I feel as if I've aged five years in the past few months. Just deserts, I suppose, as I spent much of my early youth wanting to be old. I took unusual pleasure in wearing second hand suits early on. I took to Dominoes and Backgammon in admiration of the elegant old Greek, Italian, and Armenian men who congregated in the neighborhood parks on the weekends. I methodically strained my eyes for many months around age 9 in a desperate hope to require glasses. I scored a cane at a garage sale with immeasurable glee. I once even regrettably shaved the corners of my hairline to give it the appearance of receding. I was 12. And, actually, it was only one corner - I realized immediately that attempting this ruse after a summer tan was naive at best. The 'bald' patch was a shockingly bright and bare contrast, which I then needed to conceal by drawing hairs back in with a Sharpie. This proved far from convincing, so i scrapped that plan and went with a bandaid, concealing some non-existent injury which demanded further fabrication to sympathetic inquiries. 

These days I no longer pretend. Though the practiced scowl and shaking of a fist in the air never quite took, the body gives. An aching back, sore joints. Nerves. General malaise. Suspicious looks at the sky. But as old as I may feel or be - at this time of year - and this week in particular - my elementary heart can more readily access memories of youth. I've mentioned this before, but my heart still beats to the school calendar. The new year starts in September for me. A silly but certain rebirth. I can still access that particular nervous excitement of returning to a familiar and common space - to classmates, crushes, old friends and curious new faces joining together for another annual adventure. New purpose and new plots. New memories to be made.

I can't wait until this strange season is over for us. We look forward to seeing all your faces when we get through this. To gathering again, whether in parks or in our little classroom on 40th St. We hold our collective breaths and look forward to reconnecting. To sharing stories of summer, of tall tales and short-lived exercise plans. To hearing all about your new habits and hobbies and, perhaps, of a regrettable hair cut or two.

To feeling, if not young, perhaps new - again. 


Sending love, 

Daniel

Peering through the mist and smoke, we’ve wondered how we got here, and where we’re going. We look ahead to brighter days, and we’re thankful for our community and the simple pleasures we still enjoy, like wine, bread, and flowers, or the familiar voice of a trusted friend. We are also resentful and bitter that this is our lot, fearing strangers, intimacy, and invisible germs, our smiles carefully hidden from sight. What did we do to deserve this? A world so small and troubled.

If it has not dried up entirely, our work too has changed, sometimes beyond recognition. You may be strapping toothbrushes to fish for a living now, and not asking questions, as jobs are hard to come by. We continue to buy wine from over fifty distributors, and our afternoons were once filled with back-to-back tasting appointments, but I’ve not sat with one of our salespeople since March, and our bar is full of tiny bottles and sample jars, sterilized vessels handed over in bags and boxes, drawn from sample bottles for our assessment, accompanied by emailed tech sheets. The little jars have no jokes for us, no news of harvest, or tales of new love.

We miss spending time with our patrons, our regulars, our wine club members. We miss your fashion, your wit, your dogs, and your joy at finding a promising bottle at the end of a long day’s work. When our people come to pick up wine, we see them now so briefly there on the sidewalk, across the wooden table, with kids in the idling car, or bicycle in hand. Sometimes we ask, “How are you holding up?” And the pauses, the sighs, the eyes rolling to avoid the enormity of the question, are all we need to understand. “Some days are better than others.”

The world is still unimaginably large and full of life and love and wonder. We will see each other through this, or around it, or we’ll meet it head on; however we do it, we will do it together. In fact, we ARE doing this together, even when it feels like we are alone. Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometimes - or just fog and lightning - so let’s step up the singing and dancing, keep counting blessings while we’re counting new cases, and consider every day an opportunity to recognize the bits of goodness in life, and to help others do the same.

Cheers,

Max

I'm slow moving this morning, with little sleep last night. Even on the rarest occasion of both the baby and toddler slumbering through the night, I was wide awake. I've always kind of been this way. I can recall countless nights of my youth, Dad driving us home late at night, back to the east side after visiting friends down south in Huntington Beach or cousins in Costa Mesa or others further inland. Packed up in our Dodge Ram Van, after a long afternoon and evening of games and mischief and spent energies - everyone finally too exhausted to do much but get along, each of us seven finding some odd position of personal comfort, and most quickly trailing off to sleep on their respective bench. 

But I'd be wide awake for the dark drive. My mom would put on an easy listening station, almost always 103.5, and we'd listen to Love Songs on the KOST... with Laurie Sanders. Request lines were open for all lovers awake in the night. Laurie would read their notes and dedications and take live calls. Little windows into the sappy souls of strangers, sharing their feelings of love and loss and longing. There was a predictable Hallmark cheesiness to it all that I rather enjoyed. The quaint and hokey tie ins: "Kyle, if you're listening... Sharon just wants you to know that the fire in her heart still burns... " and Sharon would request Eternal Flame by the Bangles or something of the sort. Sometimes there would be some left turns: "Jen, Richard knows how stressed you are at work these days" ... and then Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye would follow. (Richard!). Other times it was really out there: "Alejandro, Cassie says she's still so conflicted - and is sorry about what went down at the work party..." (What?? So many questions!). If it was really juicy, mom would sometimes insist Dad keep the radio on for a few more minutes outside the house, the others still sound asleep, knowing nothing of Cassie's conflict nor of Kyle's fire. 


