The Hidden French Tour of Paso Robles

This was my secret. My personal patch of indulgence. This was my hidden treasure—a little piece of France nestled in the heart of California wine country.

The 101 stretched out before me like a winding weathered ribbon of asphalt, connecting the sun-soaked beaches of Southern California to the rugged coastline of the north. I cruised past Santa Barbara. The Pacific Ocean glimmering to my left, my constant companion on this journey into the heart of California's wine country. There was something nostalgic about this drive. With its winding curves and breathtaking vistas, the old Pacific Coast Highway felt like a time machine that transported me back to an era of rolling hills and horseback trails the further north I drove. I steadily cruised up the old highway, the golden hills of California's Central Coast rolling by like waves of grain, fields of cattle and horses stretching out in every direction as far as the eye can see. It was a complete change, a stark contrast to the concrete jungle I left behind. The air got clearer, the traffic thinned out, and I could almost taste the promise of wine and the generous hospitality of Paso Robles, that sun-drenched haven of viticulture that was my destination.

The landscape shifted noticeably, becoming greener and more lush as I approached the outskirts of Paso Robles. Rolling hills covered in vineyards replaced the coastal scrub, a patchwork quilt of greens and golds stretched as far as the eye could see. This was wine country. Not the pretentious, overpriced bullshit you find in Napa. Paso was different. There was a noticeable grit between the rows of grapes, a certain character, and a refreshing lack of stuck up snobbery. The plan was simple, yet promised to be profound. Two wineries, one dinner, all steeped in French heritage yet undeniably Californian. It's a culinary and oenological journey that spanned continents without ever leaving the Central Coast. I gripped the steering wheel as my anticipation built. This was more than just a tasting trip; it was a pilgrimage to the altar of Franco-American ingenuity. The French wineries were a simple yet elegant nod to the old world in this new world setting. It was a beautiful irony—French grape varieties thriving in western California soil, tended by winemakers who've brought their centuries-old traditions with them across an ocean. I was surrounded by Rhône-style blends, bold Cabernets, lush Syrahs, rich Grenache, crisp Viogniers that were all waiting for me just beyond the 46 highway. Frenchmen, lured by the siren song of freedom to craft their wines how ever they damn well chose in an environment that was entrepreneurial, welcoming and supported a fantastic terroir. Crossing an ocean to plant their vines in New World soil, taking a chance on a region, a small town and the hope of creating something truly special. And let’s not forget Paso, with its limestone-rich earth and schizophrenic climate. It was a place that was both magical and unforgiving. Small but extremely nurturing.

This visit to wine country ironically, was not just about the wine. Tonight, I was also having dinner at a local French restaurant that has been making some waves in Paso's culinary scene. Les Petites Canailles—"the little rascals”, as it’s lovingly called. I adored the name. It promised mischief, a playful approach to serious food, and creativity mixed with a bit of the unexpected. I was anxious to experience a meal crafted with ingenuity and imagination, all paired with wines that showcased the very best parts of this amazing region. The road stretched out in front of me tightly hugging the countryside. It wound and cut through vineyards that seem to stretch to the horizon and far beyond. Each mile brought me closer to Paso, closing the distance to the promise of complex Rhône blends and innovative Bordeaux-style wines that laugh in the face of convention and tradition. This was Paso Robles, but not as you or knew it. This was Paso with a bit of a French accent, and maybe a little creativity and craziness to add to the complexity.

I approached the outskirts of Paso as excitement thrummed through my veins like a fine reserve cabernet. The French may have brought their centuries-old winemaking traditions and knowledge to this sun-baked piece of California soil, but Paso has changed all of that. This area, this region, this town infused those traditions with its own wild spirit and created something new. Something truly wonderful. I wasn’t just driving to a wine tasting; I was embarking on a journey through time and terroir, and my taste buds were ready for the ride of their lives. I pulled into Paso Robles, the sun beginning to hit its midpoint, illuminating the day but sparing the heat of summer on this crispy autumn month. I felt the anticipation building inside of me. It was the promises of a sensory journey. It was a discovery—from the visual feasts of the coastal drive to the olfactory indulgence of the cellar rooms. It was a gustatory experience that married the best of French cuisine with California's innovation. The world, it seemed, was a beautiful, delicious place, and I was just here to taste and experience every piece of it.

L’Aventure Winery

I turned off of Highway 46 West onto Arbor Road and then took a sharp left onto Live Oak Road feeling like I was driving into a different world entirely. The smooth asphalt gave way to a winding country lane, and suddenly I was enveloped by the quiet serenity of wine country. It was the kind of place where you could almost feel your blood pressure dropping with each passing kilometer. I took the drive slowly, meandering down Live Oak Road, the pavement gradually fading away, replaced by a dusty dirt and gravel track that seemed to have been there forever. Ancient oak trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches forming a natural canopy that dappled the sunlight and cast dancing shadows on the road as I passed. It was like driving through a living, breathing time machine where each kilometer took you away from the unstoppable commotion of a city that never slept, never stopped and never took the time to rest.

