salad (apple, peach, cantaloupe, sweet mango) hit the spot on a muggy day. The bread was fresh house-baked sourdough baguette, crusty and yeasty, accompanied by an irresistible blend of softened butter and olive tapenade.

The “Tribute to the Spanish Armada” exploration dinner didn’t go down in flames like its namesake off the English coast (or we’d have to eat bangers and mash). It began with an heirloom tomato gazpacho shooter paired with two rectangles of tortilla española (the Spanish version of frittata), filled with tuna, potato, and olives. Neither Jim nor Dave cottoned to the gazpacho, but Marty and I, who normally aren’t gazpacho fans, enjoyed it: it tasted intensely of puréed summer-ripe tomatoes with hints of other vegetables, with just a waft of sherry vinegar — like the V8 of the gods. I was the only taker for most of the tortilla, which, though bland despite the olives and tuna, tickled me with an interesting, spongy-fluffy texture.

The à la carte starter that made us sit up was a Baja White Prawn Escabèche. “Omigod, I haven’t tasted prawns this sweet in 30 years, since I ate ’em just caught in Guaymas!” I gasped. Prawns once made shrimp cocktail a steakhouse treat, but they’re rarely this thrilling anymore. All those cheap, farmed Asian shrimp are okay, but — wow, what a difference! “These taste almost like lobster,” Marty said. Huge, perfectly cooked, they were plated in three ramekins over a riveting mixture of Haas avocado purée, red chili, preserved lemon, and basil, not even a bit like ordinary guacamole but depth-charged, extra-rich. And here’s where the generosity comes in: three ramekins, four eaters, so the kitchen (or waitress) snuck a fourth prawn into one of the ramekins.

Marty was the first to try the Meyer filet carpaccio, and with each bite she was moaning like Meg Ryan (but quietly). When I tasted what she was having, I moaned the second verse. The beef, ethereally tender, was plated over just-right caper aioli and “micro Dijon” and sprinkled with fetal four-leaf greens (yes, the baby mustard), with intensely sweet, pickled red onion dice on the side. This was not just another carpaccio, it was perfect carpaccio.

Heirloom peach salad had a heap of well-dressed young greens hemmed around with wonderful peach slices mingling with thinner slices of pata negra — the best Iberian ham, made from a special breed of pigs fed on acorns. Lagniappe again — they could’ve used regular prosciutto but instead casually wafted in one of the world’s most precious foods. (Most restaurants would serve a few slices solo and bankrupt you to try it.) Alongside was a bruschetta of fresh artisanal goat cheese, while the plate wore streaks of sweet and tart glazes, orange and dark red.

The matching appetizer wine on the tasting menu was a Spanish brut sparkling wine, Mont Marçal. We also ordered two flights for the rest of us, a white and a red, with three two-ounce pours each. (I suspect a little extra came in the pours, as they lasted through dinner.) Each flight was set on a paper mat giving the names and the sommelier’s description. “Pacific Rim Whites” had something for every taste: Dave liked the gentle St. Innocent Pinot Gris, Jim and Marty favored the full-bodied Dutton-Goldfield Chardonnay, and I fell for the big tropical-fruit nose of the St. Lukes Sauvignon Blanc (“gooseberry, white currant, passion fruit”).

With the “Reds of Highway 101,” the lush Cabernet was the overwhelming favorite. “What’s this called again — John Gott?” I asked, seized by a senior moment. “Joel Gott,” Dave corrected. “John Gott is Joey’s mobster brother,” Marty said. “Well, whatever, Gott is good!” I said. An Ash Hollow Merlot was mannerly, self-effacing. Jake Ryan Cellars Zin was the opposite — aggressive, tannic, spicy.

The Armada dinner included two entrées. The first Spanish main was gambas a la plancha, the same great prawns grilled, with lush piquillo peppers and a devastating vino blanco garlic sauce. “You have to dip the bread into this!” said Dave. “It completes the dish.” He was right. The sauce was utterly sensual, an army of lightly sautéed garlic slices cooked until sweetened, but still slightly crisp, amid a jungle of fresh-minced herbs in a slightly thickened liquid that reemphasized those flavors. The prawns were fine, too, although more cooked than that ideal escabèche version. This came with an interesting white wine — a chewy Albarino. The waitress compared it to Riesling; I thought it had a creamy, cheesy undertone.

There was a little shrimp left to take home at the end of dinner. “Hey, throw in more gravy,” said bold Marty. “And more bread!” They actually did both — in fact, the chef even made extra gravy for the doggie-box. I know we weren’t busted as a review party, but the waitress did pick up that we were locals falling in love with the food, who’d gladly share our pleasure by word-of-mouth.