Phone lines are open today and everyday. And we're taking ONLINE REQUESTS as always, all day and all weekend. We're now open Tuesday through Sunday 12-6pm. Thank you to all of you who continue to call in and connect with us, and to all who keep sharing the love. Let us know how we can best be there for you too. We welcome all requests - an email came through recently asking to know more about orange wine, another customer wanting more beer and hard cider options, and still another encouraging us to have an full online store. We're working on it. Thank you for reaching out! We hear you and we're here for you. Eternally.

Sending love,

Daniel


p.s. Check our Instagram today for pics of our new OAKLAND YARD totes! We will be selling these for $10 - with ALL proceeds going to APTP and Mask Oakland. Use the ONLINE REQUEST FORM to order and support!

Some cancelled plans hurt more than others. In these five months of sheltering, we’ve all missed weddings, graduations, and important milestones. My wife and I were meant to spend the first week of August with close friends on Fire Island, and to join her parents for a stretch of sailing on the Atlantic coast, before celebrating our anniversary in New Paltz, where we were married thirteen years ago. I’ll let all of that go, and we’ll pencil these plans in for next August, but I’d give almost anything to be in New York this Sunday for my father’s eightieth birthday.

A Virgo from the ‘Silent Generation,’ my father, James Cyril Davis, Jr., grew up in Woodmere, Long Island, riding horses, playing basketball, fishing and swimming in the Poconos, and helping his father install and repair boilers in the basements of the five towns of Nassau County. The eldest of five children, Jimmy was the first to go to university, studying English at Harpur College, in Binghamton, New York, where he met my mother, Jody Greenfield. After grad school in Rochester, my father became an English professor at Monroe Community College, and they bought an old farmhouse in Farmington, where my brother and I grew up, and where my parents are now.

My father taught at MCC for twenty-eight years, and I remember my delight when he would bring me to work and I would play with microfiche in the library, and eat lunch in the college cafeteria. I have so many fond memories of time spent with my father – playing basketball, splitting firewood, canoeing on the Finger Lakes - that it’s difficult to come up with one that represents how much he means to me, but there was a time, after my father retired, when he came to work with me. It was a short shift for him, but every year on Christmas Eve, at the wine shop where Daniel and I met in Brooklyn, my father would come help me close up the store, and then we’d drive together to Julia’s parents’ house in New Paltz.

In that final hour of holiday sales, my father would hold the door for last minute shoppers, and chat them up as they browsed. He was so proud to see me in my element, and so pleased and comfortable, really mirthful, interacting with customers. Then we’d lock up the shop, get in the car, and drive north, often through ice and snow. We’d then enjoy the rare pleasure of talking alone together for an hour or so, before calling from the thruway exit to telegraph our arrival, and finally arriving the cozy home full of loved ones, with Julia’s steaming bouillabaisse just hitting the table.

We can’t always be where we want to be when we want to be there these days, but it helps to sit and remember some of the good times. Happy birthday Dad! I love you, and am thinking of you, and we’ll see you next year. Eighty-one’s a big one too.

Much love,

Jonathan

An order came in the other week, so epic that we paused from our work to read collectively. A request for two bottles for a very special occasion, a first date. It began:

Here’s a slice of my inner world so you get a better idea of where I’m coming from.

dear diary:
~ fade in ~
(( No Ordinary Love by Sade plays softly in the background ))

We took the request in earnest and with gravity. Got reacquainted with that song and video to embrace the mood (spoiler alert: Sade is a mermaid). Nearly a full page of cosmic imagery followed - scene changes, second and third acts, dream sequences, a motivational montage - an excellent soundtrack keeping things focused and moving forward. 

The inquirer goes on to seek a red that brings comfort. A red wine "to make us feel at home with each other..." and a white wine that is "heart-exploding...mesmerizing... one that tastes like the warm yellows of marigolds, a symbol for new beginnings." The request is playful and surreal. Soul warming and sincere. 


Reading all the daily requests remains a true highlight. We miss the energy that you all physically brought to this space, but we are thankful for these little windows into your souls and into your days, your lives. It brings us great pride and comfort to know that some spark and spirit still connects us all, even at such distance these days. And it is both touching and telling to see the considerations and kindness at work - so very many requests that come in are for bottles or gift certificates or six packs for others: for friends out of work, for a couple who had planned to be married that given weekend, for isolated family members, for a considerate neighbor. Folks still celebrating birthdays and commiserating bad days. Still showing and sharing the love, in these unordinary times. 

We are so grateful to see your order requests come in. We are honored to still be a small part of your lives and your celebrations. Your birthdays. Your weddings. Your movie nights. Thank you for allowing us to keep our doors open and to be a part of this beautiful community.


