Carmel-By-The-Sea. A Beach House. A Chef Alone. And A Hundred Acre Cabernet.

In the grand scheme of things, cooking a meal alone in a beach house might seem pretty insignificant. But to me, right now, this dinner and this wine, it was everything.

California. Carmel-By-The-Sea. The brooding sky hung low overhead as I strolled through a hazy mist that was eerily floating, suspended like cotton candy in the air. It was a dull, gray, depressing blanket of fluffy fog that stretched across the horizon as I stepped on to Ocean Avenue through the heart of this charming little seaside town. The air was thick with the promise of rain. It was that lingering wet hint of ozone that you could smell, elevated by the cold, as a fine mist already clung to my jacket like an unwelcome guest, just tagging along of the ride as I strolled. I made my way down the nearly empty street, the quaint shops and galleries huddled together against the chill. Row after snuggled row, their windows were fogged with the breath of a handful tourists seeking refuge from the elements. The smell of fresh-baked sourdough wafted from a nearby bakery as I ambled by. It mingled with the salt air in a dance of aromas that could only happen here, in this storybook little town where pretension met bohemia in a fever dream of wealth and whimsy.

The pavement beneath my feet was slick with drizzle and reflected the muted glow of streetlights that were just beginning to flicker to life in the gloomy late afternoon. I passed by restaurants where I had shared meals with friends over countless years. Some were still here, almost nearly unchanged. Others, gone for years, and severely missed, all evidence of their existence completely wiped from view. I descend towards the beach, in the direction of the parking lot nestled under a canopy of trees. Monterey Cypress, Coast Live Oak, and Monterey Pine trees created a towering entrance to one of the most wild, but definitely the most beautiful beaches in all of California. The trees all leaned inland, permanently bent by years of salty gusts. Their branches reached out like gnarled fingers that were trying to grasp at something just out of their reach. The sound of the waves grew louder with every step that I took bringing me closer to the land’s edge. It was a powerful, rhythmic pounding that drowned out the whispers of the town behind me. The chatter of tourists, ice cream shops, galleries, and restaurants all faded away as I stepped into a vista of timeless beauty. There were secrets and stories that were hidden here, beneath the foam and spray. Beneath the crashing salt water. It was a canvas of sand, uneven and pitted, under a palette of steely sky that pressing down all around me.

I paused at the edge of the sand, watching as the fog as it rolled in like a hungry beast, devouring the coastline bite by misty bite. It crept greedily up the cliffs, wrapping around the cypress trees in a ghostly, overbearing embrace. The trees stood like silent sentinels. Dark silhouettes, bent against the encroaching wispy clouds, guardians of a timeless shore. The waves crashed against the smooth edge of the beach with a fury that belied the calm rolling of the fog above. It was a contradiction. A peaceful violence. A constant reminder that beneath any serene surface, there was always a storm brewing. I made my way down to the water's edge, my boots sinking into the wet sand with each step. The beach was nearly deserted, save for a few hardy souls who were braving the wet cold and walking their dogs, collars jingling faintly in the mist. It was a far cry from the sun-soaked scenes of the September, California summer, when this stretch of coast was packed with tourists and locals, all vying for their piece of paradise, relaxing on the beach, toes in the sand, drinks in their hands.

Now, however, the water was a churning mass of gray-green, flecked with greenish-white foam that was tossed into the air with each violently breaking wave. It was utterly hypnotic. The endless cycle of rise and fall, a natural rhythm that's random but continuous, steady put unpredictable. Its calming sound and motion was here long before we were and will continue its ebb and flow long after we're gone. I slid my hands deep into my pockets, grabbing at any inch of warmth that I could find. There was a comfort in that type of permanence. Almost a reassurance that no matter how badly we might fuck things up in our lives, the ocean will keep on keeping on, whether we are here, or not.

I took a moment of guilty pleasure and enjoyment. I breathed in deeply, letting that beautiful, cold salty air fill my lungs. It was bracing. Invigorating. It carried an almost underlying hint of kelp and sea life. The smell of serenity. Of possibility. Of adventures yet to come and of stories yet to be told. It was a scent that drew explorers and dreamers to the coast for countless centuries, promising riches and glory and sometimes delivering nothing but a watery grave to those that tempted fate. The fog continued to thicken, obscuring the distant points of land and creating the illusion that this beach existed in isolation, cut off from the rest of the world. The damp air was leaving its mark on my eyebrows and eyelashes, weighing them down with watery droplets. It was a moment of perfect solitude. I stolen moment and a chance to hear my own thoughts above the constant pounding and crashing of the surf.