The dirt road wound its way through the rolling hills, each turn revealing another postcard-worthy vista of vineyards and golden California grasslands. And then, like a mirage in the dusty haze, L'Aventure Winery appeared, its large dark gate looming in front of me as I approached. The winery was not some gaudy, over-the-top monstrosity designed to impress busloads of tipsy tourists. No, this place had an understated elegance that spoke of confidence and a deep respect for the land. I pulled into the parking area and glanced over the rolling hills and the lush vineyard vines snaking their way up and over each hill. I was struck by the dense beauty of the property. Meticulously tended vines stretch out in neat rows, their leaves shimmering in the afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed earth and I could start to smell the oaky introductions and the promise of world-class wine.

It's clear why Stephan Asseo, the maverick French winemaker, chose this spot to plant his flag and push the boundaries of what Paso wine could be. I admired the creativity of the buildings, the open space and the grounds as I walked towards the tasting room feeling like I was about to embark on my own little adventure. This Bordeaux transplant fled the rigid appellation system of his homeland, seeking the liberty to blend as he damn well pleased. His wines were a middle finger to tradition, a beautiful bastard creation of Old World technique and New World chutzpah. The irony, of course wasn't lost on me—as I sauntered up the path searching for a taste of France in the heart of California wine country.

The staff greeted me with a genuine warmth that felt like a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, refreshing on a sweltering day. They ushered me towards the entrance, promising an experience that would "blow my fucking mind." Bold words, I thought. Of course, those words were mine and spoken in my head so I would not appear rude. We descended into the wine caves and the temperature noticeably dropped, a cool respite from the heat above. The air was thick with the scent of oak and fermentation and a bit of wet stone and clay. It was a perfume that spoke of patience and craftsmanship and lingered around me. It was like walking into the embrace of a lover who'd been waiting far too long for my return.

I was led me to a private room, carved out of the cave itself. It felt intimate, almost conspiratorial, as if I was about to be let in on some viticultural secret. The stone walls whispered of past vintages, of triumphs and failures, of the relentless pursuit of perfection. I settled into my seat as the first pour splashed in my glass—the Estate Rosé. It was a very nontraditional combination of Syrah, Grenache, Mourvèdre, and Cabernet Sauvignon. Remember when I said that this would be an unconventional French wine made with creativity. Well, I meant it. The pink rosé glimmered in the glass, a liquid sunset expertly contained. The first sip was a revelation. Crisp, light, with an acidity that danced on the tongue. It was summer in a glass, the kind of wine that begged to be drunk on a sun-drenched terrace, watching the world go by on some lazy afternoon when you have no where to go and nothing pressing to do.

But let's cut the bullshit and get straight to the point: This estate rosé was no prissy, delicate flower. It was a bold, unapologetic slap to the face that woke up my taste buds faster than a line cook on his third espresso. The moment it hit my tongue, I was assaulted by a barrage of red fruits—we're talking strawberries that actually taste like strawberries, not some watered-down supermarket impostor boxed and stuffed for your lazy-day sangria. But don't mistake this for some simple, one-note wonder. There was complexity here that made my head spin. And, no, it was not the alcohol speaking. The Syrah brought a peppery kick, while the Grenache added a hint of candied sweetness. The Mourvèdre threw in some earthy funk at me and I refused to duck. And just when I thought I had it figured out, the Cabernet Sauvignon snuck up with a whisper of herbs that left me wondering what the hell just happened. It was a rosé that didn’t give a damn about preconceptions, made by people who clearly know their shit and weren’t afraid to show it.

My server generously followed up the crisp glass of rosé with a tasting of the 2021 Optimus. One sip of this wine and it hit my palate like a freight train of hedonistic pleasure. The symphony of Syrah's peppery embrace intertwined luxuriously with the Cabernet's stern backbone and Petit Verdot's inky depths. This unholy trinity of grapes, birthed from the sun-baked hills just outside, delivered a roundhouse kick of ripe blackberries and plums, followed by a sucker punch of anise and wet stone that left me reeling in the best possible way. I swirled this liquid obsidian in my glass, the cavernous wine cave seemed to close in around me, its cool, damp air a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through my fingers. The rough-hewn walls, scarred by machines and stained with the ghosts of vintages past, stood silent witness to this moment of vinous debauchery. It was as if the land had conspired with the winemaker in secret to create this perfect storm of flavor and atmosphere. In that moment, surrounded by oak barrels and the faint whisper of fermenting grapes, I realized that this wasn't just a wine tasting. it was in fact a goddamn religious experience. The bottle of Optimus, with its velvety tannins and long, spice-laden finish, had managed to turn this dank subterranean lair into a cathedral of bacchanalian worship. And I, dear friends, was its willing acolyte, ready to spread the gospel of L'Aventure to any poor bastard with functioning taste buds and a thirst for vinous enlightenment.