With extraordinary love,

Daniel


p.s. Brown Bag Bread Club accepts online orders until noon today for Friday afternoon pick-up at OAKLAND YARD. That’s right now if you’re quick – click here! 

ALSO, a happy reminder, OAKLAND YARD is now OPEN TUES through SUNDAYS, from 12 noon until 6pm! Mermaids (and mermen) welcome to order too.

My first communion was Sunday, April 3rd, 1988, at a sunrise Easter service in Kingston, Jamaica. I had traveled, at sixteen, with the Rochester Philharmonic Youth Orchestra, to tour the island, with host-family lodgings, and concerts booked in several cities. I remember the organist playing the first few bars, and then Edwin, the young violist beside me, blessed with perfect pitch, beginning to squirm, and at some point everyone in my pew stood up and walked down the aisle, so I followed suit and found myself, mouth agape, accepting the Eucharist. It seemed perfectly normal to me – when in Rome, and all – but some time later, I was informed – and this has been confirmed - that this is not a rite normally extended to the uninitiated.

My mother’s family is Jewish, but not the temple-going sort, and my father’s parents were Catholic and Episcopalian, so you might think I’d have known better, but all of this meant that Sundays began as a free day for me. No school, no cello lessons, just a time of rest and leisure, but when I started waiting tables, Sundays often meant working brunch, nobody’s favorite shift after a late Saturday. Or brunch AND dinner, oof! At age nineteen, I had a gaggle of Irish friends working the restaurants on Fire Island, and they dubbed me ‘The Pope of the pool table’, or just ‘Pope’ for short. Young Ciaran would say: “Hey Pope! What’s the craic? You working a double down at The Hideaway today?” And if it was Sunday, my answer was often “Yes, Merch, I am indeed, maybe with a quick, baptismal refresher in the sacred Atlantic between shifts.” They called me Pope for years, and some still do.

When Daniel and I went looking for a storefront for the wine shop five years ago, we viewed the spot on Telegraph that would become Julie’s. (We miss you already, Julie’s!) Nick from Nick’s Pizza on Shattuck, hoping to expand, had built out a kitchen with a brick oven before surrendering his lease, and we toyed then with the idea of opening a combination wine shop and bakery. We thought we might call it ‘The Sacrament’, though I think now the name would play better in the state capitol.

We’ve always wanted to sell bread with our wine, so when baker Lee Magner asked if we’d help distribute his freshly baked artisanal loaves, we were thrilled. Lee’s Brown Bag Bread Club accepts online orders until noon on Thursdays for Friday afternoon pick-up at OAKLAND YARD. That’s right now if you’re quick – click here! These days, I must confess, the tomato toast is my holy communion, and holy communion season is now in full swing in California.

ALSO, beginning this weekend, Oakland Yard will again be OPEN SUNDAYS, from 12 noon until 6pm. For better or worse, we’re getting back in the swing of things, and we’re ready to serve you, now six days a week. So, do what you do on Sunday morning - I’ll be treating myself to an Early Girl on a Brown Bag toast - and then come on down and buy some wine.

We’re open for CURBSIDE PICKUP TUESDAYS through SUNDAYS from NOON until 6pm. Weekly Bouquets are also available from Flower & Forage! Orders accepted Friday- Wednesday for Thursday pickups of fresh flowers here at OAKLAND YARD.

Cheers,

Max

Before we opened shop, and around the time we started started writing you weekly letters, I shared a story about the time I severely dislocated both of my thumbs and sprained my wrists. Anyone who enjoys reading about foolish children suffering can click here to read that memory. Having already tested the strength of readers' patience, I refrained from telling the second chapter to that story. But the feelings that followed that injury are with me this morning.

I ended up with two cumbersome custom casts, and all of the self-confidence that one would imagine accompanying those accessories. I remember the doctor's assurance that I'll heal in no time, but might need mom's help for the bathroom .. and his deflating chuckle. The casts were small but ridiculous, the mock turtlenecks of casts - starting a few inches below my wrists and extending up one side to protect and cap off my thumbs. Like some strange village punishment for hitchhikers. In defiance of the doctor's cruel daydreams, I figured a manageable strategy to use the restroom unassisted, with the humble patience of a senior. 

The girls I yearned to impress and other neighborhood kids would drop in to visit, in the weeks that followed that summer. If not for me, then possibly for the pool the new house offered. I spent most the summer on the balcony above, with my casts dry and elevated. watching their cannonballs and games of Marco! Polo! below, occasionally waving them on, like some ancient uncle or a hapless lifeguard. The glory of summer visible and present, but distant, inaccessible.


Sidelined once again this season... summer continues, even if we can't enjoy its full warmth. But we remain here for you. The grays and gloom of the Bay skies might not call you poolside, but we have all the crisp, mineral whites and dry rosé, orange wines, and and light, fresh chillable reds for when the sun breaks and the moment feels right. And we have some fun new offerings too to brighten your days and mornings. Weekly Bouquets are now available from Flower & Forage! Orders accepted Friday-Wednesday for Thursday pickups of fresh flowers here at OAKLAND YARD. Also Lee Magner of Brown Bag Breads is offering weekly pick ups here too - fresh baked Oland Wheat loaves and Semolina Sesame with Rye. ORDER by THURSDAY at noon (yes, today - click here!) for Friday pick up.

