When my dad asked me to accompany him on the Napa Valley Wine Train, I wasn’t sure what to expect. As a native of Napa, I regarded the Wine Train the same way I regarded Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco: it was an attraction constructed for tourists, a place where no self-respecting local would be caught dead. I always figured there was nothing worthy about the train, and imagined the dining to be as slow and stodgy as the hulking beast itself.
But my dad, invited aboard to pour his wines for the Friday Vintner’s Luncheon Series, had room for a guest. Not one to turn down a free meal, especially one accompanied by wine, I agreed. No twisting of arm needed.
I drove up to Napa from the Bay Area one Friday morning in May. When I got to my dad’s house, situated on the same two acres our winery is on, he was wearing long pants. This was my first indication that the Wine Train was something to be taken seriously. My father—no matter how low the thermometer gets—only changes out of shorts for major events: weddings, graduations, mosquitoes.
“Wow, dad, pants. This must be big time.”
We drove down to the train station, which is located off Soscol Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares through the city of Napa. Inside the large train depot, soon-to-be passengers were listening (and not listening) to a man onstage instructing how to pick a wine.
“It may have gotten a 97 from the Spectator,” he boomed, referring to Wine Spectator Magazine, the literary last word in wine ratings, “but the best wine is the one you like and that’s that.”
I glanced around the room. It looked like a bunch of Midwesterners on vacation: blue-hairs in shorts and button-down, short-sleeve shirts; men with handlebar mustaches and ladies in sun hats; families with hard-of-hearing relatives in need of liquid placation. I was beginning to think my preconceived notion of stodginess was going to be fulfilled.
“Dad, this looks like the senior citizen special,” I whispered.
“It’s just to make me feel better,” said my dad, sixty-two, who was about the median age.
We walked to the gift shop, where I was introduced to Brent Trojan, the wine educator and host who, among other things, puts together the Friday Vintner’s Luncheon Series. The series is a weekly excursion that pairs wines with a four-course lunch and allows diners to query the winemaker while riding to St. Helena and back. Since there are about 350 wineries, and therefore, just as many winemakers in Napa Valley, Brent rarely asks the same vintner back. But my dad, who started Tulocay Winery in 1975, has been asked back almost ten times. The reason for this, I think, is two-fold. One is that my dad is a hilariously good entertainer (even I have learned to appreciate his humor) and the other is that he is unique among winemakers. At a time when beverage conglomerates and beer companies are not uncommon players in winery ownership, my dad has kept Tulocay small, making about 2,000 cases a year. It is one of the oldest wineries in the valley and my dad, for many years, filled almost every role: winemaker, tour guide, grape purchaser, CFO (that’s Chief Forklift Operator), and marketing department. Plus, his wines are really good.
It was 11 a.m. and the train was scheduled to depart in half an hour. My dad and I ducked outside into the late morning sun. Napa is typically warmer in the spring and summer than the Bay Area, a welcome change from a foggy, cold San Francisco. The climate, in addition to the soil, topography, and geology—four elements known to winemakers as terroir—are what make Napa a good place to grow grapes. Good grapes mean good wine, and thus the reason Napa Valley is a world class wine growing region.
We walked out to the tracks as the burgundy and tan railroad cars approached. I could already smell a savory scent wafting from the train; I would later learn that all of the food is cooked on the train, in one of three kitchens.
Two photographers stood ready, waiting to snap photos of the 200 or so passengers that would board the nine cars.
“Okay, you’re up next. Right here. Great. Smile,” ordered one, as her bulb flashed and flashed.
About fifty passengers were in our “Champagne Vista Dome” car, which has elevated seating for better views. The rest of the passengers would be eating in the “gourmet express” dining cars or tasting wine in the lounge cars.
We sat at a four-top table at the end of the car. I knew it was going to be a nice meal by the amount of tableware: three forks, two knives, and three wine glasses. My dad immediately scooted out of his seat and began talking with newcomers, making jokes, and inviting people back to his house for more tasting after the ride. As the train began its gentle rocking motion, I noticed that Vista Dome did have its drawbacks: a bird’s eye view of scrap metal yards and mobile home backyards (Brent on the loudspeaker: “I swear, the scenery will soon change”) as we headed out of town. Napa is often considered the unsophisticated step-sister of the tony “up-valley” towns that we would be passing through—Yountville, Rutherford, Oakville, and St. Helena. Though Napa is experiencing a surge in upscale growth, including a Ritz-Carlton, up-valley is generally where people visit, and Napa is where the hoi polloi live.
As a Tulocay Pinot Noir was being poured, we were given instructions on how to get the most of our culinary experience: “This is a food and wine marriage; take a bite of food, a sip of wine. Drink lots of water because you are going to drink about a bottle of wine each.”
My dad informed me that instead of choosing a wine to match the food, Kelly MacDonald, the executive chef on the wine train, and Brent, first taste the wine, and then develop a menu around it. This is how they stay true to the wine: accentuating its flavors by pairing it with complementary flavors in the food.
The scrap yards soon gave way to vineyards, and the first of four delicious courses was served. I was beginning to soften on my preconceived notions about the train. I mean, yes, it was moving slowly (the forty mile round trip took about three hours) but that was sort of the point: a leisurely ride through pleasant scenery, a chance to pick up the nuances, and drink and eat. I paid attention to the flavors of the Syrah as I took a bite of the duck confit; I chewed the hanger steak slowly while taking a sip of the Cabernet Sauvignon; I let the queso fresca melt in my mouth as I washed it down with the Pinot Noir. I looked out the window and relished in the fact I was not driving up Highway 29, which can suffer from a crushing amount of traffic during the summer.
And the dining experience, though formal, was not stodgy. Passengers came back and sat at our table to ask my dad questions about winemaking and wine. Kelly MacDonald, the energetic chef, took time out of his busy day to sit and chat with us and invited my dad and me to take a tour of the commissary the following morning.
By the time the train pulled back into the station, my thoughts about the wine train had changed. It had been fun. But the day was not yet over. Back at my dad’s house, seven east-coasters showed up to taste more Tulocay and enjoy the late afternoon sun on the patio.
A young couple, about my age, expressed their initial skepticism about the train; they had never heard of Tulocay Winery and the $144 per person price tag seemed a bit high for lunch. But, like me, they were equally impressed.
“The wine, the food, the pairing, it was absolutely worth it. And getting to see a small winery like this,” said the woman, waving her arm around, “is priceless.”
A local could not have said it better.
Photo courtesy of the author, pictured with her father in front of an old railcar.