I inherited my father's sweet tooth, though our mutual love for the combination of chocolate and peanut butter may be our only shared preference. His favorites are somewhat peculiar, perhaps old fashioned, with Abba-zabbas and chocolate cherry bars topping his list. I remember one Father's Day when I was 5 or 6, my brother Jeff and I found an old bag of peanut butter chips tucked back in the cabinet and persuaded my mom to let us bake cookies "for Dad". Mom noted their expiration and (for maybe the only time in this life) suggested we toss them. Jeff and I convinced ourselves that they'd be fine. As kids do, we also decided that those measurements were merely suggestions. We went big on things like sugar and salt. We threw in a handful of peanuts for no particular reason. Baking soda, baking powder...close enough. Undeterred by the strange consistency and odd smell of the dough, we flanked the tray on the floor, fashioning hearts and mickeymouse heads. We thought rolling one out like a big turd was next level comedy.

The joke was on us. It was not the oven timer sounding, but some smoke that alerted us these were indeed "done". The cookie sheet emerged as just a tray of lumpy sludge. The old peanut butter smelled (and tasted) more rancid after cooking. Surprisingly, the turd surpassed expectations, like burnt playdough with an oily sheen. Almost lifelike. Sadly, it too was inedible. Dad feigned a small nibble and a convincing Mmmm!.. while inspecting the curious flakes of broken eggshells.

It's Father's Day this Sunday, but I just wrote about my Dad a couple weeks ago on his birthday so I'll hold off on other memories. If you missed it, that's fine. It was a simple story about my father showing up to help someone move, and ultimately making a new lifelong friend. A story to illustrate what kind of man he is and what quality I admire most in him, and in others. Dependability. Support. People always down to help. People showing up for others.

So, respectfully, let's not look to Sunday but instead to this Saturday. Be like Bob. Show up and show support. The Juneteenth event this Saturday is a celebration - and an opportunity to make new connections. New alliances. New friendships. To show support for black owned businesses. Chef Lala Harrison, east bay native and longtime sous chef at Flora, will be opening RouX40, her highly anticipated first restaurant, featuring Black heritage cuisine, just down the block at the corner of 40th and Opal Streets.

To support Chef Lala’s launch, Oakland Yard is hosting a fundraiser and party this Saturday, on Juneteenth, from 12 to 5pm in our back parking lot. Come celebrate and support Chef Lala in anticipation of her grand opening later this summer! There will be delicious samplings from the upcoming RouX40 menu, and Oakland Yard be selling wine and beer. Tickets are available at eventbrite.com (click here). General admission is $20, with $10 food tickets. Wine and beer tickets can be purchased at the Oakland Yard Wine Shop outdoor bar. You can also enjoy unlimited food with a glass of sparkling wine for $100. We look forward to seeing you, to celebrating Juneteenth, and to welcoming chef Lala and RouX40 to the neighborhood.

Cheers,
Daniel

In May of 1911, the Oakland & Antioch Railway purchased one complete city block at the intersection of 40th Street and Shafter Avenue, and from 1913 to 1938, electric commuter trains ran down 40th Street to the Key System Ferry Pier. From 1939 to 1941 they continued across the lower deck of the old bay bridge to San Francisco. We named our wine shop after the Oakland Shafter Yard, that bustling station that was our block for the first half of the twentieth century, and we met someone a few years back who remembers their father taking the 40th Street train to work in San Francisco.

Oakland has had its ups and downs since then. When I arrived in 1993, there were scores of empty storefronts along Telegraph and Broadway, and the city looked depressed. Crumbling Victorians and fifties signage were evidence of a once thriving economy, but Oakland felt like it was having trouble emerging from the seventies and eighties intact. Two decades later, things were looking up. On our block of 40th Street, Manifesto Bicycles, 1-2-3-4 Go Records, and Subrosa Coffee had established themselves among the industrial supply stores, and then came Marquee Salon, Homeroom Mac & Cheese, and yes, Oakland Yard.

The pandemic knocked many of our local businesses off their feet, but it also provided new opportunities, and a handful of brave and talented entrepreneurs are jumping in to fill the void. States Coffee took over where Subrosa left off, as the life-blood of our block, open early every day, and now featuring truly delicious, freshly baked bread. We are so happy to have them. Around the corner on 41st and Broadway, Chef Carlo Espinas has reopened The Lede restaurant, where I recently enjoyed the freshest, sweetest oysters, a mouthwatering nduja toast, and an exceptional martini. And we’ve just learned that Chef Lala Harrison, east bay native and longtime sous chef at Flora, will be opening RouX40, her highly anticipated first restaurant, featuring Black heritage cuisine, at the corner of 40th and Opal Streets.

In an effort to help Chef Lala’s launch, Oakland Yard is hosting a fundraiser and celebration one week from this Saturday, on Juneteenth, from noon to 5pm in our back parking lot. Come celebrate with us and support Chef Lala in anticipation of her grand opening later this summer. There will be delicious samplings from the upcoming RouX40 menu, and Oakland Yard be selling wine and beer. Tickets are available at eventbrite.com (click here). General admission is $20, with $10 food tickets. Wine and beer tickets can be purchased at the Oakland Yard Wine Shop outdoor bar. You can also enjoy unlimited food with a glass of sparkling wine for $100. We look forward to seeing you, to celebrating Juneteenth, and to welcoming chef Lala and RouX40 to the neighborhood.