And WE ARE OPEN for all wine and snack needs.. CURBSIDE PICK UP every day - we are NOW OPEN UNTIL 6pm! Thank you for all the orders and support, and for the warmth we can access. 

Much love,

Daniel

I was a child of the seventies, wearing loud plaid pants and trading football cards, with Free to Be You and Me on the record player. I didn’t know what an interesting time it was politically, but the adults in the room and on the news were discussing nuclear power, the Vietnam War, the Women’s Liberation movement, and other incomprehensible issues.

In 1971, the year I was born, an outspoken Jewish feminist from New York City was elected to the House of Representatives. Her name was Bella Abzug, nicknamed ‘battling Bella’ for her outspoken opposition to injustice, and she, I know now, is one of the people in my lifetime who helped to change this country for the better. Abzug was a leader of the Women’s Movement, a social activist, and a lawyer who took on dangerous civil rights cases in the South in the 1940’s. “Women have been trained to talk softly and carry a lipstick,” Abzug averred. Her congressional campaign slogan was “This woman’s place is in the House – the House of Representatives.”

Also in the auspicious year of 1971, Abzug, along with Betty Friedan, Shirley Chisholm, Gloria Steinem, Fannie Lou Hamer, and others, founded the National Women’s Political Caucus, an organization dedicated to increasing women’s political power. In addition to her devotion to gender equity and racial justice, Bella Abzug was an early champion of gay rights, introducing to Congress, along with former New York mayor, Ed Koch, the first federal gay rights bill, the Equality Act of 1974. And in 1975, Abzug traveled to Saigon as the only member of a congressional delegation opposed to our involvement in the Vietnam War, and subsequently helped to build broad support for a policy of disengagement.

Bella Abzug was born in the Bronx on July 24th, 1920, so tomorrow would have been her 99th birthday. When she passed away in 1998, a former aide noted “It wasn’t that she was the first woman in Congress. It was that she was the first woman to get in Congress and lead the way toward creating feminist presence.” Thank you, Battling Bella. Here’s to you, and to all of us who continue to shout loudly and stand tall, still fighting for freedom and justice for all.

Cheers,

Max

My hair is five months long, and in the bathroom mirror in the morning, it does a good impression of Albert Einstein. I’m learning to hear through masks, and to read the eyes of the few people I encounter. Our isolation gives the impression of a new experience of time; not much happens, but it’s all gone by so fast. How often can I eat tamales for lunch before I grow tired of them? How many cans of tuna make up a whole fish? Will PPE tan lines give us pasty five o’clock shadows and bronze-banded eye goggles? So many questions.

It is an odd way to greet the summer, with wariness and covered faces, toes in the water, and individually wrapped snacks. A lot was supposed to happen this month. Any other year, we’d be buying kegs and booking bands, gearing up for the 40th Street block party. We’ve got a freshly paved back lot, but no artisan flea markets on the calendar just yet. And Bikini Kill and the Circle Jerks were supposed to play Mosswood Park this weekend, but the Burger Boogaloo’s been rescheduled for Halloween.

Oaklanders are getting tested, going camping, and finding ways to visit loved ones safely. We’re not thrilled about it, but we’re not stupid either. We have a healthy fear of the virus, like the fear of the whale, which Captain Ahab notably required of his Pequod crew. We will not pod up with fools. We’re going to enjoy this summer by keeping the party small, and maintaining our distance.

We’ve been receiving loads of exciting new wines, and the Oakland Yard provisions larder is chock full of cheeses, meats, crackers, olives, olive oil, anchovies, sardines, tinned mussels in escabeche, and Dick Taylor chocolate. And we’ve teamed up with artisan baker, Lee Magner, of Brown Bag Breads, as his first weekly east bay distributor. Buy a loaf online at Brown Bag Breads by Wednesday evening and pick up your freshly baked bread at Oakland Yard on Friday afternoon.

Don’t just hang in there, folks, enjoy your summer! And remember, if you’ve got a melon, we’ve got the prosciutto.
 

Cheers,
Max

I moved to California in 1993, with a cello in tow and five summers of restaurant work under my belt. I was 21 years old, living with two college friends in a small one-bedroom apartment on Derby and Telegraph, and I landed a job bussing tables and stocking wine at Chez Panisse. I did not know the restaurant’s revolutionary reputation; my world was still so very small, and I was simply happy to have a job.

My coworkers at Chez Panisse were characters from all walks of life, ranging in age from sixteen to sixty, and from every corner of the world. The one thing they seemed to have in common was a love of fresh food, and a dedication to meticulous yet unfussy service. There were bussers from Berkeley High School, and from Iran, line cooks from Walnut Creek, and Italy, French waiters, and an Austrian floor manager, and they mostly all got on pretty well together. After just a few years, I felt like I’d been adopted by an enormous and colorful international family.