The Spanish meat course was delicious: Carne de Cerdo — grilled slices of pork loin, tender and rosy, with sweet-tart roasted tomatoes, capers, anchovies, and a scattering of chopped Marcona almonds. This came with a full-bodied red Rioja.

The à la carte choices were a bit of a letdown from the scintillating starters. I forgot to specify “rosy rare” when ordering the huge grilled Kurobuta pork chop, which came pink in the center and reasonably moist but ten degrees past ideal. Accompaniments were simple, flawless: creamy polenta, pancetta, wilted greens atop the pork, and in a corner of the plate, “salty caramel,” a wholly unexpected sweet butterscotch sauce.

Organic chicken breast, although boasting crisp skin, was more severely flawed by overcooking. (What’s the magic word for ordering chicken cooked to the exact moment it turns from pink to white?) It was garnished with exquisite, plump chanterelle mushrooms, the reason I chose the dish — and reason enough for the dish to exist. The poached fingerling potatoes were pleasing but the fava beans a tad too firm, as were the “spring onions,” which looked and tasted more like sliced leek greens needing more braising-time.

Meyer flat-iron steak was rare as ordered (not much to say about it...it’s just steak). The “marble potatoes” alongside (describing size and shape, not texture) were sweet treats. The asparagus spears were skinny, maybe feral. “Thin asparagus may be chic, but fat ones taste better,” Marty observed. The dips for the steak were a bright orange streak of piquillo romesco and a little salsa verde.

The Armada dessert was a Spanish-style flan, firm-textured and glazed with lemon. Either you’re a flan fan or not, and none of us are. When our excellent waitress brought out the dessert tray (by pastry chef John Gilbert), we were quite undone by the spectacle, succumbing to the other three choices. A “chocolate espresso” was a demitasse filled with wonderful bittersweet chocolate pot au crème, accompanied by a tiny, nutty muffin, tasting like homemade. A coconut-lemon puff that looked like a Hostess Sno-Ball proved a grown-up version, with a lemon glaze under a waft of coconut shreds, coconut cake, and a filling of tart-sweet citrus jam. Neither of these overdid the sugar. (For that matter, the flan wasn’t oversweet, either.) A much sweeter fourth choice married a dark-chocolate pastry, vanilla ice cream, and fruited cheesecake, for the sugarholics in the house.

Then came the pour for the Armada dessert: an amazing, clearly precious sweet wine, made from dried grapes (aka raisins), called Bodegas Toro Albalá, “Don PX,” Pedro Jimenez. It was so interesting, the waitress brought us the half-bottle to inspect, at our request. “Our sommelier — [Megan Yelenosky, a certified master sommelier] — will only open one of these bottles per night,” she said. It tasted that rare. And remember, Armada wines were only $14 for four pours. Generous is the word. You don’t feel like you’re in a Hilton, hotel of plutocrats. It’s more as though the kitchen, the sommelier, the servers, and the sunset on the waters have created a special, rarefied world of grace, taste, and indulgence. As I wrote about Molly’s a few years ago — don’t waste this one on the conventioneers. It’s for us to enjoy, too.

Vela
****
(Excellent)
Hilton San Diego Bayfront Hotel, 1 Park Boulevard at Harbor Drive, 619-564-3333, hiltonsandiegobayfront.com.
HOURS: Breakfast 6:30–11:00 a.m.; lunch 11:00 a.m.–3:00 p.m.; dinner 5:30–10:30 p.m.
PRICES: Starters, $12–$16; entrées, $18–$36; desserts, $6. Four-course “Epicurean Explorations” international meal first week of each month, $36 ($50 with wines).
CUISINE AND BEVERAGES: “Farm to fork” cuisine of mainly local, organic ingredients enriched by luxury imports. Imaginative international wine list, many by the glass, including affordable “flights.” Full bar, creative cocktails.
PICK HITS: Entire “exploration” prix-fixe menu, plus Meyer filet carpaccio; Baja white prawn escabèche; peach salad; Kurobuta pork chop; chocolate espresso; coconut puff.
NEED TO KNOW: Most direct route to Vela website is via Google (enter “Vela San Diego”). Validated valet parking $20. For free valet and self-parking and other discounts, sign up for Vela Society; however, website version (under “VIP card”) didn’t work when I tried to sign up. Panoramic bay view. Business-casual and resort-casual dress. No direct access via Park Boulevard; approach from west via Harbor Drive. A few lacto-vegetarian dishes.

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Comments
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"Pedro Ximenez", not "Jimenez"...it is the grape varietal. Delicious wines. :)

Aug. 27, 2009

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