Sharing Basque
A community filled with family, friends, and food
For most of my childhood, I headed to central California to spend part of the summer with my beloved Godparents. I went on my own to become who I am for several glorious weeks before my family drove down from Washington State to pick me up.
On our last night, we would head to one of our favorite restaurants: The Wool Growers.
Located in a nondescript corner building across from the town square, The Wool Growers offers some of the best Basque food in the region.
As an adult, I am now able to join my family for cocktails in the cozy, dark bar adjacent to the dining room. Cold, crisp gin and tonics have never tasted better once you have escaped the dry California heat and settled into a cracked leather booth. We sipped slowly, the laughter of the construction workers perched on bars breaking through the murmurs of the basketball game playing overhead.
Drinks finished, we headed through the narrow hallway into the restaurant. The door opens into a brightly lit room, lined with red checkered tables pushed into long leisurely rows for family-style dining. . Savory aromas and the clank of pots floated through the swinging doors as we considered the menu. We sipped cold, red wine as we broke into crusty bread and settled on our orders.
I always wonder if I will still be hungry by the time the main course arrives.
Platters of food emerge from the kitchen, starting with a brothy soup laden with chunky vegetables and clumps of rice. On its heels comes the fresh buttery lettuce salad tossed with tomatoes and a light Italian dressing. A bowl of spaghetti is plopped down; next, the delicious sauce begging to be sopped up with more warm crusty bread. My Godfather added the pickled pigs' feet, noting with a grin they are the best around.
I take his word for it.
The atmosphere is light-hearted and joyful, filled with silverware tapping plates and glassware clinking in toasts. My Godparents know many of the other patrons, rising often to hug or shake hands throughout the meal.
We laugh and clink, too, often and true. We remember the old days and celebrate the new ones.
The main course arrives; lamb for the others and tri-tip for me. We even manage to tuck away a little.
Small scoops of spumoni served with rich coffee round out the meal. “To settle our stomachs,” my Godmother assures, tapping my spoon.
We head out into the balmy evening, aluminum leftovers in hand, for the short drive home. Overly full, perhaps. Overly happy.
We head home feeling if only for the night; we could be part of the Basque community too.