The best part of the wine stocking job was lunch. The leftovers from the previous day’s menus were reworked by the garde manger and laid out on the picnic table, and the office workers, reservationists, cooks and myself would sit and indulge in crab with celery root remoulade, or blood orange and fennel salad, or duck leg confit, and never without a fruit tart or chocolate pudding to finish.

I recall one lunch in particular, though not for the food, rather as an eye-opening experience. I was sitting with Dondhup, Khalil, and Raul, and they were telling stories of how they ended up in the US. Dondhup, along with several others at the restaurant, had arrived in Berkeley just a few years earlier, when visas became available to Tibetans living in India and Nepal. Khalil and his son Yosef had fled their Afghan home and trekked through mountains with only what they could carry before coming to California. And then there was Raoul: “The first time we tried to row from Cuba to Florida, they caught us and put us in jail,” he explained. “Then I started lifting weights, and the next time, we made it.”

Thank you, Chez Panisse, for the delicious lunches, and for expanding my mind by welcoming so many refugees into the family. At that picnic table, I began to understand that the strength and richness of our society is inextricably bound up in our diversity, and we must continue to value and embrace the other. Let us march on and raise our voices to this effect.

Missing you,

Max

My older daughter is 2 1/2, and somehow became her own little person in the past few months. She surprises us with original artwork on the hardwood floors, and with live bees she trapped in the back patio and brings to the kitchen to examine. She has imaginary friend named Woody, who appeared the day after watching Toy Story. Often, she'll dismiss me when I offer my assistance for most things, but will accept help and encouragement from 'Woody'. She now actively welcomes the range of human emotion, isolating herself at times, saying she sometimes wishes to "just be sad for a minute". She indulges in something resembling pride - completing the most mundane tasks (finding a shoe, clamping down the lid of a sippy cup) with the same exultant cry: "I diiid great!" My wife filmed her attempting to put clothes on a coat hanger, a painful exercise in patience. After several minutes, and countless attempts, her strange high-pitched voice punctuates the completion, in a native accent I can only describe as creature: "I did GREAT!"

In these times, with the gravity of a global pandemic and the magnitude of this moment, the movement for racial justice - I struggle with the daily distractions. Max spoke well for all of us at OAKLAND YARD last week, and if you missed it you can read his words here. I confess that at times I'm finding it's a personal challenge for me to balance everything - to remain an active ally, a dedicated husband, a father of two tiny beings, a good business partner. But I'm learning there are transformative properties and a powerful alchemy at play when I can combine these elements. 

I'm listening this morning, for the not so imaginary voice encouraging my best. Despite past failures and shortcomings, and all the countless missteps along the way- the voice says to keep at it, to keep showing up. To be able say, with conviction, on the other side of all of this: I did great. 
 

OAKLAND YARD is OPEN today and will continue to donate proceeds from our new SUMMER SIX-PACKS to the Anti Police-Terror Project. This selection is a rotating assortment of some of our most popular bottles currently available (2 dry white wines, 1 dry rosé, 3 fresh reds) on sale now for $120. ORDER ONLINE for curbside pick up, TUE-SAT 12-5. 

With love,

Daniel

Two weeks ago, I wrote of reawakening. The news of George Floyd’s brutal murder was not yet widespread, and I imagined Oakland’s sleepy reemergence from months of pandemic hibernation. Then we heard, and saw, the reports from Minneapolis, and something amazing happened. Instead of looking the other way, and exonerating the racist criminals, this time, Americans of all colors, across the nation, and citizens around the world, responded with vehemence, united in opposition to the violent oppression and deeply rooted bigotry that has plagued our country since its founding, and much of America began a completely different kind of awakening. It is anything but sleepy; it is raging with righteous anger, and it will be ugly and painful, but it portends real and positive change, and we owe it – and much more – to our disenfranchised fellow citizens.

We, the owners of Oakland Yard, believe that white supremacy should be eradicated in all of its forms. We acknowledge the advantages we have been afforded because of our race, and we are working to understand the roles we, and other white Americans, have played to maintain this unfounded and egregious hegemony, so that we may help to fully dismantle it. We applaud the people’s uprising and anti- racist agenda, and we wholly support the Movement for Black Lives. We pledge to listen carefully, to think critically, to contribute resources, and to act decisively in service of a more just society.

Starting today, Oakland Yard will donate proceeds from our new STAFF FAVORITES SUMMER SIX-PACK to the Anti Police-Terror Project. This six-pack is an assortment of our most popular and beloved bottles currently available (2 dry white wines, 1 dry rosé, 3 fresh reds) on sale now for $120. ORDER ONLINE for curbside pick up, TUE-SAT 12-5. 

With love,

Max

photo credit @endeavors_oakland/Instagram

I was leaving for work the other day and my older daughter, now almost 2 1/2, came to the door to see me off. I was stretching the elastic band of my mask over my head when she asked "wha wha wha wha wha whatcha doing?".  I pulled it up from my neck and over my mouth briefly. This is my mask, I replied. I wear it outside and for work.... do you want one too?  She considered for a beat and then said "Nah, I'm OK. I just wear my face" and walked away with a dismissive half wave.