Having had my fill of the beach, and slightly done with the cold, I turned to head back up the hill, as I stole a glance upwards towards the cypress trees, their twisted forms barely visible through the mist. They huddle together, their branches almost like claws coming down on me from the clouds above my head. I always had a deep love for these trees. They were survivors that managed to thrive in the harshest of conditions. They were tough, adaptable, and able to create beauty out of adversity. If you ever happen to find yourself in Carmel, do yourself a favor. No matter what the weather. Hot, cold, dry, rainy. Take a walk down to the beach, and don’t rush to leave. Believe me, once you walk down to Carmel Sunset Beach, you will be in no hurry to go anywhere else.

As I climbed back into the heart of the town, the sand gave way to pavement as I strolled back up Ocean Avenue. My boots, caked with wet sand and salt, left grainy footprints behind me. They were temporary marks of my passage that would be washed away with the next rain, or perhaps thrown about by wind, or other people’s footsteps. The drizzle picked up slightly as I began to walk faster, raising my hood over my head. The misty air turning into a steady, wet rain. Fat droplets splattered against my jacket, creating a staccato rhythm that accompanied my steps as my boots thumbed against the ground. The fog, too, seemed to have followed me up from the shore, wrapping around the buildings and blurring their edges until the whole town seemed to be like something out of a fuzzy dream. “Shit,” I thought. I left my umbrella at home in San Diego. This trip was “supposed” to be a quick turnaround. Up to Carmel. Michelin Star dinner with a few friends, and then back home. But, I missed this quaint beach town that hid along the coast behind its rows of Cypress Trees, its architecture keeping the city locked into some Norman Rockwell painting. A town known and visited by many. But also a town that wanted to look like time might have just forgotten about it all together.

I neared the top of the hill as the smell of woodsmoke drifted through the air. It was a promise of warmth and comfort that just out of sight. That burnt smell mingled with the salt and rain, and created a scent that was so uniquely Carmel. It was part seaside village, part artist's retreat, part culinary hideout with just a hint of wilderness that still lurked at its edges. The streetlights were fully ablaze now, their glow diffused by the fog into soft halos of light that added a warm, soft glow to the water droplets floating in the air. They guided my way like beacons, leading me through the gathering gloom towards my destination. The shops and galleries began to close for the day, their windows dark and reflective, mirroring the wet streets and the occasional passing car leaving Carmel, its day trip completed. The last stretch of my walk took me past a row of charming cottages. Each one was a study in architectural whimsy. It was a recreation of something out of the Cotswolds. Carmel was not Silicon Valley. This gorgeous little town has always prided itself on its refusal to conform as it embraced of the eccentric and the artistic drawing people in to live and to visit. It's a trait that was reflected in everything from its buildings to its cuisine. It was a show of pride, a willingness to take risks, and to push boundaries that were all too rare in this world of cookie-cutter conformity.

I rounded the final corner as my rented beach house slowly emerged from the fog and came into view. It was a welcome sight after the cold, damp walk around the small town. Its windows glowed with warm light, a shimmering light that was calling me home through the fog and rain. I leaped up the stairs, imagining the crackling fire in the hearth that I would start as soon as I entered, the bottle of wine that I had left breathing on the counter, waiting to be poured. I paused for just a moment on the porch, safe and dry under the sloped awning. I looking back down the misty street towards the ocean, now far in the distance. The sound of the waves crashing down on the shore was faint now, barely audible above the patter of rain on the aluminum roof. I opened and the front door and stepped inside, already feeling the warmth of the wooden floors and headed to the fireplace to get the fire started. The day's walk had definitely awakened my appetite. Tomorrow, I was going to have dinner with a few friends and splurge on a wonderful and very much anticipated Michelin Star experience. However, for this evening, I was cooking for myself. I was a lonely party of one, in a century’s old house, in the heart of Carmel-By-The-Sea. And as I got the fire in the fireplace going, I stripped off my jacket, shook the raindrops from my hair, proceeded into the kitchen, grabbed my chef’s apron off the shelf, tied it around me, and put my hands on the counter, ready to begin.