The 2021 Côte à Côte hit my glass with a splash and a hint of smoke. It was a Rhône-style blend that at first sniff transported me straight to the sun-baked hills of southern France. It was a wine of contradictions - powerful yet elegant, complex yet approachable. Each sip slowly and elegantly revealed a new layer. It was like peeling back the pages of a well-worn novel to discover one secret after another. If you were looking for a wine that would knock your socks off without resorting to the usual Napa Cab theatrics, the Côte à Côte was your ticket to flavor town. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill GSM blend, no sir. It's a beautifully orchestrated threesome of Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre that'll make you question everything you thought you knew about Paso Robles wines, and French wines for that matter.

At first glance, I thought I might be in for a typical Rhône-style rodeo, but this bad boy quickly proved it has got more tricks up its sleeve. The Grenache brought the party with its jubilant red fruit, while the Syrah flexed its muscles with meaty, peppery notes. But it's the Mourvèdre that tied this whole shebang together, adding a layer of earthy complexity that would make you want to bury your nose in the glass and never come up for air. But what really sets this wine apart is its impeccable balance. It was like watching a high-wire act where each grape variety got equal billing, no prima donnas in this bottle. The result was a full-bodied wine that somehow managed to be both powerful and elegant, like a heavyweight boxer, bouncing around the stage and performing Swan Lake. It was the kind of wine that made me want to fire up the grill, prepare a perfect juicy ribeye, and to contemplate the mysteries of winemaking—or at the very least why I didn't buy more bottles of Optimus after I left.

Finally, the last bottle was presented. The official pièce de résistance. Did I just use French in my description? My server informed me that the 2021 Estate Cuvée, soon to be rechristened as the Estate Reserve to bring in a new era for this special blend. I would highly recommend that you buckle up for safety, because diving into this wine was about as rebellious as a punk rocker in a monastery. This bottle wasn’t just a blend of grapes; it was a rude gesture to the stuffy old world of Bordeaux, a liquid "fuck you" to the AOC system that Stephan Asseo left behind. From the first whiff, I knew I was in the presence of something truly unique. The aromas were a heady mix of dark fruits, violets, and spice. On the palate, it was a surprise—full-bodied yet impossibly smooth, with a finish that seemed to linger for days.

Look, if you want something fruity, nutty and chewy, grab a Bordeaux. But trust me, this isn't your grandma's Bordeaux blend. No, this is Paso Robles on steroids, a threesome of Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Petit Verdot that shouldn't work, but holy shit, does it ever. It's like Stephan took the rulebook, set it on fire, and used the ashes to fertilize his vines. The result? A wine that was as complex as a Dostoyevsky novel, but a hell of a lot more fun to consume.

I found myself continuing to just sit there and sniff the glass like a patient dumbass, but the profile was just that good. I was hit with a symphony of aromas that would make a French winemaker’s hands gesticulate wildly. Dark fruits, leather, and a hint of cassis danced together in perfect harmony. Sip after sip, I suddenly understood why Stephan packed his bags and headed to the wild west of wine country. This was freedom in a bottle, a taste of what happened when you let a master winemaker off the leash and tell him to go wild and crazy. The Estate Cuvée was the culmination of a dream, a vision of what could be when you throw caution to the wind and blend with your heart instead of your rulebook, or a stuffy set of rules that you are held to by threat of being thrown out of French wine country. As I savored the last drop, I couldn’t help but agree. This crazy Paso blend just worked—and worked so damn well that it will make you question everything you thought you knew about wine.

L'Aventure, it seemed, was aptly named. This adventurous wine tasting in Paso Robles was an “adventure” in every sense of the word. It was a journey through terroir and technique. Through passion and persistence. Through the creativity and alchemy of a wine maker. The French connection I sought was here, not in some pale imitation of Bordeaux, but in the spirit of innovation and respect for the land. Stephan Asseo, the winemaker, had brought his French roots to California soil, creating something entirely new in the process. I emerged from the cave, blinking in the bright California sun, feeling a sense of anticipation for what lay ahead. And while I strolled merrily back to my car, the memory of those wines lingered on my palate, a memory of the adventure that I just experienced and a promise of the adventures to come.

Clos Solène

I navigated the backroads through the heart of Paso's westside. This was where the magic happened. The soil here was a winemaker's dream—limestone and calcareous clay that made the vines struggle just enough to produce grapes with intense flavor. It was like nature's own little torture chamber for creating liquid gold. I wound my way through the hills feeling like I was instantly transported to the French countryside. But this ain't no Provence, my friends. This was California with a French accent, where Old World tradition met New World innovation, and the results were nothing short of fucking spectacular. My car hugged the tight turns as I took the drive slowly, enjoying the vistas that stretched out in every direction and the canopy of trees providing a tunnel and a path through this magical storybook in front of me. Rolling hills covered in neat rows of vines stretched as far as the eye could see, punctuated by gnarly old oak trees that look like they've been here forever. The view was enough to make me want to pull over, crack open a bottle, and just soak it all in with no place to go.

