I’ve been away for two months now - by far my longest absence since I made the bay my home - and I’m looking forward to being back at Oakland Yard. The weather in New York has changed noticeably over the last week. There is a crispness in the air, and the leaves are showing color and twirling to the ground. Today was the first sunrise of the season without a mosquito to interrupt our morning meditation. Male mosquitoes die off each fall, but the females hibernate, as do butterflies and bats, in holes in logs and roots, in animal burrows, and people’s basements.

I’ve done what I set out to do: I’ve seen more states than the handful I’d tread in my first forty-nine years, and I’ve wrapped my arms around many of the people I’ve been missing the most. I returned to the places I’ve lived the longest - my childhood home, my grandparents’ beach house, the Hudson River valley, and New York City - the spaces that ground me in their familiarity and remind me where I came from. I’ve had my fill of lobster rolls, and the only cases of wine I’ve carried of late were for my own consumption.

I’ve climbed Giant Mountain and reeled, as gusts blew thick fog from the peak, revealing all of Keene Valley and a dizzying view of remote lands the Iroquois once shared with Champlain, and I’ve watched the morning sun throw tree shadows onto a New Paltz meadow from a porch built when Abe Lincoln was president. Now I’m ready to get back to work, eager to see my friends out west, and to eat some fresh California vegetables. Back to the land where heating and cooling are more an afterthought than a matter of life and death, and where the sun falls into the ocean, three hours later, and in no rush. Thank you, Daniel, and the entire Oakland Yard crew for allowing me this journey, which has given me perspectives only distance can provide. I’ll see you all in two weeks, with new eyes, following one more adventure-filled drive across this wide and wondrous continent.

With gratitude,

Max
 

The internet dropped for hours a couple days ago. Trying to reconnect via WiFi, I was intrigued and gratefully amused to note the collection of nearby networks names: Cookiemonster. Desdemona. FatRussellCrow. FuckTrump. Nomenclature intrigues me - the how what and why certain names are assigned. My niece, Sadie, decided her stuffed toy horse would be forever known as Charlica (pronounced CHAR-lik-uh, just FYI). My older siblings called me Buttsum for much of my childhood, for absolutely no reason that any of them can explain to this day.

Folks who peruse the online shop or those who stop in for their daily bottle will see the names of grape varieties like Pinot Noir, Sauvignon Blanc, or Syrah gracing some labels - perhaps guiding their preference or messaging to a reasonable degree what flavors, aromas (or weight, concentration of fruit, etc) one might expect from those particular bottles. For others, the names of familiar regions (Rioja, Sancerre, Russian River) might also suggest a certain character or profile. But what to make of all these other unusual names? What does a domestic wine called Monkey Jacket - or another called Post Flirtation taste like? What does one make of a wine called "Where's Linus?" or Cousin Oscar? What about Hurluberlu??

For answers to at least some of these questions, roll in this weekend and check out our new Staff Picks section! For this first round we'll be focusing on unusual names of wines and odd varieties and will feature a section devoted to giving a bit more description and information for some of these head scratchers. While there are hundreds of bottles that excite and delight us here, this will often be a "what are we bringing to the dinner party" kind of lineup - and a selection that you can count on being, beyond unique, dynamic and delicious above all.

And, lastly, speaking of names... a handful of new neighbors have inquired about our name. Many of you likely know by now that we named this space 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. We were determined to continue the history of the site as a public place where all walks of life converge, and where connections are made. 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 now that both our shop and bar have reopened. Thank you for keeping this station alive, and special thanks to all of you who continue to connect here.

Cheers to you, whatever name you choose.

Daniel

If you’re reading this, then congratulations, you’ve made it to mid-September 2021. To those for whom the world is new, perhaps very little seems awry, but for we who are more traveled and long of tooth, many of us are out of sorts, world-weary and bedraggled, or simply confused by the recent, and not so recent, turns of events, which continue turning tirelessly, leaving us feeling, well, a little turnt. So far this month, we’ve celebrated our work, and that of our ancestors, with a day of rest and outdoor cooking. We’ve posted our ballots and kept a side-eye on the news. Many have fasted, atoned, and repented, while others have feasted, seethed and doubled down. The moon this week is waxing and gibbous, and vineyard workers around the world have begun picking grapes for crushing and fermenting.