I wonder what the world looks like to kids these days, everyone in masks, walking around like muzzled dogs or curious comic book heroes and villains. Spiderman or Batman come to mind for many, but when I was 6 or 7 I was completely captivated by Zorro, the ever smiling, sword-wielding vigilante. The Gay Blade film was released a couple years earlier and the original series in black and white (from the late 1950s) was syndicated at that time, and regularly featured on our cartoon network. Every Saturday after the credits I would pencil a mustache on with a Crayola marker, don the cape from my brother's ancient Dracula costume, and beg my mom to pull out the yarn and black construction paper and cut out eye holes for my mask. I'd find the longest, thinnest stick in the side yard and go on a tear around the neighborhood, swashbuckling all about, carving Zs in the air and onto telephone poles and tree trunks, laughing like an old jolly fat man, affecting an absurd Spanish accent. The elderly Norwegian neighbors looking on from their balcony, wondering what the hell they put in that kid's cereal. 


OAKLAND YARD is OPEN today and accepting ONLINE ORDERS and offering curbside pick up, Tuesday through Saturday from 12-5. It's a rough time for adventure seekers, masked or otherwise. But we are still here for you, with provisions for whatever curious capers are in store for your long weekend (and weeks) ahead. Still all smiles, behind these masks. 

I was behind bars in New York for a good part of my thirties, serving not time, but drinks, of good old ethanol. It was Manhattan, at the turn of the century, and the year 2000, followed by the fallen towers, made us all rather hopeless and confused. It was then, as it is now, hard to see the way forward, but cocktails, in the wake of the Cosmopolitan, were enjoying a resurgence in popularity, and I applied myself with focus to the craft.

The history of mixed drinks is rich and colorful, and generally acknowledged to begin with the 1862 publication of barman Jerry Thomas’ The Bon Vivant’s Companion. Bartenders who took themselves seriously were aware of the contributions of Thomas, as well as others, like Dale DeGroff, Ada Coleman, and Oakland’s own Victor ‘Trader Vic’ Bergeron. When I came to Manhattan in the late 90’s, the scene was nascent but high-quality, including Sasha Petraske’s incomparable speakeasy, Milk and Honey, where a reservation, and etiquette, were required; the hidden whiskey bar, Angels’ Share, where, having entered through an unmarked door, in the back of an upstairs restaurant near Astor Place, you could enjoy a fastidiously built drink and the coolest Jazz, and The Lansky Lounge, with it’s hidden, lower east side back alley entrance, and classic cocktails.

As the bar manager at Five Points restaurant, on Great Jones Street, I created a cocktail menu that relied on fresh juices, spices, herbs, and infused spirits. I also trained Jim Mehan, author of the PDT cocktail guide and much-touted mixologist, who got his start behind the bar at Five Points. I don’t believe I would care to drink any of the selections on that list today – one with whiskey and muddled fig jam comes clumsily to mind - but I’d like to think they helped inform some of the more creative cocktails offered today.

I eventually left the bar for the more attractive hours of retail wine sales, but I still enjoy a mixed drink from time to time, as it appears many of you do as well, and though we cannot sell the hard stuff at Oakland Yard, we do carry many Vermouths and aperitifs, some delicious on their own, over ice, like the bittersweet Cocchi Americano, or Dolin or Berto Blanc, and others that will turn your gin or whiskey into a splendid Martini, Negroni or Manhattan with a quick shake or stir. We also stock Cappelletti, an aperitif similar to Campari, a splash of which in your sparkling wine will make an irresistibly delicious Italian Spritz. As the weather warms, and nothing much else happens, please consider our many non-wine options as a way to bring a bit of the bar back home and put a little spice in your glass.

Cheers,

Max

I don't know why this popped into my head this morning, but here you go. I was raised catholic and my elementary school was run by nuns. I was chosen to be an altar boy at an impressionable young age. I suppose I enjoyed the sad romance of it all - the ancient rituals and the simple precision of the timely tasks that this peculiar unpaid internship required. Maybe I just liked the smell of incense.

On some occasions I was able to skip my classroom lessons entirely and accompany the priest on duty to the adjacent church for a midweek morning funeral. Seems kinda odd to me now, I guess. But much more vivid than the traditional Sunday services, I remember these most of all. Though not for any morbid reasons. On the contrary, there was often some unexpected juxtaposed nonsense I could almost count on. An old man who couldn't stop sneezing. A priest who kept farting. Old ladies always asking me to be in the photo (Looking back, my go-to pose, a 'Fonzie thumbs up', was inappropriate). 

The one I remember this morning was a solemn moment at one such memorial. The smell of smoke and wood. The cold marble. The statutes peering down on us. A somber organ and the solitary organist. The priest and I lighting candles during a moment of silence. And then a toddler in the pews, up at the top of her lungs, unyielding: "Haaappy Biiirthday Toooo YOUUUUU!!! Haaaappyy BIIIIRTHdaaaaay...." 