Cheers,
Max

I didn't hear my wife's question before she opened her computer, but I did hear her audible confusion (announced with a What the hell??) when she became aware of my recent search history, as The Complete Idiot's Guide to Pole Dancing was prompted in her search bar. To explain: a couple weeks ago I wrote about serendipitous encounters, and almost included the true story of a young man who stopped in for a flight here over a year ago. He stayed an hour or so, quietly reading at the bar, and when he closed out, he closed his book to reveal the aforementioned cover title, an instructional manual for exotic dancing. Staff were caught off guard with eyebrows up, mouths open. He responded with the enthusiasm of good fortune: "I know, right??... I can't believe someone just left this on their stoop! What a score!".

I didn't intend for my last newsletter to be continued, but I got to thinking about it after I hit send. While I do delight in some universal magic at play and find wonder in the curious encounters mentioned in that last post, I feel equal awe and admiration for those who make their luck. My mother met one of her best friends 40 years ago by randomly sitting in an empty seat next to Gabby. But Gabby's husband and my father became friends for a different reason. After the wives connected, it took some time to see if their husbands would click. But it wasn't the planned social visits or any double-date that did it. Gabby set me straight about it years ago. Shortly after she and my mother met, they were moving houses and she said my dad had offered to help. Her husband had a lot of friends and a crew from work that he said would be there. He thanked my dad for the offer but insisted they had plenty of hands. My dad said he'd maybe swing by anyway, and if not needed he'd just head back home. On the morning of the move, no one showed up. Hangovers, flat tires, wrong date, you get the idea. Gabby beamed when she got to this part of the story: "And there was Bob Schmidt, standing there bright and early, ready to go, ready to help ...".

I have countless stories to evidence how proud and fortunate I am to have the father I do, but I was thinking of this one this morning, on his birthday. Here's to those open to magic and wonder when it walks through the door, or sits down beside us. But more so, here's to those who will this simple magic into existence. Who commit to being the wonder, the relief, the joy. Who align the stars when we need them.

Happy Thursday,

Daniel

I am one of the quieter people I know. It started early, when I learned that I could sneak up on a frog in the grass, or enter a room unnoticed, if I moved in silence. Without a sound, I escaped the wrath of a father who valued naps, stayed up reading well after my bedtime, and descended the creaky stairs for a midnight snack. Pascal wrote that the silence of infinite spaces frightened him, but I’ve always found it exhilarating; there is a wholeness and limitless potential in quietude.

In music, silence is the negative space. It is to sound as darkness is to light, and they are dependent, defined by their difference. Studying the cello, I learned to play the instrument, but I was also taught when not to play, which turns out to be a good half of the time for a cellist. We’re used to resting, perhaps more than some other orchestra members, because much of our job is counting rests; that's right, cellists get paid to silently mark time onstage. Not paid much, mind you, but no less than when we’re sawing away with brio. I have an internal metronome that softly ticks off the measures: 1234, 2234, 3234, 4234...from a corner of my unconscious brain, unless I turn it off. Cellists are on when it’s our time to shine, but we also know how to take the bow from the strings and quietly wait our turn.

One’s musical entry depends on careful counting, or an outside cue, and may rely on both for insurance of accuracy. Cues can include a gestural entreaty from a conductor or fellow musician, or recognition of a passage or motif that marks one’s place in the piece, a handhold with which to re engage. My cello teacher, a man of very little humor, once told me a clever joke about rests and cues, involving an orchestral performance of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The final movement of the symphony includes a lengthy rest for the bass players, he explained, during which they set down their instruments and retired to a bar next to the theater for some refreshment. Before sneaking out, one bassist secured a string to the conductor’s final pages of music to throw off his tempo, which would signal their return for the finale. You may have guessed where this is going, but in the end, there was a critical moment: it was the bottom of the ninth, the score was tied and the bassists were loaded ;-)

Patient and quiet as I am, I think we’re all a little tired of counting the days, hours, and minutes of the past year. Hugs and smiles are back, and I’m ready to pick things up where we left off, ready to play again, and to make some noise. I’m no longer resting; I’m watching and listening for our cues, eager to rejoin the great, wild ride in tandem and right on time.

See you around,
Max

When my mom was pregnant with me, she attended a parent social at my sister's preschool. The ice breaker involved taking a minute to learn something about the person next to them. The person next to my mother was a warm but somewhat shy woman named Gabby. My name is not indicative of my personality, she offered modestly, not quite filling up her minute. My mother had no problem filling hers. They remain best friends 40 years later.

Our bookkeeper, Penny, and her partner, Stefan, met many years ago when he traveled to attend a wedding here, far from his German homeland. She put this kind visitor up for the night and offered him refreshments when he first arrived: Coffee,Tea? Bourbon? .. Chocolate chip cookies??. He decided quickly that the last two options sounded rather delightful. Less than two years later they were married, in an intimate ceremony in a rose garden. And in lieu of pomp and pageantry, they quietly communed and committed to each other... sipping bourbon and sharing chocolate chip cookies. They celebrated their 20 year wedding anniversary yesterday. With bourbon and cookies.