It happens every year around this time, for as long as anyone can remember, the reliable ripening of fruit. As Milan Kundera writes in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting: “...Mother was right after all: tanks are mortal, pears eternal." As the days grow shorter and the temperature cools, we taste and test for sugar and acid, then make the call to pick. The availability of field hands, as well as inclement weather, may affect the harvest schedule, and surprisingly, there’s rain expected this Sunday morning in northern California. This season’s drought has damaged some vineyards, and lowered yields overall, but it has also produced some excellent fruit, concentrating flavor with enforced dry-farming. There are fewer grapes than usual this year, but they will produce fine quality wine, albeit a little less of it.

In Burgundy, it may start pouring rain in a few days and could carry on like that for a full week; a frightening prospect, capping a frostbitten spring with a fall deluge. Frost, hail, and heavy rains have made this season very difficult for farmers in France, especially those trying to fend off mold and mildew organically, and French wine production is expected to be down twenty-five to thirty percent from normal levels. While many in Burgundy will begin picking this week, Bill Nanson reports that weather and the availability of pickers are not the only considerations affecting the harvest schedule. “Because of the French administration, it’s unlikely that anyone will actually start their harvest on Sunday because it’s classed as the last day of a working week – so picking on Sunday and Monday will require double the amount of paperwork – as the accounting is required for two separate working weeks!”

This is the busiest time of year for our friends who pick grapes and make wine, full of anxiety and hard labor, and while we navigate our own troubles and celebrate our triumphs, I like to keep in mind that the folks who crown our dinner tables with the liquid magic of sunshine and dirt are just now in the thick of it, working to provide for themselves, and for all of us.

With thanks,

Max

Back to school blues playing low around the neighborhoods here. I've told a lot of stories about this time of year. And I still have my Mona Lisa smile this morning, with new and old memories emerging from the early Septembers of my youth and, simultaneously, those first days of class when I was teaching middle school. I can hear tiny Leanne, a third grader, pulling on my coat on my way in to complain about her new classroom - preceding nearly everything, inexplicably, with "Try this on for size..." ("Try this on for size: my friend doesn't GO here anymore!" ..."Try THIS on for size... my mom said we were out of milk!").

There was a predictable and pungent breeze of Tide detergent in the air, and a particular pop of color all about - new backpacks, new sneakers, new sweaters. Some trying out new looks altogether, Lynette with new bangs, Joe going full goth, Lance rocking a tucked in turtleneck and creased jeans. And in many if not most cases, my later observations echoed my earliest recollections. All of us standing around awkwardly, shifting our weight and expressions with unusual celerity. A nervous excitement we shared, returning to classmates, crushes, and old confidants - and some curious new faces joining the herd for another annual adventure. New memories to be made.

As students around the globe head back to their studies, I humbly invite any of you to keep up with your studies and explore regions of that same globe... and join our monthly wine club! Each month, club members receive two outstanding wines for $42. We sometimes call it the 420 Club, 42 bucks, Zero bullshit (420 is our address). Max writes dynamic and detailed tasting notes for each release, as we move around the world exploring various regions and grape varieties. This month it was wines of Greece, last month wines of Sicily, and before that Loire Valley. These are wines we’re especially excited about: producers we adore, new releases, and often rare finds. We are tasting all month to choose wines specifically for this club, so these bottles very rarely make it onto the shelves here.

With each club installment we will share with you exactly why we love these wines, including notes on the producer, grape varieties, production information, regional history, tasting notes and often with recipes or pairing suggestions - a mini personal wine class. Club members also enjoy 10% all bottles to go - and 10% off all wines by the glass at the bar (and Tasting Flights when they resume). Online orders are always discounted too. Join today! Stop by the shop or give us a call at (510) 808- 5129. Or you can now sign up ONLINE!

Cheers,
Daniel

I met my Oakland Yard partners, Daniel and Glenny, at a wine store in Brooklyn called Smith & Vine, a wonderfully claustrophobic, tinned-ceilinged, bright orange shop, packed with unique, small-production, honestly made wines which we learned to love together. Toward the back of the shop, propped in a high storage cubby, sat a framed portrait, often mistaken for Leonard Cohen, of a handsome white-haired man with a prominent nose and gentle eyes that appeared to be focussed on something distant and peaceful. The man in the photo was Paolo Bea, Umbrian farmer and winemaker, and unmatched idol to our shop owners, Patrick and Michele, who made a pilgrimage to his vineyards in Cerrete despite reports that the winery offered no public tastings. Paolo was so charmed by these young, enthusiastic Americans that he invited them in for a tasting, during which one of them captured this memorable image.