I hope you are all well this morning. I hope that through the uncertainty, through the strange and sad and somber and surreal stretches there is still some juxtoposition of joy. Kids saying ridiculous things. Nervous laughter. Silly photos. Dogs farting. Music. Birthdays. Celebrations of life. Defiant joy.

Missing you,

Daniel


ps. OAKLAND YARD remains open, accepting ONLINE ORDERS and offering curbside pick up, Tuesday through Saturday from 12-5. We are still here for you.Thank you for being here for us. Thanks for the kind messages of support and for those keeping us afloat with case orders and gift certificates and passing waves and smiles and good words. We miss you too:)

Over the last few weeks, we’ve changed the way we live. Our circles have become smaller, and our lives shrunken to include only essential ingredients. For most of us, there is an attendant slowness, a change of pace, a different sensation of the passage of time. Bananas seem to ripen quickly, spring buds unfold before our watching eyes, and the dog food depletes in a steady, predictable ebb. There is simplicity and purity to this new way of life; our thoughts and deeds are more carefully examined, our friendships and family bonds are valued and better understood in this light.

Our choices are limited, both for our own good, and the good of others, and we are deciding anew what is necessary. The isolation has a solipsistic effect, in which I am the only reality, but it also weaves us deeper into society. The most effective cure for nail biting involves this calculus: a seemingly harmless habit endangers your entire family. Perhaps because my waking life has been so limited, I’m remembering more of my dreams. And, though I’m fortunate enough to be working a regular schedule, there is a feeling of suspension and repetition, and the days of the week are not so evident as they were when we all had weekends, plans, and appointments.

Oakland Yard is no longer the community junction it once was, but we have strong memories of a colorful past, and we have real hopes for a brighter future, and, while we dearly miss your presence, we do enjoy reading your requests for refreshment, hearing your voices on the line, and to trying to figure out who you are when you show up at our door with freshly shaven heads and ever so stylish face masks. OAKLAND YARD remains open, accepting ONLINE ORDERS and offering curbside pick up, Tuesday through Saturday from 12-5. Please note, we can only guarantee same-day orders if we receive them before 4pm, and you can call in orders as well, but our phone capacity is limited, so better to get yourself in the queue by visiting our website and registering your request.

Stay strong, remember what’s important, and keep a hold on your dreams.

Cheers,

Max

I have a lot of stories. But today may not be one for the telling, but rather for taking in the little details. Today there is likely a new story to emerge. As I write you to deliver some news about the shop, another delivery is hopefully on it's way any hour now, as my wife and I await a new baby girl to join this family in these most surreal of times. 

Our family and the OAKLAND YARD family truly appreciate all your support. We were faced with the decision to close first our tasting bar program and then our retail space for the health and well-being of our local and greater communities. And though our doors have been closed, our hearts are open and full. We are so grateful for the outpouring of well-wishes, of thoughtful notes from so many of you. An inbox of kind emails. A bag of coffee beans from one neighbor, a bag of brownies yesterday passed through the front gates.

We are thrilled to still have some way to connect with you. That's what this was all about for us, ultimately. That's why we chose our name for this space. And as my wife and I decide (once and for all!) on a name for this little girl ... I'm pleased to announce that we will have a chance to call you by name starting today. OAKLAND YARD is now open for Online Request Orders (with Curbside Pick Up). Think of it like walking into the shop... just let us know how many bottles you’d like (10% off any 6 or more) and give us a price range. Let us know your style preferences and we'll curate a selection just for you and set up your order for easy curbside pick-up. We'll call you when the order is ready and you can pick up TUE-SAT from 12-5pm. We'll do our best to fulfill same day, but appreciate your flexibility and understanding as we try this out. We hope to be able to offer delivery by next week, but have a tiny and rather important delivery to take care of first;)

If you would like to support but would rather drop in at a later date when things calm a bit, GIFT CERTIFICATES for any amount are always available - you can call the shop or order online. It's like 'planting a seed' for your nest visit, as a good friend suggested. Thank you for considering. And thank you for everything. We mean it. Thanks for choosing to be a part of our story and for allowing us to be part of yours. We'll get through this, together. Stay safe, friends. 

With love to you and your families,

Daniel

It is unnerving, this sheltering in place, but it is less worrisome than business as usual. Following an extremely busy and emotional weekend, we closed Oakland Yard on Monday night, and the shop will remain shuttered through April 7t​h​. We truly appreciate your support over the last week, and I’m sorry I didn’t have the time to thank each of you personally as you stocked up and assured me that we are, to you at least, an essential business.

We would like to resume selling wine in some capacity, and we may be able to provide curbside pick-up service, in-state shipping, or local deliveries before April, but we are mindful of our potential role in spreading the virus, so will pursue these options only after some time and careful consideration. We believe most of you will respect our healthy fear of unknown risks, and while you may, on occasion, resort to Two Buck Chuck, please do not grow accustomed to it.

We will keep you informed of our progress shortly, and feel free to write us at info@oaklandyardwineshop if you have questions or want to say hello, or you’re looking for pairing recommendations, new music, gardening tips, or relationship advice. I, for one, am still in a mild state of shock at the turn of events, and I’ve been cooking, tending my vegetables and practicing the cello to occupy my time, happy to have my health and a roof under which to shelter. I’ll see some of you out in the neighborhood, waving, walking dogs and strollers. For now, be content to love the ones you’re with, and when it’s time, go on and bring that love back out to the rest of the world.