I approached Clos Solène enjoying the drive through the winding backroads. The road narrowed, the oak trees became more dense, the arching vineyards closed in from every side and I could practically taste the Grenache in the air, the breeze carrying the intoxicating aroma around me. Guillaume Fabre, another French expat, was the mastermind behind this winery. He and his wife Solène managed to create a little slice of heaven here, crafting wines that would impress your palate and make you settle in for an incredible tasting experience. None of his bottles were your grandma's fruit bomb Paso wine. No, Fabre's creations were elegant, restrained, yet unmistakably Californian. It's like Audrey Hepburn in cowboy boots—refined, but with a bit of a wild streak. I pulled into Clos Solène's driveway struck by how this journey mirrors the path of the winemakers. They crossed an ocean to find their paradise, and I crossed a sea of vines to find mine. Sometimes, if you’re very, very lucky, the best adventures are the ones that lead you to the most unexpected of places. And if those places happen to be filled with world-class wine? Well, that's just the cherry on top of the goddamn sundae.

I rolled up to Clos Solène just as the afternoon began to wane, dust kicking up behind my car as I navigated the winding backroads. The vineyards stretched out in every direction, a patchwork of green against the rolling hills. As I pulled around the twisting driveway, the winery emerged like an oasis, promising respite from the relentless California sun and offering a vista that was both spectacular and serene. There was no other way to describe it—the view from the tasting room was fucking spectacular. Rolling hills dotted with oak trees, vines marching in orderly rows down the slopes, running up and over the hillsides, disappearing on the opposite side. I could have stood there all day, just soaking it in, but my gracious host was waiting for me, holding a welcoming glass of sparkling wine for me to enjoy. An aperitif before the tasting, and I couldn’t keep her waiting.

My host led me to my table and I perched myself under a weathered pergola. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and sun-baked earth. The sun-drenched hills of Paso Robles stretched out before me, a patchwork of vines, oak trees and grassy swaths all swaying in the gentle breeze. I inhaled deeply. It was the kind of place that made you want to linger, to let the hours slip by unnoticed as I allowed myself to sink deeper into my chair and further and further into my glass. The grounds were a love letter to rustic French charm, transplanted to the heart of California wine country. Gnarled olive trees cast dappled shadows across the dirt and gravel pathways, their leaves rustled with each gust of wind gently blowing through the vineyard. It was a scene that could be plucked straight from Provence, if not for the unmistakable California light that bathed everything in a warm, golden glow.

I settled in, a glass of the 2021 Fleur de Solène materialized before me, expertly poured by my host who joined me in the seated tasting. Dark and alluring in the afternoon sun, the wine moved easily when swirled. And yes, I gently swirled that dark colored nectar in my glass like I knew what the hell I was doing. The nose hit me like a floral uppercut – all jasmine and honeysuckle with a hint of something fruity lurking beneath. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill red blend. No, this was a ménage à trois of Syrah, Grenache, and Cabernet Sauvignon that yet again, shouldn't work but somehow did, brilliantly in fact. The first sip hit like a velvet-gloved punch to the palate. There was a depth here, a complexity that unfolded gently, slowly, revealing layers of dark fruit, spice, and something earthy and primal. It was a wine that showed it was different from the very first smell. A kind of wine that that made me really think about what the hell was going on in my glass. It was, in fact, a wine that made me grateful for winemakers who took chances and weren’t afraid to color outside the lines.

My host generously poured the 2021 Hommage à nos Pairs Reserve. Let's cut the bullshit and talk about this wine, shall we? This really wasn’t your average California fruit bomb. This was a Syrah that punched you in the mouth with flavor while somehow maintaining its balance, poise and thoughtfulness. It was like a backhanded slap that was a compliment wrapped in the disguise of a gentleman’s challenge. This bad boy was darker, more brooding. I took a sip and let it coat my palate again and again. It was complex. Blackberries, plums, maybe even a whisper of vanilla. It was like the wine equivalent of a leather jacket – smooth, cool, and just a little bit dangerous. My host didn’t put the cork back into the bottle immediately and I kept getting hit with a wave of dark fruit and spice that made my nostrils flare. It was an intoxicating mix of blackberry, cracked pepper, and something earthy that reminded me this wine came from actual dirt. The splash of Grenache added a surprising touch of brightness, while that dash of Viognier brought a floral note that kept things interesting and just smoothed the whole thing out. It was like the winemaker decided to throw a party and invited all the cool kids or like witnessing a tattooed chef screaming obscenities in the kitchen of a Michelin-starred restaurant. I laughed slightly, keeping the reference to myself. But my host instantly saw my amusement.