The Bea family has been farming in the Montefalco since the 1500s, and Paolo began bottling and selling the wines in the 1970’s, quietly building a reputation as the master of Italian ‘natural’ wine. The vineyards and winemaking are now in the hands of Paolo’s sons, Guiseppe and Giampero, who continue to produce distinctive, traditionally made, terroir-driven wines that we can’t get enough of. In fact, we probably have the largest collection of these wines in the bay area. Giampero also consults with the Trappist Convent of Vittorchiano in Lazio, where the sisters cultivate their own organic grapes and vinify on location. These wines, including an iconic ‘orange’ wine, once called Coenobium and now labeled Ruscum, have been favorites of ours for over fifteen vintages. Giampero has said, “I am merely a consultant and assistant on the project; the sisters do all the hard work.” (Read more about those wines HERE!)

During my first week of work at Bi-Rite Market in San Francisco in 2015, I was invited to taste next door at Delphina restaurant with Giampero Bea. I was starstruck, and he was delightful, happy to answer all of my questions, including, “How do you pronounce Coenobium?” With a big grin, he answered “Shay-NO-bee-um!” And I got the opportunity to say, “Thank you, Giampero.”

We’re in no hurry to unload these treasures, but having just received the latest releases from Monastero Suore Cistercensi, it occurs to me that we should let you in on these sought after bottlings we’ve been assiduously collecting since we opened our doors nearly five years ago, some of which we have in good supply, and others but a handful of bottles remaining. Here is a list of our current inventory:

2016 Paolo Bea Santa Chiara Umbria Bianco $52
2014 Paolo Bea San Valentino Rosso $58
2015 Paolo Bea San Valentino Rosso $60
2015 Paolo Bea Rosso de Veo $78
2011 Paolo Bea Vigna Pipparello Rosso $85
2015 Paolo Bea Vigna Pipparello Rosso $92
2015 Paolo Bea Vigneti Pagliaro Rosso $112

2019 Monastero Suore Cistercensi Coenobium Bianco $26
2019 Monastero Suore Cistercensi Coenobium Ruscum Bianco $33
2019 Monastero Suore Cistercensi Coenobium Benedic Rosso $27

We cannot ship beyond California, but you should be able to find some Paolo Bea in any self-respecting, well-resourced wine shop purporting to sell fine, artisanal Italian wines.

Cheers,
Max

I wrote my first newsletter nearly 5 years ago, just a couple months before the shop opened. We didn't really know each other, so I kept it pretty short and sweet. One detail I left out from that very first story was that my second grade teacher drove an old Datsun B210 that had a personalized license plate, a celebration of her partnership with her husband, Richard. I presume she meant for her license plate to read "Me and Richard" (or, more succinctly, “Me & Dick”) but with 7 character limitations, it just spelled out: MEANDIK. We got a lot of mileage out of that joke as little kids.

For the past couple years, I've walked or driven past a white hatchback with vanity plates in my neighborhood. Parking is wretched so my encounters were here and there on the blocks. The joke was simple: a chunky little bright white cube of a car, it's plate just four letters: FETA. I was almost embarrassed at the amount of cheer it brought me. Particularly in the dim of this last year. At times it would just elicit a swift smirk or a familiar nod, other days I'd find myself scanning the block for that cheesy little lift I needed. One morning last month I was driving my daughter to daycare and passed a woman dangling her keys, about to get into her car. Into FETA! For reasons I can't explain, I stopped just along side and rolled down the window. We love FETA! came out of my mouth before I could stop it. As it turned out, she was leaving the neighborhood that very day, and moving back to Atlanta. Nooooooo!!! I gasped, at a decibel disproportionate to a stranger's news, and certainly a bit too loud for that early hour.

What’s wrong, daddy? my startled 3 year old inquired from the back seat. Feta is leaving... I replied, surprising myself at the level of despair audible in the delivery. And embarrassed when I realized the driver had clearly heard that too. FETA's mom continued on: This year and everything... this living is tough, ya know? Then she added just before getting behind the wheel: I bet you’ll find something else silly around to make you smile. I'm not sure if that was directed to my daughter or to me.