Four years ago on a sunny spring day like today, a shop regular walked into the bar with five tiny foster pups. One was an animated Chihuahua named Arlo who wore a scarf around his neck that said: ‘Adopt me’. He ran straight to Julia's arms and she looked at her husband, Max, with wide pleading eyes. As it turned out, the second he walked through the front door, Arlot was home.

I know so many stories like this. You do too. Lovers who met on an airplane. Strangers colliding in a mosh pit becoming drinking buddies for decades. I know a Canadian named Dan who was in need of a hat one afternoon and found one nearby, randomly discarded. It was a Chicago Bulls hat. And so he became a Bulls fan at that exact moment. For life.

Sometimes we choose things. Sometimes they choose us. Maybe you found our shop walking past one day. Maybe you needed a bathroom and stayed for a glass and some A/C. Maybe someone amazing told you about us or forwarded you a newsletter back when you were living in Arizona. However it happened, we're thrilled to have collided. We're grateful to have found you. We honored that you've chosen us and still choose us, after all this time. Know that we're still committed to you. Don't be shy to let us know how to better be there for you, and what offerings you'd most like. Sadly, the ABC won’t allow us to offer you bourbon, but cookies are not out of the question. This last year kept us distant at times, we know - but nearly on the other side of it all, we can hold on to the hope that in years or decades, we'll stay connected. That you'll still choose us. Still want to be best friends.

Yours,

Daniel

Sometimes, an apparently small act of generosity can engender a whole chain of giving. Several years ago, when Oakland Yard was still very new, Brendan, an early customer and wine club member of ours, gave me a small jar of mother of vinegar, the jelly-like, dark purple goo made of cellulose and bacteria that turns wine into vinegar. Now, we’re a thirsty bunch of Yardies, but we don’t always finish the reds we’ve got open, so I’ve got an endless supply of raw material for the project. My wife bought me a spigotted ceramic vessel from Preserved on Telegraph Avenue, and since then my little vinegar factory has been cranking out about forty bottles a year. That’s quite a bit more than my personal use, and without the health department’s stamp, it can’t be sold, so I’ve been giving friends and customers bottles of vinegar for years, and they’ve brought us so many delightful gifts in return.

We received sourdough starter, from Marni, which Julia has masterfully fashioned into dozens of heavenly loaves. We got cacti from Cory, LP records from Brad and Danny, cakes from Michele and Lauren, and cookies from Marykate and Megan. James gave us one of his small, colorful paintings, and Alex the coffee roaster regularly brings beans. Mr. Mingrino has shared his homemade Nocino and green olives he’d cured himself, and Salome once brought us a little bottle of Mayan hot sauce and strangely flavored Doritos. Kim sent us a postcard from Sicily, and Dana, bless her heart up there in Portland, gave us our dear little ten pound chihuahua.

Joy brings coffee (and joy) from across the street, taking orders in person or by text, and Michael from the guitar store gives us oranges every year from his parents’ grove. Natsumi and Pablo brought me fresh plums and rock sugar to make umeshu, and Siobhan shares her meyer lemons. Ty wins the award for the most esoterically artisanal gifts; he has shown up at the shop with hoshigaki-style dried persimmons, a rump roast from a cow he’d butchered, and a slice of prosciutto he made from feral pigs he’d captured and raised in his Temescal backyard! Little Felix and Leta showed up one day offering cherry plums from their tree. “Would you like some cherry plums?” Leta asked a passing stranger on Fortieth Street. He extended an open palm with enthusiasm and said “Yeah, I’d hella like some cherry plums!”

All of this generosity and thoughtfulness didn’t come from my mother of vinegar, but I like to think it’s been a catalyst for a community of people eager to share the little things that enrich their lives. Thank you all for your generosity, and my apologies to those I inevitably neglected to acknowledge. I’ve got six bottles of vinegar currently awaiting a home by the front register, and plenty of mother to give. Come avail yourself while supplies last. Please, no more chihuahuas; this one is more than enough.

With gratitude,
Max

My daughter's obsessions change with the seasons. Sometimes even sooner. I wrote a few months back about her extensive acorn collection. For someone with such ephemeral favoritism, it's fitting that her newest fascination is with the short-lived dandelion. She's 3 and we can't make it around the block or get too far from the neighborhood without her hollering: DAD! DANDELIONS! DAD! STOP! And now that we can once again take her out to the park, I keep expecting her to run straight to the slides or swings, but more frequently we'll exit the car and the hunt is on. She'll creep along the sidewalk and scan the cracks and nearby grass for little white spheres interrupting the gray and green expanse.

She has trouble blowing the seeds and frequently draws a few tufts back into her mouth on a concerted inhale, but she's practicing. She'll more often just grab several stems and streak away, waving her arms spastically, transforming these small fluffy moons (once tiny yellow suns) into little light stars, floating away on the breeze. At the very moment when they are first released into the air, she is unusually silent, wide-eyed, and clearly full of glee. There is almost the illusion of her holding sparklers in her hands, a brief picture that makes an ordinary Saturday feel like the Fourth of July or New Year's eve.