The next tasting hit me like a freight train in the dead of night. Dear reader, sit back for a moment and just allow me to tell you about this goddamn beautiful bottle of wine I had the pleasure of tasting. The 2021 L'Imprévu, a members-only Pinot Noir will seriously make you question every other red you've ever put to your lips. This isn't a dainty Pinot that could be enjoyed alfresco on a hot summer’s day. This was the kind of wine that made me want to slap myself to make sure that I was still conscious. Needless to say, L’Imprévu lived up to its name – "the unexpected." It blindsided me with its complexity. One moment I was tasting cherries, the next it was all about the spice. It was a shape-shifter in the glass, constantly evolving. I could only imagine what it was doing in the bottle over time. Speaking of which, Guillaume Fabre, the mad genius behind Clos Solène, sourced this beauty from the Radian Vineyard in Santa Rita Hills. Now, I'm not one for fancy wine talk, but holy shit, this wine had so many layers. It's got a deeper color than your typical Pinot, with tannins that'll make your tongue stand up and salute. And the finish? It's fresher than a slap in the face. And here's the kicker - they only made 130 cases of this liquid gold, and out of those, only 110 were bottled for the spring release. The other 20? They're aging those bad boys for another five months, probably in some secret underground bunker guarded by wine-loving ninjas. If you're lucky enough to get your hands on a bottle, do yourself a favor and decant it for a couple of hours, or maybe even an entire day. Then sit back, take a sip, and prepare for your taste buds to do the fucking cha-cha-cha.

I leaned back in my chair, basking in the warm sun, and enjoying the gentle breeze flowing generously under the pergola. Cracking one eyelid open, I became extremely suspicious of my generous host approaching with a mischievous grin while holding a bottle with a Coravin firmly in place at the top. "I've got something special for you," she said, producing a bottle that looked like it had been smuggled out of the cellar, the 2021 L'Insolent, a members-only gem held proudly in front of her. Who was I to refuse such hospitality? She gently squeezed the trigger on the Coravin and the deep crimson liquid cascaded into my glass. It was a Left Bank homage that would make any French winemaker nod in approval. A blend of Cabernet Sauvignon with a dash of Petite Verdot for structure and a whisper of Cabernet Franc for aromatic complexity. I brought the glass to my nose and was hit with a symphony of dark fruits, tobacco, and a hint of that Paso terroir—sun-baked earth and wild herbs.

I glanced up at my host as me smiled approvingly. I took a sip, I couldn't help but grin. This wasn't just good; it was a “bras d'honneur” to anyone who doubted Paso's ability to produce world-class Cabernet. The tannins gripped just enough to let me know they meant business, while layers of blackcurrant, cedar, and spice unfolded on my palate. This wine was amazing. It was bold, unapologetic, in your face. In all honesty, this wine didn't give a fuck what you thought of it. Dark fruit, firm tannins, and a finish that went on longer than a Grateful Dead concert. It was a mic drop in liquid form, like stumbling upon a secret speakeasy in the midst of wine country—illicit, thrilling, and damn near perfect. I savored that extra pour and I silently toasted my host for her generosity and absolute brilliance.

I stumbled out onto the terrace, pleasantly buzzed and squinting in the bright sunlight. The staff had been generous with their pours and even more generous with their knowledge, walking me through each wine like old friends sharing one secret after another until we became family. Before heading off I took a leisurely stroll around the grounds, the warm breeze carrying the earth and ripening grapes around me. I wandered between the vines feeling a deep appreciation for Paso Robles, for this winery, for the people who worked hard to coax such incredible wines from this unforgiving landscape. Paso might not have the notoriety of Napa, but out here, on the dusty backroads, the winemakers were all making magic. There was a timelessness to this place, a sense that you could be sitting here in any given time, in any given year. The chatter of other visitors drifted over on the breeze from their tastings, punctuated by the pop of corks and the clinking of glasses. It's the soundtrack of pleasure, of people coming together to share good wine and good company in a great and welcoming place.

Les Petites Canailles

The sun slowly dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the old streets of downtown Paso. It was time for dinner. I strolled through a downtown that seemed to be locked, frozen in time. The air was thick with nostalgia that was noticeable at every turn as each storefront and street corner was a portal to 1950s middle America. It was as if some cosmic turntable decided to hit pause on this small California town, preserving it just the way it was for future generations to enjoy. The sidewalks were dotted with mom-and-pop shops, their neon signs flickered to life when I turned my head as dusk settled in. A barber pole spun lazily outside a shop where you could still get a straight razor shave and a shot of whiskey, no questions asked. The local hardware store's windows were filled with lawn mowers and fishing rods, a throwback to simpler times and quieter moments when weekends meant mowing the lawn and casting a line into the nearest pond.

I approached the downtown city park as the scene shifted from Norman Rockwell to pure alchemy and magic. Strings of lights dangled from the trees above my head, swaying gently in the cool evening breeze. They hovered overhead like fireflies creating a canopy of soft, twinkling illumination. It was a scene that would make anyone pause and marvel at the simple beauty hanging in midair creating a moment of pure magic. Couples strolled arm in arm through the park, their laughter carried on the breeze. A group of teenagers lounged on the grass, their smartphones temporarily forgotten as they engage in actual face-to-face conversations starring occasionally upwards as if they were stargazing. Children ran and chased one-another across the park’s playground with their watchful parents who sat around and enjoyed their playful laughter.