And she was right. About finding other absurd new things to keep our spirits up. But she was kind of wrong too. Because sitting here this morning, weeks later, it's still FETA putting a ridiculous smile on my face.

Here's hoping you're finding something ridiculous to embrace this week. That absurd joys find you. And if you scan your block and come up empty, we'll be here for you, as always.

Happy Thursday,

Daniel

I’ve passed through fifteen states in the last month and come across many travelers far from home, brushing off a year of stir-crazy with late summer exploits. It’s a strange time to be out on the road, with varying pandemic protocols, differing levels of fear and engagement, but fellow travelers have been quite respectful, largely friendly, and clearly happy to be sticking a tentative toe back into the big game of hokey-pokey.

Last Saturday, I was sitting on the bow of my in-laws’ thirty-four foot sailboat motoring through heavy fog off the coast of Maine. We were returning to Northeast Harbor from the island of North Haven, where we’d spent the night on a mooring under a crimson moon. We awoke to the mist and an undesirable north wind, and we set out tentatively, inching into Jericho Bay toward Mount Desert Island. “Is this pea soup?” Julia asked her dad. “Not quite, but nearly,” was the answer. She and I were stationed up front, scanning the wall of fog ahead for emerging vessels, and calling back to Captain Chuck: “Sailboat on your port!” or “Lobster boat to starboard!”

All boats on the water that day were working hard to stay in the channel and avoid collision, and the fog played tricks on our eyes, eliminating our depth perception. Lobster buoys appeared as distant boats until we drew closer, and we’d hear the channel buoys’ clang before we saw them, if we saw them at all. Each time we thought the sun was burning through, the fog would thicken, and we’d continue to strain our eyes and ears for other crafts, markers, and motors.

As we pulled safely into Northeast Harbor, our greatly relieved captain revealed that his radar was on the fritz all day, and our collective wits and sailing charts had been our only guides. So many aspects of life seem uncharted these days, and we’ve grasped at guidance, staving off despondence and fear, and just when the fog seems to be lifting, it sets in again, heavy as ever. But as my friend Margi likes to say: “We can do hard things!” Safe travels to all; stay alert and hopeful, and do drop in for a glass or a bottle when you return home to our beloved port of Oakland.

Cheers,
Max

It was a sunny August day like this, a few years back. My brother left his kids in the care of my parents for the afternoon. Grammie Joie and Papa Bo were always down to help and the kids loved visiting them. All was well until Grammie heard the youngest, Ian, screaming from the back yard. He had been stung by a bee, right in the middle of his forehead. Grammie (as she explained later) had recently heard that sodium paste - or perhaps even soy sauce - was an effective remedy for bee stings. Lacking both, Grammie (with the cool calculation of Bear Grills) opens the survival kit that is her refrigerator and decides that Trader Joes Teriyaki Marinade will do in a pinch. Yep, true story.

As Grammie approaches him, calmly unscrewing the cap, my nephew's fight-or-flight response is scrambled. He is frozen, and naturally bewildered. Just stay still, Grammie's got you, she fails to reassure him, applying the sweet savory sauce to his forehead with her index finger. My nephew, assuming the old woman has completely lost her mind, quickly finds his composure and speaks slowly, directly, and loudly: "I….DON'T…THINK…YOU… UNDERSTAAAND...". A teriyaki tear cascades down the bridge of his nose. He pauses her hand. "I'VE. BEEN. STUUUUUNG.... BY A BEEE.." Grammie is about 70, her hearing is fine, and, contrary to a decision made that day, does indeed have all her marbles. And so, at this moment, she suddenly realizes how this all looks to an 8 year old and starts laughing uncontrollably. This of course only terrifies my nephew more and confirms his suspicions that he is best surviving this on his own. It's all good, I'm all better!, he feigns, backing up and scrambling away. Clinging closer to his older brother for the remainder of the afternoon.


