Two girls: two towns

Footloose and free in St. Helena and Calistoga

AC: It begins as a typical coastal day: foggy, overcast, and me shivering in a T-shirt. The first order of business is coffee, so after parking on Main Street in St. Helena, we head to the Model Bakery to kick things off. They serve Peet’s coffee, which is reliably good, but the pastries were magnifique: a butterhorn and a pain au chocolate split two ways. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so they say.

JH: The Model Bakery is cozy; the worn black and white checkered floor and distressed furniture add to the quaint atmosphere. Groups of friends are starting off their weekday sitting and enjoying coffee and conversation. The shelves on the back wall are filled with the morning’s bread, which goes fast. My only complaint is that they put far too much foam on the cappuccinos. After the bakery, Ana and I stroll off down Main Street. Each window offers temptation, some of which we fell victim to.

AC: I first drag Jeannie into Baksheesh, the fair trade store we’d passed earlier. Inside are millions of trinkets, tchotchkes, cards, jewelry, dishware, kids’ toys, and my favorite: recyclable stationery made from elephant dung. I can’t resist buying a small notepad—not just because I looked forward to telling my boss what his note was written on, but because the stationery is just so pretty.

Merchandise from Baksheesh

JH: My favorite store is Footcandy, which is full of amazing shoes. Shoes that are gorgeous, extravagant and uncommon. However don’t let the name fool you; they also carry clothing. In fact they have a collection that can make the rest of your body look as delicious as your feet. One thing that does shock me (no, not the prices) is that they don’t carry jeans larger than size 31. So some of us will have to skip the bottoms and stick to the shoes, tops and other glamorous accessories.

The olive oil vats at Olivier Napa Valley

Another favorite is Olivier Napa Valley. Yes, this shop has pristine white tableware, tasty mustards, tapenades and other condiments, but what gets me are the olive oils. They have tall brass vats full of the oil, and cubed breads to taste it with. And you do not just take a pre-packaged bottle off the shelf. Oh no, they will fill a simple glass bottle and pop in a cork just for you. It is simple, with no labels or packaging gimmicks; you taste, and that is how you know it is good. And when the bottle is empty you can bring it back and get two dollars off your refill.

AC: After more poking around it’s time for lunch. Cindy’s Backstreet Kitchen, a staple of the scene, is packed when we get there but they find us a table in short order. Wanting to keep it light I order the house salad, the tasty one with pears and Cindy’s spiced pecans. Jeannie orders the Brutus Caesar salad, a “spicy” version (it’s really not very) of the traditional. We also order the flatbread appetizer to share, which turns out to be a mistake— a glorious, mouth-watering mistake made with local cheeses, sundried tomatoes and caramelized onions on a delicately crispy crust. A mistake that we keep snacking on even as we tell each other, “I’m full. Don’t let me eat another bite!”

Jeannie also indulges in a delicious cocktail—why not, on a girl’s day out?—called Sidecar Named Desire.

Afterward we wander on the streets a block or two off the main thoroughfare. Restored farm houses, Spanish-style bungalows, expansive Victorians, examples of the Craftsman school and more sit side-by-side on tree-shaded streets, a reminder that this was, not long ago, a rather sleepy farm town. The difference is that today those farm houses command price tags well into the seven figures and are much in demand.

JH: After lunch, it is off to Calistoga. We wave as we pass the California campus of America’s most famous cooking school, the Culinary Institute of America, the stone building once home to a religious order. We recharge with  afternoon coffees at The Calistoga Roastery. Cups in hand, we stop at Mr. Moon’s, a store with an eclectic mix of greeting cards and accessories like scarves and handbags, gag gifts and jewelry. What makes my day are the Venetian glass rings; ever since seeing these rings in Italy I had been on a hunt to find them and here they are, at a reasonable price. After more shopping, we have an appointment to get down and dirty at Indian Springs Resort.

Both Ana and I love facials and massages, but neither of us had ever ventured to the darker side of spa treatments. Many ask: Why would you want to sit in a tub of hot mud? As a child, any time I played in the backyard at my grandparents’ house I inevitably would have a grand time in a mud puddle. My grandmother would have to clean me off with the garden hose before she’d allow me into the house. Clearly I didn’t learn, because here I am completely covered in hot mud, relaxing...and sweating, the mud like a heavy blanket that has been tucked around you. (I would not recommend this if you are claustrophobic.)

AC: Like I am. Swimming—rather, the pressure of water on my chest—gets my nerves going, and this mud is much heavier than water. I use my yoga breathing to relax, determined to take full advantage of my time, but I have to keep at least my hands free. All the while, I think up analogies for our readers: “It’s like heavy tapioca pudding... or like super-thick chocolate pudding... or like some kind of gelatinous... something...” Then I realize that it is far more likely for someone to experience a mud bath than a tapioca bath. “It’s like heavy mud” will have to suffice.

JH: You have the option of staying in the mud from 5 to 15 minutes, depending on the level of heat you can take. We both go the whole quarter hour. Then we’re helped out of the tubs and the attendants wipe off the excess mud. Where was my grandmother with the hose now? After the tub is a shower—very important—because the mud gets everywhere.

After showering we sit in mineral water baths for another 15 minutes. Throughout the treatment we are given refreshing glasses of cucumber lemon water to stay hydrated. The traditional next phase of the treatment is the steam room, but we pass on that and go to the individual quiet rooms. You lay down, get tucked into a soft wool blanket with a cool towel on your forehead, chilled cucumber slices on your eyes and relax—or as I did, nap.

AC: Known for its mineral waters and natural deposit of volcanic ash, Indian Springs’ mantra is that guests (there are hotel accommodations for longer-term visitors) will step back in time and have an experience similar to those who visited in the mid-1800s (the resort was built in 1861.) The interesting thing about the resort is how old it looks. Not in a dingy, run-down way, just that you can see the history in the walls, the structure, even the faucets on the huge bathtubs. I’ve seen my fair share of day spas, with their warm, dim lighting, candles and fragrance with soft background music. Here the mud room is fairly industrial: white walls, natural light, four enormous tubs filled to the brim with steaming therapeutic mud. There’s no music, not that you could hear anything over the waterfall whoosh of the nearby showers and steam. It makes me think of those old days when people “took the waters” for their health. You are there to sweat out the bad stuff, to get healthy. Period.

JH: After Indian Springs there is more shopping to be done, and then we’re ready for dinner. But where to go? The proprietress at Mudd Hens (a charming bath and body shop where Ana lingers until I pull her out) recommends the Calistoga Inn but I am drawn to Brannan’s Grill. The bar and dining room’s rich wood detail and the stuffed game head on the wall add to the old-fashioned club feel.

We both order creamy asparagus soup topped with crème fraiche and chopped hazelnuts. For dinner I can’t resist gnocchi in sage brown butter. Nothing goes better together than the earthy quality of sage and the nuttiness of brown butter, and the gnocchi are as they should be: light and fluffy, like little pillows.

AC: My entrée is the Napa Valley Goat Cheese Salad, delicious if a bit overwhelming with the goat cheese. (I know—how can there ever be too much cheese?) We’d made sure to save room for dessert, and our waitress doesn’t steer us wrong with the Raspberry Napoleon: mascarpone mousse with the unexpected flavor of house-made buttermilk ice cream and blueberry compote, all between light crispy puff pastry.

We had long stopped paying attention to the time, so when we leave Calistoga we’re shocked to see that it is already 8 p.m. We discuss stopping at the concert in St. Helena’s Lyman Park, but driving back down Highway 29 we pass right by the park, the crowds, the music. We are just too tired. With a long drive home for both of us we decide to call it a day. And a very good one at that.

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