I made my way towards Les Petites Canailles for dinner feeling like I was walking through a movie set. The storefronts that lined the streets were a mix of mid-century modern and Victorian architecture. It was like walking through a middle America painting that created a visual tapestry both jarring and oddly harmonious. Les Petites Canailles stood out among its neighbors, a beacon of modern culinary prowess in this sea of nostalgic Americana. I stepped inside to check in with the hostess and was once again transported, however, this time to a chic Parisian bistro in the heart of Paris. The contrast was stark but extremely welcoming. I smiled and gave my name to the hostess who greeted me warmly and led to my table. I marveled at the journey I had just taken – from 1950s America to modern-day France, all within a few city blocks. My server introduced herself to me and presented the menu. However, I already knew exactly what I wanted to experience this evening. I politely handed the menu back to her and with a broad grin, asked for the chef’s tasting menu with the wine pairing for this evening’s experience. I mainly had wine today, give or take a brief nibble on some cheese to pair with my tastings and made plenty of room just in case to make sure that I wouldn’t miss this extraordinary culinary plunge. My server nodded knowingly and called over the sommelier to welcome me properly with alcohol.

Amuse-Bouche

Let's kick this whole chef's pairing affair off with a little amuse-bouche. A tiny puff pastry, golden and flaky, arrived like a whisper of what was to come. It was simple, elegant, tiny and very warm and welcoming. Baked with a sprinkle of aged Parmesan that hit my tongue with a salty punch. It was in fact a simple, perfect bite that set the stage for the main event. One crisp mouthful, and then it was gone, leaving me hungry for more.

There are occurrences during a course of a chef’s tasting menu when the chef decides “Hey, I’m going off on a limb here. Let’s send this out and see what they say.” This was definitely one of those times. When the kitchen was packed with orders. When the rush of ingredients was being tossed around faster than human hands were meant to travel. It’s during a moment such as this, that the chef decides to let go, and throw a gastronomic curve ball, just to mess with the catcher. The catcher by the way, is me. And, I was ready for this curve ball. Let's be clear on this matter—this dish wasn’t your run-of-the-mill tuna salad slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread. No, this was the pinnacle of piscine perfection. The musings of a chef combined with creativity, humor and a little bit of irony mixed in for pleasure. Raw tuna belly, the foie gras of the sea, paired with Astrea Caviar. It was the kind of combination that made me question every life decision that didn't lead me to this exact moment, fork poised, ready to commit an act of delicious debauchery.

The tuna belly melted completely on my tongue like butter left out on the counter in the mid day heat. Its silky texture was a stark contrast to the briny pop of caviar that rolled around in my mouth. It was a small plate, sure, but one that packed more punch than a drunken Irishman on St. Patrick's Day. This was a chef's Le bras d’honneur to moderation, or a culinary "fuck you" to anyone who thought fine dining should be stuffy or pretentious. This dish was not meant for sustenance. It was however meant for that moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure that really made you forget about your ex, your debt, and the fact that you're probably underdressed for this restaurant.

The First Course

The first course landed on the table in a small bitesized presentation. The surfside melon variations. It was a playful twist on the classic prosciutto and melon combo, but elevated the small bite to new heights. The duck prosciutto was absolutely a game-changer, rich and complex with a depth you won't find in its porcine cousin. It's draped seductively over a glistening cube of ripe melon that burst with summer sweetness. Just one bite you say? Such a tiny start you say? But wait, there's more. A dollop of whipped feta brought a tangy creaminess that cut through the richness of the duck with surgical precision. It was like experiencing a cool breeze on a hot day, refreshing and completely unexpected. And while I was exploring all of those delicate balances and flavors, let's not forget the windrose mint which adding a bright pop of herbaceous flavor that tied it all together. This little dish was more than just a prelude, it was a fucking symphony in its own right.

To pair with this course, my sommelier poured me a glass of 2022 Birichino 'Jurrassic Park' Chenin Blanc from Santa Ynez Valley. The wine was crisp, it was mineral, and it had just enough acidity to stand up to the richness of the duck and easily complement the sweetness of the melon. Some wines bring too much acid to the party, this was definitely NOT that kind of wine. The sommelier's choice was simply sublime. It was elegant, it was understated and it was a wine that actually enhanced the food instead of overshadowing it. I took another bite and couldn’t help but think, I wanted to lick the bowl—but I didn’t. The surfside melon was not about fancy techniques or obscure ingredients. Rather, the dish was all about taking familiar flavors and combining them in ways that surprise and delight. It was about respecting the ingredients and letting them shine through on their own. And most importantly, it was about creating an experience that made me want to slow down, savor every bite, and appreciate the simple pleasure of a well-crafted course.

The Second Course

For the second course, I usually don’t play favorites, but I will never say “No” to raw fish. Let me tell you about this fucking tuna dish that just blew my mind. Picture this— A pristine slice of Santa Barbara bluefin, glistening like a jewel on the plate. To add delight to the entire experience, the Santa Barbara Bluefin Tuna was swimming in a pool of smoked tomato consommé, which was easily, and hands down the star of the dish. It was clear as a mountain stream, but packed more flavor punch than a Tijuana street taco. It was like someone had distilled the very essence of summer into a liquid form. The smoke added a depth that made me want to bathe in the stuff, but again… I didn’t. The confit surfside tomato was a little bomb of concentrated umami that exploded on my tongue. The olive caramel? A stroke of goddamn genius. It was sweet, salty, with just a light touch of bitter. And finally, let's not forget the bottarga, that salty fish roe that added a briny punch to the whole affair and tied it all together in a flavorful and wonderful gastronomical bow.