I don't know why this story popped in my head this morning. But I suppose it resonates in some strange way with how I've been feeling at times, with everything going on and the challenges that continue. It sometimes feels ridiculous to offer wine, to sell wine - or anything - these days. But here we are, knowing that while many may be in need of more, we do have these bottles in our fridge here that just may be useful. That, as painful or absurd as it all is, might help take the sting away. That can make us all feel a bit better for a moment and give us some calm. Or maybe even something to laugh about.

We remain here for you and there is a bottle here, in our fridge or on the shelves, for you to enjoy… with whomever you cling to when in need.

Happy Thursday,

Daniel

Greetings from New Paltz, New York, where the Munsee Lenape lived until the early 1600’s, when the British, Dutch and French followed a man named Henry up the Hudson River. The only fox news here today is that I caught sight of one this morning - it fixed eyes with me from the corner of a clearing - along with the usual squirrels and deer, from my perch on a porch at the foot of the majestic Shawanagunk ridge. Last weekend here, a frenzied chorus of coyotes cried thrice in the night, and a large black snake watched us prepare supper from atop a pipe in our laundry room, before sneaking quietly back outdoors.

I’m writing to report that life goes on in other parts of the country, as simply and strangely as ever; that the high desert landscape of the Ute mountain people is more beautiful than you can imagine, towering in technicolor and changing with the limitless sky; that the rodeo is alive and well in Colorado, where pre-schoolers from Texas and Georgia, with helmets and kevlar vests, hold tight to trotting sheep til they’re shaken to the ground; and that there are tractor tires in Kansas that are taller than me. We saw unbelievable flocks of hummingbirds in Boulder, Utah, and gas in Missouri for $1.75 a gallon. In a matter of hours, we drove from 12,000 feet of elevation, at 50 degrees with patches of melting snow, down to Denver’s 5,280, where the evening temperature was 95. And we drank a Cour-Cheverny and an Occhipinti Nero d’Avola in Baker, Nevada, where a man named Jake, who - luck would have it - used to sell me wine in Brooklyn, runs a joint called Kerouac’s beside Great Basin National Park.

I wish I could send you some of the rain that has made the east so intensely green this season, but all I have to give today is the certain knowledge that traversing the land we call home has been more instructive than the spectacle of national politics, more wondrous than monitoring rates of infection, and more nurturing than the anger, despair and finger pointing we so easily fall to. In short, the world is very large, and we are very small; do what you can to make it better, and cultivate the little things that make it not just bearable, but joyous and fortifying, like hummingbirds, harmony, hugs, and a fine glass of wine with a dear friend, and as long as you’re sporting a mask, you may come find the latter this week at Oakland Yard.

Cheers,
Max

My last post a couple weeks ago had an anecdote about a toddler fearing their mom had abandoned them at daycare. It was not so grim as that first sentence suggests, I assure you. It was mostly about how some certainties are not obvious to all hearts and minds. But sitting down to write you this morning, I'm now thinking about the opposite of that theme. Reflecting with some difficulty on how some things that seem obvious and so certain can swiftly change.

But this is not about children and dandelions, nor about our changing climate. This is not about all the trials and challenges of the past year. This is about a familiar face. A warm soul. A bright light at OAKLAND YARD. Monique Smith has been with us for two years and has blessed our space and this neighborhood with her knowledge, her enthusiasm, her kindness, and her gregarious nature every day. She is moving on to a grand new adventure and, while we are extremely excited for her, we will most certainly miss her dearly and daily here at the shop. As the saying goes, how lucky we are to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.

Come on down and wish her well. Raise a glass and ring the bells! Our bar is open for wines by the glass. Indoor and outdoor seating is available. Monique will be behind the bar this evening - and will be here Friday and Saturday before heading off for new endeavors next week. Stop in and share some love while you still can. We love you, Monique - and we wish you all the best!

Here's to new adventures. To the warmth that remains. To hearts that don't change.

Cheers,

Daniel

People make more of themselves as do the birds and bees, but grape vines are most commonly propagated with cuttings, or by grafting. A cutting is a trimmed length of vine that can sprout roots and become its own vine. Some rootstocks are more resistant to pests and disease, so grafting is more commonly used for vitis vinifera, or wine grapes, to give them a solid footing. Vines may also be grown from seed, but grape varieties don’t come true to seed - they’ll exhibit different characteristics from the parent - so this method isn’t used commercially. There is a fourth technique, perhaps the most fascinating, used to fill in rows or to expand a small vineyard, called layering.