Cheers,

Max

Sorry this email is a little late this morning. My thoughts are a bit cloudy. I was chatting with Max yesterday, wondering how to still be a place for this community with all going on in our world right now.

My daughter turned 2 a couple months ago, and has become a curious little human right before my eyes. She talks a lot now and to my surprise and dismay, has actual opinions on things. I used to be able to grab a pair of leggings and a shirt and she'd plop in my lap to be dressed. Now I frequently hear "No no daddy. I no like that sweater" or "nonono, I wore yesterday...". So, like a clumsy and ill-prepared personal assistant I find myself laying out options for her each morning: combinations that pop, safe favorites, no visible tags, etc. She now does this new thing, which was adorable two weeks ago but now annoys the hell out of me. She says: "Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm .... mmmmmm ........ "

And many minutes later, when we are (finally) down to just two choices she says, each time: "I want both". And this morning I exhaled and said, quietly: Me too.

We want to be able to write you and share silly memories, odd anecdotes, strange adventures, funny stories (my foot was run over by a car this week!). But we also appreciate the gravity of what is happening around us. We want everyone to take care of themselves- and we also want to see you. We want to be a space to gather and connect. But we want everyone to feel and be safe. Please know that your health and well-being is of great importance to us. We'll continue to do what we do - and are taking all precautionary measures we can to maintain a safe environment for everyone. We have increased the frequency of cleaning here: from retail products to door handles, stools, surfaces (bar, tables, etc). We are set up for cashless payment for those who prefer to use their phones for transactions. We are monitoring the health and wellness of staff - and we all continue to be proactive with frequent and proper handwashing. Beyond this, let us know what we can do for you. Local Delivery remains an option! And I'd be delighted to personally drop off wines if needed, wearing gloves and a smile - and a warm elbow extended, if you want it. 

Stay safe, friends.

TONIGHT: Thursday Night Flights. Loire Valley Whites and French Gamay for the reds this evening. Flights $12 from 5-9 and wines by the glass all night. 

SOUTH AMERICAN WEEKEND:
Saturday (3/14) Wines of Chile and Sunday (3/15) Wines of Argentina. Flights $15 from 2-6 and wines by the glass until close. 


With love and wine,

Daniel

Fifty years ago, my parents bought an old farmhouse on six acres in western New York, and I grew up amid construction. With help from friends, my father laid new floorboards, my uncle Phil wired the house, my grandfather, Poppy, the boiler man, gave the home its heat, and my mother tended two large gardens, made homemade yogurt, and sewed shirts from patterns with the wildly colorful fabrics of the time.

How quickly the world changes. There were no home computers, no cellular phones, and I’m not saying it was perfect, but it was certainly different, and was not long ago. When I was 3 or 4 years old, Poppy gave my brother and me a set of lobster claws bigger than our heads, and I was fascinated by them, but one night they came to life in a bad dream, and I spent months thereafter, or maybe even a full year, unable to go to bed without consulting each member of my family. In a way that strikes me now as impossibly tender and somewhat tragic, I would go to my father, my mother, and my brother and ask them individually, in earnest: ‘Will you take care of me?’ And only after all three yeses could I crawl into bed, at ease.

As you read this, I fly with my dear wife back to that old house to be with my parents for my first winter visit in many years, and it will surely bring memories of winters past, of sitting on the floor by the fireplace, skating on the frozen creek, and collecting sap from the sugar maples to put in a giant pot on the wood burning stove, the evaporation of which served the triple purpose of making a tiny bit of syrup, while humidifying and sweetly scenting the kitchen. There are no more sugar maples in our yard, and the lobster claws are long gone, but the house with the old floorboards, the wood stoves, and my parents, are all still there, and all of this will remind me that because life is ceaselessly changing and precarious, it is important to make all efforts to care for one another, and to enjoy all that you have and haven’t got right now.

And while I’m gone, good people of Oakland, try not to get too upset about national policies or politics, wash your goddamn hands, and take care of each other.

This week’s tastings at Oakland Yard...
THURSDAY NIGHT FLIGHTS​: CHENIN BLANC & MONTEPULCIANO – Wines from Haarmeyer, Little Frances, Champalou, Vallevo, Terre d’Aligi, and Garofoli. ​Flights $12 from 5-9 and wines by the glass until close.
SATURDAY, March 7t​h​: ​RHONE VALLEY TASTING – Viognier, Grenache & Syrah from Chateau la Canorgue, Domaine des Accoles, Eric Texier, & Yves Cuilleron. Flights $15 from 2-6 and wines by the glass until 9pm.
SUNDAY, March 8t​h​: ​TASTY TEMPRANILLO from Enfield, Lopez de Heredia, La Bicicleta Voladora, and Friend & Farmer. ​Flights $15 from 2-6 and wines by the glass until 8pm.

Cheers,

Max