For this pairing, my sommelier poured a 2023 Lady of the Sunshine Rosé from Edna Valley. Now, I'm not usually a rosé guy. I think that I had one too many bad experiences with a box of something that said it was rosé, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that squeezing that spigot would amount to no good. This wine in my glass on the other hand? Crisp, dry, with just enough fruit to complement the richness of the tuna without overpowering it. It was the perfect harmony and balance between the fat of the tuna and acid from the rosé. And, it was most certainly the kind of pairing that made me believe, just for a moment, that there might be some order to this chaotic universe in the end after all.

The Third Course

I sat back in my chair and took a breath, basking in the glow of this dimly lit dining room. I felt a sense of reverence for the culinary journey unfolding before me. It was a wonderful compliment to the wine tasting experience from earlier in the day and it really brought the day together. The third course arrived and was gently ushered onto the table in front of me. It was masterpiece of simplicity and complexity. The Morro Bay black cod with yuzu & cauliflower puree, dashi nage, and chive oil. Let’s start with the black cod, which was perfectly cooked—its flesh flaking apart with the gentlest prod of my fork. The yuzu's bright, citrusy notes cut through the richness of the fish like a samurai's blade slicing cleanly through, while the cauliflower puree provided a velvety backdrop that would make even the most ardent carb-lover forget about mashed potatoes. The dashi nage, that magical elixir of umami, pooled around the dish, inviting me to drag each morsel through its savory depths.

Now, I know that I promised that we would “stay” in Paso Robles for this culinary journey, but this was after all a French restaurant. And, when in a French bistro, it would be absolute sacrilege, blasphemy and what ever else you could religiously mention, to not include at least one bottle of actual French wine. And if you’re going to do it, this would be the right dish to pair it with. The 2022 Yves Cuilleron 'Digue' Saint-Joseph was graciously and most expertly paired with this oceanic marvel. This Northern Rhône Syrah was a liquid poem, singing of sun-baked hillsides and ancient stone terraces. Its peppery notes and hints of fruit dance a perfect waltz with the umami-rich dashi and the subtle brininess of the cod. It was the kind of wine that made me believe in a higher power—or at the very least in the divine inspiration of French winemakers. After all, they did know how to make wine over there. Another bite, another sip, another moan and I'm sitting here struck by the beautiful simplicity of it all. This dish did not need to shout. In a world of culinary noise and Instagram-worthy plating, there was something profoundly comforting, sublimely easy about a dish that was content to let its flavors do all the talking. This, my friends, is why we travel, why we eat, why we drink, why we long to experience everything around us. And, it was in a dish like this. Simple and elegant. An extraordinary experience erupting from the most ordinary of ingredients, elevated by amazing skill, deep passion, and a dash of homemade magic.

The Fourth Course

Let me paint you a picture of culinary bliss, my friends. There I was, perched at my table, ready to dive face-first into my fourth course that felt closer to home than most people would realize. Here’s the funny thing about Europe. There are so many recipes, born in family kitchens through tradition, through refinement and deep homestyle family cooking. And I guarantee you, that there is a version of this dish that stretches across the continent. The petit oignon farci. This little bastard of an onion was stuffed to the gills and swimming in a veal jus that could make a grown man cry. This dish was a testament to the chef's skill. The humble onion, often relegated to supporting roles, took center stage. The basil oil added a punch of herbaceous goodness that cut through the richness like a hot knife through butter. And those crispy alliums? Forget about it. They were the guitar solo in this rock opera of a dish—unexpected, thrilling, and leaving you wanting more with every savory taste.

The pairing of the 2023 Scar of the Sea Gamay worked perfectly to balance everything out. This wine, with its light body and bright acidity, cut through the dish’s richness like a hot knife through butter. It was bright and had just the right amount of funk to dance in the middle of all of the flavors. It disco’d across my palate like a drunken ballerina, all grace and chaos rolled into one, fumbling and stumbling across the stage before diving headfirst into the audience like a grunge concert. The fruit-forward notes played nice with the onion's sweetness, while the acidity cut through the richness of the veal jus like a samurai sword. The warm memory of my grandmother’s cooking combined with the refinement and the skills of the chef. I sat there like a drunken idiot, savoring each bite and every sip.

The Fifth Course

As the fifth course arrived with elegance and precision. The dish was placed in front of me as I was hit with the intoxicating aroma of grilled pork and earthy chanterelles. This swine was something special. We're talking Kurobuta pork loin, the Rolls-Royce of pig meat, hailing from the rolling fields of California. And before you ask, I’ll tell you that the chef didn’t fuck around with this beauty. Instead he let its natural flavors shine through with a simple grilling technique that would make any self-respecting pitmaster nod in overwhelming approval. The sauce suprême, a classic French concoction, clung to the pork like a culinary embrace enveloping the meat with the perfect blanket of warmth. It was rich, velvety, and had just enough tang to cut through the fat without overpowering the star of the show. The chanterelles, those golden trumpets of the forest floor, add an earthy complexity that paired perfectly with the pork's subtle sweetness. The Parisian carrots, those little orbs of orange perfection provide a pop of color and a hint of sweetness to the plate and brought the flavors all together in one giant embrace.