A couple other kids joined in last week, galavanting and giggling and picking the grassy field clean. One parent was demonstrating how to blow and explaining what wishes were: "There you go! Wait, make a wish!" I wish for DANDELIONS! her daughter shouted. Me too! squealed another boy and my little one echoed the chorus. Me TOO! I wish for dandelions! They all ran off laughing again. One dad teased them playfully: "Haha, I don't think you guys get it...". We all laughed.

Driving back home I thought Yes they do.


Happy Thursday,
Daniel


OAKLAND YARD is OPEN for in-store shopping today and all weekend. With ephemeral delights that can turn an ordinary day into something glorious. Come pick one and carry it away with you. For any of you who want to make wishes from your own home (or workplace;), our ONLINE BOTTLE SHOP will remain up - as will our free curation service (use our ONLINE REQUEST FORM) through our website!

When God handed out the useful life skills, She must have given my business partner, Daniel, all of the facial recognition technology. When I see most of our patrons, I think “Oh, it’s that lovely person again,” and if my brain’s on straight, I might remember what they like to drink. Daniel, on the other hand, may not know where he put his keys, phone or lunch, but he will remember your name, your partner’s name, your grandmother’s name...well, you get the picture. He’ll stop short of maiden names and first pets; he’s not a hacker, he’s just a really sweet guy who likes to put names to faces.

Last week, I asked Daniel if he knew anyone’s name at the recently opened State’s Coffee across the street, and as he rattled off the full staff roster, it occurred to me that this is how strangers become friends. It starts with a name, and someone who cares enough to remember it, and it grows into a community, a whole neighborhood of stories, inhabited and lived by a cast of familiar characters. He may also get a free coffee now and then, but the impetus is all heart.

A few years into getting to know our customers, we were made to lock you all out, and your faces - named and nameless - disappeared from our shop for over a year. For too long, it was just names and no faces; phone and online orders filled and handed off, all business, swift and serious. This month, we reopened our doors for in-store shopping, and after the initial shock of proximity, we’re really enjoying having you back. Our newest customers have never been inside, and we welcome you to our gallery of liquid treasures. We also look forward to becoming reacquainted with our very own, woefully missed, familiar cast of characters. If we haven’t seen you lately, please come on in this week and say hello in person. Masks are still required indoors, so if we don’t recognize you right away, please re-introduce yourself, especially if Daniel’s not around.

See you soon,
Max

One of the most common messages was strangely absent from texts and threads, and rarely spoken, for nearly a year. I'm on my way. With its humblest intention, it magnified the anticipation of togetherness. Of paths and people joining. That someone wouldn't be alone much longer. That help was on the way. An extra set of hands. Maybe a pizza. Or a diaper bag. Or a shoulder to cry on. At its best it signaled that just another day might soon become a moment, a new future memory. A party was starting. Or a performance, a concert. Possibly a first date. Maybe, happily, some couple's last first date.

That phrase has been in my head this past week, as we are now hearing it once again, and with a most welcome frequency: I'm on my way... OAKLAND YARD is now open to the public for in-store shopping. We've been delighted to see so many old faces in here again (finally!) and to meet new neighbors too. It has been a particular joy to hear that common, suddenly beautiful, phrase when folks are grabbing bottles or checking out, with smiles behind their masks: I'm on my way to my friend's house, I'm on my way to Tomales Bay, I'm on my way to see my mom, on my way to a picnic, I'm on my way...

Many of you likely know by now that we chose the name OAKLAND YARD after the Oakland Shafter Yard that occupied this site in a slower, simpler past. There's an old photo of this location from the 1940's on our website, and Max wrote about the station a while back here. Though we've been more of a loading station for most of the past year, we're honored and thrilled to be a junction of sorts once again. A stop on your journeys. Gates are open and trains are rolling and things are slowly connecting again. Little joys are on their way.

Keep rolling,

Daniel

I was rocking an outfit of polyester and faux fur, with a white silk scarf and a big smile. Beside me in line, my long-haired pal, Seth, was sporting his signature Indonesian leopard print shirt and a floppy purple hat. Both of us wore oversized sunglasses, although the sun had set. It was Halloween, 1995, and my best friend and I were in line to see our favorite band, George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic All-Stars, at the Berkeley Public Junior High School auditorium.

Clinton had yet to appear, but Bootsy and Bernie launched into the first jam as we entered the hall, bouncing. We were handed our stubs and pointed in the direction of our seats, at which point Seth looked at the ushers like they were crazy. Seats? There was no way he was going to spend the next three hours confined to a seat. So we nodded and took our tickets, and I followed my friend straight past our assigned row toward the pit up front. Just then, George Clinton came bounding onstage, gave a shout of appreciation, and noticed Seth, grooving down the aisle toward him and bursting with joy. Clinton jumped off the stage, threw his arms wide, and gave Seth an enormous bear hug, and then he hopped back onstage to move the crowd, which quickly filled in all around us.