Earlier in the day, I had popped open a bottle of the 2016 Hundred Acre Cabernet Sauvignon, letting it breathe, and anticipating the moment when its rich, velvety notes would dance across my palate. One of my friends, who I was meeting for dinner tomorrow evening sent me this bottle to enjoy, and I could think of no better place to bring it, than here. I poured myself a generous portion into my empty wine glass, and paused for a brief moment as I took a lingering sip. What I tasted was pure perfection in a glass. It had everything that I could have possibly wanted in a Napa Valley wine. Deep purple-hued with a smorgasbord-like array of dark currants, smoked tobacco, new leather, cassis, and splashes of blackberry and blueberry. This beauty sat here patiently and waited for me to come back. It had secrets deep inside that it kept tight to itself, waiting until the right moment to tell me everything as it hit my palate with its full-bodied richness, and its deep, layered, concentrated flavors, and flawless balance. I stood there and stared at my glass for a moment as I stuck my nose over the rim, inhaling deeply and just enjoying the aromas I was experiencing. Quickly, I snapped back into reality, and began my preparation as I arranged my mise en place.

Thankfully, the owner of the house knew how to probably season a cast iron skillet, and as I twirl the pan in my hand, I could tell that this particular pan that he left me for me use had seen some serious shit. I cranked up the heat on the gas stove, letting the pan get hot, and rubbed my hands together to warm them properly. This was now my kitchen. I was in my element, ready to create some fucking magic. I grabbed the chicken thighs, now close to room temperature, and began my prep. I had picked them up from the local store earlier that day. These beautiful bastards were perfect; skin-on, bone-in. The proper way to cook them. I patted them dry with paper towels, removing as much moisture as possible. Salted and peppered them. Minced some garlic quickly on the wooden cutting board and rubbed the thighs down with the garlic and local olive oil as well, setting them aside to rest for a moment, letting the seasoning cling to the meat properly.

With the pan smoking hot now, I carefully placed the chicken thighs skin-side down. No sooner had they touched the sizzling hot pan did the alchemy immediately begin with the rendering of fat. I let that skin crisp up to a golden brown perfection, allowing everything to caramelize slowly. And, while the chicken did its thing, I took a sip of the Hundred Acre and paused as I noticed that the Cabernet just kept opening up in my glass. I could have sworn that I tasted raspberries. And before there is any criticism about taking a sip break from my cooking, I will let you in on a little secret dear readers. There is one thing that I really love about cooking meat. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just leave it alone and let literally cook on its own. Don't touch it. Keep the timer handy, but don't look at it. Don't do anything to mess it up. Just let the alchemy happen on the stove.

As the chicken was cooking, I turned my attention to the potatoes; duck fat roasted potatoes. If you've never had potatoes roasted in duck fat, you haven't lived. Honestly, you probably haven’t tasted everything that a potato could taste like. This the kind of decadence that makes any person question why they ever bothered cooking with olive oil in the first place. I diced the potatoes into chunks, and threw them into a pot for a quick boil to get them ready for their duck fat baptism. I grabbed a spoonful of duck fat and heated that liquid gold in a roasting pan until it was shimmering. I stared at the glaze that glided in the hot pan in front of me. It was mesmerizing. The scent; however, was nearly hypnotic. I grabbed the potatoes from the pot and tossed them in with an almost reckless abandon. The sizzle and pop that echoed through the kitchen as they hit the hot fat was like applause from a captivated audience. And the aroma of the cooking potatoes was like a punch to the nose in the most loving way possible.

I shifted back to my searing chicken thighs and quickly flipped them over, revealing a crispy, caramelized skin. I tossed in the garlic, onions, and herbs, instantly filling the kitchen with an aroma that would make even the most devout vegetarian question their life choices without hesitation. I poured in a generous splash of white wine. I’ll admit, I actually grabbed a lovely, local Chardonnay at the store as well with the intent on drinking it, but, as I was sipping some of it earlier in the afternoon, I figured to go ahead and polish it off in the chicken as well to add flavor, texture and depth. And, to make sure the rest of the bottle didn’t go to waste either. This bottle was the labor of love of some winemaker. And pouring it out, was almost an insult.

