Old Vine, New Tricks
In a bit of foreshadowing, the parking lot leading to Old Vine Cafe channels the meddling mother in Woody Allen’s Oedipus Wrecks through a series of maternal stencils on asphalt.
Thanks Mom.
So it comes as a surprise when not mom, but brothers Brandon and Mark McDonald fuss over the offerings like matriarchs in full Thanksgiving prep mode. And they’re motherly in a good way. There is a charcuterie plate, fat coins of smoky Pimentón-laced Pamplona chorizo, quail egg-sized Obregón olives and diminutive nero olives whose skins slip off to reveal savory, voluptuous flesh. Hard cheeses that have the taste of faraway fields and ample herbal focaccia crisps accompany.
Vine ripe.
If you’re lucky enough to get a bar seat looking out of the storage unit-sized space, you can contemplate a handful of Sequoia trees with a massive hammock strung between them.
On one visit, a Gilligan-like dude planted himself for the duration. I ask if it’s occupied often. ”It’s for the community,” says my server says with an earth goddess sweep of her hand. “People chill out there for a couple of hours at a time.” Don’t mind if I do.
Little Buddy.
You are, after all, in The Camp, as the cluster of buildings is called, and though it’s no Glacier National Park, it’s a pleasant enough place to kick back, minus the bears.
Happy Camper.
Chef Mark McDonald makes a brilliant, salad spiked with dozens of baby fried artichokes, hearts of palm and cured ham dressed in a creamy tarragon emulsion. Just as good the savory prosciutto and fried onion-flecked field greens with Maytag Blue Cheese dressing.
Do fried baby artichokes count?
What can twenty dollars buy these days? If you’re at Old Vine, you can have a prixe fixe approaching Marché Moderne standards in sophistication and value. A salad combined milky soft-centered burrata, beefy grape tomato halves and peppery flash fried arugula suspended in a crispy tangle. The Reuben had the subdued four-triangles-with-a-ramekin-of-Russian dressing presentation that you would find at, say, Pelican Hill, or Big Canyon, but its tender shards of all natural pastrami, juicy sauerkraut and sweet, nutty Gruyère surpass pedestrian tee-time fare. The dessert course of cheesecake was European in its slender tart-like elegance, transcending the cloying, whipped wedges Philly that many places are wont to serve.
Gal Fresco.
Although they’re no terroir fundamentalists, the Old Vine crew hardly lets oak-blugeoned and malolactic-heavy sips take center stage. Instead, expect lovely seldom seen Argentinian whites that smell of lavendar and candied orange rind or Rosé with strawberries on the nose. Perfect for swinging in a hammock.
2937 Bristol St. A 102 Costa Mesa, CA 92626 714.545.1411.