For better or for worse, none of this will happen when you walk through the doors again at Oakland Yard. There will probably be music playing, it may be funky, and someone, or several of us, will be happy to see you, but we’ll hold off on the bear hugs and sweaty crowds. We will wear big smiles behind our masks and welcome you across the threshold, because it feels good to share our space again, and even better to be able to catch up face to face with friends and neighbors. It still smells like that happy mix of wine, wood and cardboard, and one day we’ll raise a glass together. For now, it’s nice just to see you in the shop again.

Cheers,
Max

How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me? - Leonard Cohen

This week marks five years that we were first given the keys to 420 40th St. Five years ago we pushed the steel gates aside and opened our front door for the first time, if only to an empty, dusty box. The following months would see us working around the clock with our fabricator friend, Jens, who often worked late into the night to help us make a wine shop out of a whole lot of nothing.

In the months and years that followed we would find immeasurable joy in being a part of this community. Providing and pairing wines for our neighbors and friends along these blocks and across this city. Wines for sunny and stormy days, for dinner parties, weddings and graduations, for old friends or new promotions. Wines for break ups and breakthroughs, for playoffs or play dates, for coastal escapes and secret camp sites, wines for the park or the back patio. In sunshine or in shadow, we hope we have helped curate a best case scenario.

We began this venture to create something that could, in a small or profound way, connect people. We still think it is worth it. It seems fitting then, on this curious anniversary of sorts, to open our doors once again. OAKLAND YARD is OPEN today and all weekend for IN-STORE SHOPPING. With the well-being of this community in mind, we will limit capacity to 5 customers at a time. Masks and all other safety protocols will remain in place. Thank you for your patience and understanding as we work out some kinks during this transition. For any of you who still want to select bottles from your own home (or workplace;), our ONLINE BOTTLE SHOP will remain up - as will our free curation service (use our ONLINE REQUEST FORM) through our website!

So excited to be reunited - and looking forward to seeing you all soon...

Cheers,

Daniel

Unfortunately, our last president was not the problem; our difficulties as a nation are deeper than that. Desperate and disoriented by the pandemic, our country is now at war with itself, and while the hateful violence continues, we must find ways to stop it. The recent proliferation of attacks on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders is unacceptable. In a way, it is dumbfounding to me. Who are these perpetrators and what motives could they possibly have? Though I’m sure my AAPI and BIPOC friends are not surprised. In truth, there is nothing new here, only that the pitch has intensified and more white folks are paying attention. But attention is not enough. We must speak out, and we must act, to stop the violence and to provide support to those being harmed. It’s hard to know how to continue the long and complicated process of dismantling white supremacy in the United States, but we shouldn’t feel angry and helpless; this is our chance to move the ball a little further down the field of justice.

Our national history is not a thing of the past to look back on with nostalgia or woe. It’s hard to see it when you’re just trying to get through the week - masks laundered, kids to school, make lunch, buy wine, feed the cat - but we make history every day. We are in it now, as we engage the issues of our time. Our parents and grandparents witnessed, and took part in, many crucial moments in our history, like the Voting Rights Act of 1965, Japanese American internment during WWII, and the Tulsa Race massacre of 1921. These events did not happen to another people. This is our story, and we need to remember every bit of it, and to own it, good and bad. We must study and learn from our past, and find ways to move forward with greater peace and equanimity.

What can we do? We can start by being vigilant and compassionate, and acknowledging that there is a problem. We can look more deeply within ourselves to root out the racism we harbor unawares. We can check in with our friends of color to find ways to make sure they feel safe in our neighborhood. We’re not talking about a far away land; these attacks are occurring right here in Temescal. We can attend a de-escalation course, to develop the skills needed to diffuse a dangerous situation. And we can voice support for the AAPI and BIPOC community among us and volunteer with, or donate to, an organization focused on racial equity, like Oakland Bloom, Good Good Eats, 18 Million Rising, or J Sei.

A sign at a recent Berkeley demonstration said it well: “It should not have to happen to you, for it to matter to you.” Please join us and seize this opportunity to strengthen our community, and change history for the better.

Oakland Yard will donate $30 for every $120 SEASONAL WINE SIX PACK sold during the next two weeks, as well as proceeds from our canvas TOTE BAG sales to GOOD GOOD EATZ, an organization dedicated to “Connecting ethnic food districts across Oakland towards a shared, resilient future.”

With love,
Max

In his collection of essays, The Book of Delights, Ross Gay shares a story about carrying a tomato seedling on board a flight. At one point he describes his paternal instinct to protect such a tiny thing, and recounts a moment when the plane touches down and, as the brakes engage, how his arm reflexively extends across the seat and across the plant beside him (the way his father did for him as a child, in a car without seat belts) in "one of [his] very favorite gestures in the encyclopedia of human gestures".

I've held on to that last line and smile often thinking about it. Something I've observed in the past year is the increased gesturing the pandemic has required. With faces obscured and our unique voices and some of our subtle tones more muffled, I noticed these vibrant exchanges and have adopted some of my own I suppose. The thank you gesture isn't new obviously, but the frequency of seeing that real-life emoji (palms pressed together, a gentle shake, like some brief blessing or a tiny prayer) reverberates with a particular sweetness.