Slowly, the chicken simmered away, and I took another short break and a quick sip of the Hundred Acre. It’s an amazing occurrence when a wine just keeps getting better with every passing moment. Then again, it could also the aroma of sizzling chicken, garlic, herbs and duck fat that was permeating the kitchen and adding to the amazing flavor of the Cabernet too. While holding the wine glass with my left hand, I used my right hand, while wearing a sexy green oven mitt. I expertly grabbed the potatoes, edged them into a pan, and slid it into the oven, letting the duck fat work its magic.

I stood at the kitchen window and stared out into the darkening sky. The fog outside seemed to thicken with every passing half hour. I squinted slightly, but just couldn’t see the waves crashing on the beach anymore. Even though they were invisible, I could still hear them, a rhythmic backdrop of crashing and rumbling in the distance. A soundtrack of relaxation and tranquility that I knew would slow rock me to sleep tonight. I took a long draw of the Hundred Acre Cabernet. It was like velvet on my tongue, rich with notes of dark fruit and that ever-so-slight hint of oak that gave it an extra tang of sour cherry. I savored it, letting it linger on my palate, as I pulling my attention back to my potatoes, which were miraculously done. I pulled the potatoes from the oven, their edges crisp and golden, their insides fluffy and perfect, and set them down on the counter to cool. The smell alone was enough to make me want to grab a fork and just dig in to the tray barbarian style right in the middle of the kitchen. I gave them a sprinkle of sea salt, watching it stick to the crispy exterior like tiny, flavor-enhancing jewels. Mind you, I did all of this while still holding my wine glass, a skill that should really be learned by any one bouncing around a kitchen.

The chicken was done, the meat tender and juicy, as I removed it from the stove, letting it rest while I reduced the sauce. The wine, herbs, and chicken juices melded together into a silky, flavor-packed elixir that just elevated this dish from merely excellent to fucking transcendent. I plated up my feast, mostly because I wanted to feel somewhat civilized. Cooking for yourself, I could have just as easily stood in the middle of the kitchen like some deviant and scarfed down my meal while standing next to the skillet and tray. But there is something so meaningful, something that just feels so comforting to plate your meal, to arrange it and create a sense of beauty and visual attraction to match with the aromas that were floating up to greet me. It just brought everything together. Especially with this Hundred Acre Cabernet. This bottle, just made everything taste so much better.

I sat there, watching the clouds swirl broodingly, the waves, now invisible, pounding in the darkness somewhere beyond the storm. In front of me, the golden-brown chicken thighs glistening with their herb-infused sauce. The duck fat potatoes, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, were little flavor bombs that were just waiting to explode in my mouth. And of course, that glass of Hundred Acre Cabernet Sauvignon, standing at attention, ready to complement every bite. I cut into the chicken, my knife gliding through the meat with ease, the crispy skin giving way to juicy, flavorful meat. The herbs and wine sauce adding depth and complexity to every mouthful. I followed it with a forkful of those duck fat potatoes, their crispy exterior yielding to a pillowy interior that practically melted on my tongue. Between bites, I slowly sipped my wine, letting its bold flavors mingle with the lingering taste of my meal. In the stillness of this old house, I had found a moment of perfect contentment.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the pleasant weight of a good meal settling in my stomach. The sound of the waves somehow seemed louder now, or perhaps I was just more attuned to them. Their rhythmic crash against the shore was soothing, a natural lullaby that seemed to sync with my own heartbeat. My wine glass was showing signs of depletion, the rich red liquid now barely covering the bottom. I rose and headed into the kitchen with an empty plate, sliding it into the sink as I refilled my glass for a little aperitif. I headed out onto the front porch of the house with glass in hand to enjoy the chilly evening. I sat back into the chair as the steady dripping of the rain continued, creating a soundtrack for the night. The darkness was complete now, the fog having blocked even the faintest glimmer of moonlight. The waves continuing their endless dance with the shore, crashing and receding in their usual uneven rhythmic manner. Tomorrow, was another day, another restaurant, with good friends, and even more laughter and shared memories. But tonight, in this moment, I had my own beauty, my own perfection. A simple meal. Meticulously prepared. Thoroughly enjoyed. A glass of amazing wine from one of the best wine regions in the world. What more could anyone ever ask for. In the grand scheme of things, cooking a meal alone in a beach house might seem pretty insignificant. But to me, right now, this dinner and this wine, it was everything.