The wine pairing was an arrival. A circle around the globe to bring me back right to where I started. My sommelier circled back to where this gastronomic odyssey began—Paso Robles. The 2023 Paix Sur Terre 'Days Between' from the Adelaida District was definitely no afterthought, my friends. This was a wine crafted by someone who gave a damn about what they were doing and did it very, very well. Ryan Pease; the winemaker, wasn't just throwing grapes in a barrel and hoping for the best. He was creating something elegant, balanced, and complex and very much like the dish this wine was accompanying, its Paso Robles fruit complementing the pork without overwhelming it. The wine hit my palate with the subtlety of a whisper, not the sledgehammer subtlety you might expect from a California red. It had layers, depth, and a finish that lingered like a fond memory. The terroir of Paso Robles shone through this red in my glass with every sip, reminding me that this wasn’t some mass-produced plonk, but a carefully crafted expression of time, place and patience. And, a little slice of culinary heaven.

Chef By Day, Mad Scientist By Night

In the dimly lit kitchen of culinary excess, where chefs regularly play fast and loose with the rules of gastronomy, a creation was placed in from of me that could only be described as the bastard child of lowbrow comfort food and high-end decadence. The chef, a mad alchemist with a penchant for culinary blasphemy, had conjured up what he proudly dubbed "bougie tots" - a dish that made your cardiologist nervous and your taste buds sing hallelujah.

Picture this. Golden-brown tater tots, crispy on the outside and pillowy soft on the inside, were generously arranged like a pagan offering to the gods of gluttony. These humble spud nuggets, typically relegated to school cafeterias and late-night munchie runs, here were elevated to godhood with a generous dollop of tangy crème fraîche and a smattering of fresh chives that added a pop of color like edible confetti. But the pièce de résistance, the coup de grâce that pushed this dish from merely indulgent musings to full-blown hedonistic depravity was the obscene amount of glistening Astrea caviar cascading over the tots like a briny avalanche.

I showed no restraint and honestly no decorum when I shoveled this unholy amalgamation into my mouth. As I ate, I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer audacity of it all. The satisfying crunch of the tots giving way to the silky smoothness of the crème fraîche, while the caviar burst on my tongue like tiny flavor grenades, releasing a rush of oceanic umami that danced with the earthy potatoes in a waltz of culinary cognitive dissonance. It was a middle finger to pretension, a love letter to excess, and a testament to the mad genius that sometimes lurks in the dark corners of professional kitchens. This was my playground and was a dish that laughed in the face of good taste while simultaneously completely redefining it.

The Evening’s End

I sat back, satiated, and definitely slightly buzzed, reflecting on the meal and on my extraordinary experience. Each course was a carefully choreographed dance of flavors, textures, and aromas. The wine pairings, far from being an afterthought, were an integral part of the experience, enhancing and complementing each dish. But what struck me most was the sense of place. This wasn't just good food. It was also a culinary tour of the Central Coast. From the Santa Barbara tuna to the Morro Bay cod, from the Fair Hill Farm peaches to the local wines, and maybe a hop into France for a bit of comparison. Regardless, each dish told a story of the region, of the land, its culture and definitely its people. The chef, Julian Asseo was a skilled storyteller. He wove these local ingredients into a narrative that was both familiar and surprising with a few eyebrow raising moments to boot. It was comfort food elevated to high art, without losing its soul in the process. I thanked Julian profusely from the incredible hospitality, the wonderful experience and departed grateful, walking out into the night.

I stumbled out of Les Petites Canailles, my belly full and my mind reeling from the culinary journey I'd just experienced. Chef Julien Asseo had worked his magic, transporting me to the French countryside with each meticulously crafted bite. The flavors still danced on my tongue—a symphony of local ingredients elevated by old-world techniques. I meandered through downtown Paso, the cool night air kissed my wine-flushed cheeks. The streets were quiet, save for the distant laughter spilling out of Pappy McGregor's. But I was lost in my own world, replaying every morsel of that incredible meal in my mind and the reliving the journey of wine that I experienced the entire day.

The Downtown City Park twinkling lights still hung from the trees like celestial ornaments, gently swayed in the night breeze, casting a soft glow over the historic grounds. I paused, marveling at how this little patch of California had managed to capture the essence of France so perfectly. I'd just managed to take a trip through France without ever leaving Paso Robles. From the world-class wines to the sophisticated yet unpretentious cuisine, this town had given me a taste of the Old World while remaining firmly rooted in its California soul. I stood there, basking in the afterglow of an unforgettable meal and surrounded by the quiet charm of Paso at night. This was my secret. My personal patch of indulgence. This was my hidden treasure—a little piece of France nestled in the heart of California wine country.