The other I see more often these days, and perhaps my new favorite, is the hand across the chest. Distinct from being sworn in or the statuesque allegiance pose, this more emphatic hand(s) over heart gesture was previously reserved for star-crossed lovers, for surprise party or marriage proposal recipients, for grandmothers feigning offense, for Colin Firth. But I now see this gesture weekly when I'm out and about: masked meetings on city sidewalks, concerned neighbors nodding and reacting. The gesture again at market and restaurant registers and in cafe doorways. And often here, just outside our shop. An expression of gratitude, of sincerity, of understanding, of good intention. It also reminds me of the tomato story. How the hand is almost like a seatbelt for delicate hearts, when the road is rough and we're required to suddenly brake. We feel it, check for it briefly, settle ourselves before continuing on our way.

This gesture, this communication of kindness and shared sympathy, is one I hope lives on when the last mask comes off.


Happy Thursday,

Daniel


OAKLAND YARD is OPEN TODAY and all weekend for CURBSIDE PICK UP from NOON-7. New Spring arrivals, new vintages of old favorites. New delights here, always.

To Watch Ross Gay Reading "Tomato On Board" CLICK HERE (3 minutes of delight)

I’ve been called a foodie, but I reject the label. The silly, diminutive word that rhymes with cootie, moody and booty, and brings to mind a crazed weeble wobble with a chomping mouth, has little to do with the purposeful centrality of the culinary arts in my life. We feed ourselves every day, and rather than view this necessity as the onerous task of refueling, I’ve come to enjoy the process of growing, preparing and consuming my vittles. It’s not fancy; it’s just good living.

There were plenty of alfalfa fields and dairy cows where I grew up, but there was just one restaurant within a few miles of my childhood home, called The Farm Restaurant, and the only thing I remember eating there was spaghetti and meatballs, presumably fresh from the farm. I didn’t taste a pomegranate until I was of legal drinking age, and I’d eaten sushi just once before leaving for college. The quail egg on the sea urchin was a memorable deep dive. The three Fire Island restaurants, where I worked in my teens, did nothing to ignite a love of food. They were money- making machines with a beach-captive audience and no reason to be peddling real quality fare. And there was little joy in those kitchens. I can still hear the prep cook at the Island Mermaid chopping frozen squid: “More fucking calamari, every fucking day!”

At twenty-one, I moved to California and got a job bussing tables at Chez Panisse. This was a different scene: fresh ingredients, health insurance, smiling cooks...all new! And real hospitality - a sense of dignity and pride in providing a nourishing and delicious meal. This was not the great swindle I’d been party to back east; this was good dining. Not fine dining, but very, very good. In addition to bussing, I also worked stocking the wine room and became interested in what was inside the bottles. Soon, I was buying mixed cases of wine from the restaurant, bringing them home to share with friends over meals that were nothing special, but getting better.

Now nearly fifty, I’ve learned some kitchen tricks. I can ‘turn’ a potato, French-wise, to make a seven-sided, little football, and I can supreme a blood orange into delectable, pith-less chunks, but what I most like to do is to sit and eat and drink with friends, and, I needn’t tell you all, this activity has been curtailed of late. I’m looking forward to a shared meal when I’m not wearing my quilted Carhart jumpsuit and clutching frozen silver. Heat lamps have never been my jam. I am really excited about going out to eat again, unafraid, in comfort, and with some style. Soon, we can start drinking magnums again. Nothing fancy, just good living.

Cheers,

Max

It was on some random playlist one afternoon and it captured my 3 year old's attention. The next day, while driving and listening to other music, she requested "Blue Skies?", and after many minutes and several suggestions and selections, and further prompting and investigation, I finally realized what song she wanted, and put on "I Can See Clearly" by Johnny Nash. She looked out the window, with a small smile and silent approval.

It’s been on regular rotation these days, her enthusiasm now greater with the recent storm breaks. I confess that I found the song rather hokey when I was younger (I think it was used in a Claritin ad). Now I'm struck by the purity of his tenor. The honesty in his delivery. Our favorite part is the intensity of the bridge, an emotional lift of Revelations like magnitude: "Look all around!.... There’s nothing but blue skies!... Look straight ahead! Nothing but blue skies....". Each time, right before he cries out, I press all the buttons to roll down our windows simultaneously and open the sunroof in our CR-V. The wind rushes in. A quiet jubilation on her face, chin up and eyes closed and her hair storming and streaming all around. It’s my favorite moment. And I think hers too.

It came on when I was driving alone yesterday and, perhaps out of habit, I rolled down all the windows at that same bridge, even though it was just me. Emotions took over and I burst out crying, just for a moment. The song picks back up and wastes little time choosing to be cheerful again.

Yesterday, a customer picked up her wine at the door. "How are you all doing? You guys are gonna make it, right?" she asked. And then quickly added: "I spread the word. I tell everyone I know!". I thanked her for her support. "That's so kind of you", I said. "No no!" she laughed... "it’s very selfish of me. I need you guys to stick around!"


