Here's what I like about California: People think nothing of driving 82 miles for lunch. (In New York, this never happens.) The Thin Man and I are now two of those people as we head out from La Jolla to Plums Cafe in Costa Mesa. We've brought the Boston mechanical lady along to tell us where to get off. She acclimates, more or less, and in no time it's north on the 5. Our LA cousins, who are meeting us, drive 56 miles and they've lived here long enough to get over their New Yorkiness. I guess we have too.
Just in case, The Thin Man prints directions. As it turns out, she not only does not get lost but she sees into the future. Five miles ahead, on the way home, she tells us repeatedly to get off because there's trouble ahead. We don't, there is, but it works out.
How do you define an ideal California lunch? Although I'm no slouch in the lunch department, a perfect lunch will be one I didn't have to make. Ideal is every plate beautifully arranged. Ideal is having to choose. Will it be soup and salad, waffles, chopped or Caesar, greens? Ideal comes with a brother and cousins. Ideal is a chic vibe. Home? If only.
I'm an obsessive travel planner. I leave nothing to chance when
venturing far away from my home. I need a lay of the new land to feel
safe and happy. I don't always do everything or go to every place I
research, but the last thing I want is to be bored when I'm away from
home sitting in a generic hotel room. Since I've also been, at least
until the last year, a fairly picky-eater I like to know my dining
options. I will only eat fast-food in an emergency, i.e. when there is
absolutely no other choice. As a result, my pre-trip planning involves
many sessions on the Internet, trying to find the best and cheapest
restaurants that also have a decent wine list and cuisine that isn't
too ethnic (the Man won't eat Indian, Thai or Chinese that doesn't come
from a container). This is not an easy task.
"Can I get real milk?" 
While we find ourselves in Santa Barbara wine country, also known as the Santa Ynez Valley, about every other month or so, I can honestly say I had never been to the actual town of Santa Ynez until last month. I use the word “town” quite loosely to describe this 6-block, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, gathering of small office buildings, shops and homes. I’ve seen it on the regional tasting map for years, but until S.Y. Kitchen moved in, there was no reason to ever go there…at least not for a tourist.
You might remember we were on a slight