We'd like to thank all of you who've helped us through this storm. We hope we've been here for you too. And a special thank you to all of you who have spread the word. For all of you who continue to spread the warmth. With all the obstacles in the way, and when all the news and talk is of spread and transmission, thank you to all who still choose to spread light, kindness and consideration. We can all transmit joy. We can transmit hope. Let jubilation go viral. 


Looking forward to a bright, bright day ahead.

Daniel

Rhythm, in music, is the placement of sounds in time. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, “In its most general sense, rhythm - from the Greek rhythmos, from rhein, ‘to flow’ - is an ordered alternation of contrasting elements.” In life, the rhythm of our days and lives may change, but we are never without this rhythmic order. We carry it in our hearts and breath, a hushed and personal ‘theme music’ to which we walk the earth.

We lost a lot of rhythm last year, but I mean to get it back. More than three million heartbeats fell silent in our country, and several of my favorite drummers laid down their sticks and moved on to that great gig in the sky. One of America’s first professional female percussionists, Viola Smith, who drummed from the 20’s through the 70’s, died last year at 107. Beloved Nigerian Afrobeat legend, Tony Allen, also took his cue last April, and beat it, but the knell that hit the hardest here at Oakland Yard was the death of the master of funky disco, Bohannon.

Hamilton Frederick Bohannon was born on March 7th, 1942, in Newnan Georgia, and began leading bands in high school, one of which featured a young Jimi Hendrix, before Jimi started playing with Little Richard. In 1964, Bohannon was recruited to drum in 13-year-old Stevie Wonder’s touring band, and in 1967, he moved to Detroit to worked at Motown with The Supremes, The Tempations, Marvin Gaye, and all the big names, until Berry Gordy moved Motown to L.A. and Bohannon decided to stay in Detroit. His drumming had a hard-hitting, infectious drive; Bohannon used to say there were just two musicians who truly had soul: himself, and James Brown. The albums he recorded on Dakar and Mercury Records from 1973 to 1980 are some of the deepest, heaviest, most smokin’ funk grooves ever laid on wax, and I challenge anyone to listen to side A of Too Hot To Hold, or the eponymous Bohannon album, without moving your feet, or otherwise succumbing to the beat.

I touched on our love of Bohannon’s music in a 2019 newsletter, and, around that time, we at Oakland Yard collectively wrote Bohannon a post card, and sent it to his fan club in Georgia. We told him his records were on heavy rotation in the shop and that they brought us great joy. I like to think he might have gotten our card in time to put a smile on his face. We’ll be dusting off some of his old gems to spin this Sunday, to celebrate what would have been Bohannon’s seventy-ninth birthday, and to feel the spirit of the music, that rhythm that will continue to move us forward while we pay tribute to those we’ve lost.

Cheers,
Max


For BOHANNON'S BEAT: Click HERE

I’ve never been a morning person. My heart meets the day with a measured dose of reluctance. I've struggled even more in recent months, with two tiny tyrants frequently waking me to immediate chaos.

Exiting the bedroom early the other morning, I noticed the refrigerator door was open. The little feet poking out below suggested my three-year-old had escaped her room and was on the other side of that door, the contents of the refrigerator glowing before her like Pandora's box. Before I could react, in one quick motion she slammed the fridge door, revealed herself, and an egg was tossed with glee high up into the air above. “Humpty DUMP-ty!” she exclaimed in a sadistic singsong fashion, drawing out the vowels with the same cruel cadence morning people reserve for an all-too-cheery Rise and shiiine!

The egg on the floor cracked in such a way that only some clear fluid had seeped out. I carefully transferred what could be salvaged to the pan on the stove. The old cliché came to mind: you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. But feeling sorry for myself, I pushed the scramble around lazily, in silent protest ("but I don’t even want an omelette")

That earlier moment, the egg suspended in the air and Ellery scurrying off to the other room, seemed somehow emblematic of much of life this past year. Moments happening and passing so quickly, and yet some sleepy, slow-motion stupor prevailing. Trying to convince myself catastrophe could be avoided if I could think quickly, or somehow solve this in time. Other moments and other days, spending far too much time following some trail, trying to chase down an explanation, to have someone tell me they were sorry this has happened to everyone. Even if it would only give me all the comfort of an apology from a three-year-old.


While I have no control over how my days begin, I have more appreciation these days for how they end. The kids down and a brief and most welcome serenity. A day's work done. A call from an old friend, or a supportive parent. A favorite playlist. A warm meal prepared with love. And, most definitely, a glass or two of wine. Happily, it doesn’t take much to put oneself together again sometimes.
 

OAKLAND YARD is OPEN TODAY and all weekend for CURBSIDE PICK UP from NOON-7. New arrivals to crack open every week. Our ONLINE SHOP is up and offers free curation service - and, if you want to pick your own bottles, our Online Bottle Shop (with pictures) is up as well. 


Happy Thursday,

Daniel

“Are you tasting enough?” A friend and fellow wine buyer asked me last week.
“No” is always the answer. One cannot taste enough with this job, even in the best of times, and these are hardly those. At the turn of the century, when I started buying wine for a restaurant in Manhattan, I attended my first of countless portfolio tastings, this one for Polaner Imports at the Puck Building on Houston Street. The room was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling red velvet curtains lining the hundred- year-old brick walls. Among the stately white columns, were dozens of tables lined with uncorked bottles, and on the far side of each table was an importer, distributor, or winemaker, there to pour and provide information about the wines. To the side of every table was a bucket. My work was cut out for me.

Since that day, I’ve replayed this scene dozens of times each year, in various venues, and with different actors. There are snooty somms and smarmy salespeople, as well as the familiar faces of fellow buyers, and often, legendary winemakers, some like fishes out of water, far from their vineyards. My role is always the same: the earnest and inquisitive taster, attempting to sample, spit, and humbly assess as much wine as possible without getting too intoxicated. Breakfast helps, as does water, and public transportation is a must. Cities like New York and San Francisco can feature several such tastings in a single day, and I would plan my train route efficiently to maximize attendance.

Twenty years of trade tastings – sampling and asking questions - make up the bulk of my wine education, and I am grateful for these opportunities, but there will never be a time when I have tasted enough. Vintage variation and new producers guarantee a changing market, and the events of the last year have left us winos disconnected from our wares, and from one another. Throughout the last year, we’ve requested sample bottles, received splashes in glasses at the shop door, and tasted from ball jars, sanitized, refilled and labeled by diligent salespeople, but I look forward to the day when again we will congregate, swirling and spitting en masse, immersed in our milieu. ‘Til then we taste apart.

Cheers,
Max

This memory is from Valentine's Day, 2006. Pasadena, CA.

I'm at work, on lunch break, returning from the teacher's lounge with my coffee and heading back to my classroom on the second floor. A forlorn 7th grader sits against the wall a few feet from my door. He's nursing a Yoohoo, his sack lunch and a flat decorative red box from Mrs. Fields lay beside him.

I stop and check in: "You ok, Darius?"
"I asked Lynette to be my girlfriend. She said no. Said she couldn’t be in a serious relationship right now."
He looks out over the playground and lunch tables below.
I gesture toward the Mrs. Fields box. "Was that for her?". He nods.
"Sorry. That sucks". I try to lift the mood: "Well at least you get to eat that big cookie...".
Darius opens the box to reveal its empty contents. "Nah, she took it. It broke in the car anyway. She's eating it with Kayla down there." He points with his chin. I spot them at the table now too.
"Sorry, that really sucks" is all I can think to say.
A peculiar pause follows. Darius tilts his head. "Well, not entirely... ".
A small light, Darius looks up at me, with convincing sincerity: "I kinda have a huge crush on Kayla".

OAKLAND YARD is OPEN TODAY and all weekend for CURBSIDE PICK UP from NOON-7. Wines for your new or lifelong crushes. New arrivals to crush on. To perhaps fall in love with. Treat yourself. Celebrate your resilient heart. 

FLOWER & FORAGE is selling hand tied bouquets (2 color palates) for pick up this weekend! ORDER ONLINE at flowerandforage.com. PICK UP at OAKLAND YARD, Saturday 2/13 and Sunday 2/14 from 12-7pm. These bouquets will be made with local, in season blooms, wrapped and ready for you to put in your favorite vase at home (support small business!). And we've got Dandelion chocolates and other treats. Bubbles and bouquets. Bottles to bring you warmth and wonder. Our ONLINE SHOP is up and offers free curation service - and our Online Bottle Shop (with pictures) is up as well. 


Keep spreading the love,

Daniel

My wife, Julia, and I moved from New York to California seven years ago this weekend, and the first days of February always remind us of this migration. We’d shipped our belongings and slept at a friend’s, and the cobblestones of Van Brunt Street were thick with ice when we awoke and jumped in a taxi to the airport with tears streaming down our cheeks. That winter we fled was brutal, and since then we’ve decidedly grown soft. A mild frost, or a morning in the forties, feels now frigid, and the idea of single digit temperatures is appalling, but at times like this, we do get some snow envy.

Seeing photos of my snowbound homeland brings many feelings: the frozen web of nose hairs with every inhalation, the snowball that hits the neck or cheek just right and slides under the scarf to melt, and numb toes thawing at the fireside. But these and other memories cannot capture the magical, transporting effect of a heavy snowfall, which erases objects, replacing them with curves and brightness, and muffles sound to a near-silent softness, with flakes that meander to the ground, suspended and swirling in the breeze like a sleepy school of fish, creating a sense of slow and sweeping motion within the stillness.

In our adopted land, we have ocean vistas and clear night skies to remind us of the boundlessness of nature, and of our connection to this greatness, beyond all capability of calculation, measurement, or imitation. These sights are similarly nourishing, but there’s nothing quite like lying on one’s back, cradled by the snow, in stillness and silence, regarding an endless field of slowly falling flakes.

For the moment, we’ll happily take the rain, the frost, and the forties of February, and they’ll feel now nearly as cold as that icy morning in Brooklyn seven years ago. Here in Oakland, we see rainbows in winter, we take sunset hikes in the hills, and lately, I’ve been getting a glimpse of the sublime in a simple glass of red Bordeaux, which I raise to my shivering peeps back east.

Cheers,
Max