When layering, you take a young vine from an existing plant and bend it back toward the earth. You bury a length of the vine, including at least one node, or bud, beneath the soil, leaving the tip of the vine above ground. This tip will continue to grow, and the buried length will sprout new roots where covered. When the daughter vine’s trunk diameter grows greater than that of the cane from the mother vine, you can cut the connector, et voila! You have a new plant.

In a sense, I feel I have layered myself, rerooted in youth from NY to CA, but alas, we humans do not reproduce asexually, so I’ve retained my eastern roots while growing new ones out west. There will be no cutting of the cane; I remain my singular self, but now I have two homes in my heart. They just happen to be three thousand miles apart. I’ve taken many flights from one to the other, transfixed by the passing landscapes when skies were clear, but this week, with my beloved wife and tiny dog, I get to see up close what lies between.

I hadn’t intended our first cross country drive to coincide with the reopening of the tasting bar at Oakland Yard, but plans don’t always line up optimally, and I trust you’ll get the party started without me. I left town with a heavy heart, but the stunning sights of Arizona, Utah, and Colorado have been a welcome antidote, and I look forward to tending to my New York roots before returning to my Oakland community. This week, Daniel and the gang are featuring wines by the glass from Austria, France, Italy, Germany, Spain and California, including bubbles and rosé, as we do. Go keep them company and raise a glass in my absence. Here’s to new beginnings and new adventures!

Cheers,
Max

A regular at the shop told me a story a while back, about her child's first day of daycare. When the mother picked her kid up after work, she approached the doorway and her toddler lit up from across the room. Tears of joy and relief in her eyes. A trembling, exhausted exultation followed: "You came baaaack!...".

Retelling that memory, the mom could almost laugh about it now but was gutted at the time, absorbing the drama of her little one's mind, taking for granted that not all things are obvious nor certain to all hearts.

Tomorrow Max departs for the East Coast and will be traveling off and on for a couple months, but he sat me down and reassured me that his return is obvious and certain. We will miss his calming presence at the shop, his gentle nature, his unique sense of humor, his encyclopedic brain, and the occasional morning cello suites reverberating through the ceiling beams on some melancholy mornings. Friends, put in an order or stop in for a bottle today - and say bon voyage to our captain on this ocean of wine. He promises to send letters every other week as usual, and update us on his travels. And we'll be seeing him again before we know it. As Daniel the Tiger says: Grownups come back.

And speaking of returns, it is with a bursting toddler heart that I am delighted to announce that we will welcoming you back and returning to our old selves again. Starting next week, July 20th, OAKLAND YARD will be reopening the bar for wines by the glass and will be extending our store hours. We will now be open SUN-THUR 11-8 and FRI & SAT 12-9. The tasting bar will operate at a set (limited) capacity and we plan to offer some outdoor seating. Stay tuned! We will continue to monitor the data and will implement appropriate operational protocol as the current situation requires, following the guidance of public health authorities. Thank you, as always, for your support and understanding.


See you again soon,

Daniel

Public libraries were my playgrounds growing up. Their quiet shelves held all of life’s secrets, most of which I could check out and take home for further examination. Of course, there were volumes that remained in the library, and I’ve always had a special reverence for these reference books. I understood that some collections of information were so comprehensive, or truthful, or just so important that they could not leave the library. Or maybe the book in question would require a wheelbarrow to go anywhere. In any case, when I really wanted to know the facts, I went to the reference section of the library, and spent time with the large books that could not be moved.

In this spirit of enlightenment, every month for the past several years, I’ve grabbed three fat books from our tasting bar library, and sat to write notes for the Oakland Yard wine club. I bring my tasting notes, from when we selected the wines, and the books: Wine Grapes, The World Atlas of Wine, and The Wine Bible. I don’t have much faith in tasting notes - neither mine, nor those of others - which invariably use words that are slippery, untrustworthy, subjective, and vague, so I first consult the books, in order to discover the biology and genetics of the plant at hand, how it differs from other varieties; and to understand the geography and meteorology of the region, the influence of terroir; and finally, to provide some cultural context - How is this wine consumed by its makers? When is it drunk? And with what? And then the extra fluffy words are just that. Sometimes tasters have the same fluffy words for the same wine, and that’s always exciting, and when the same words recur, describing the same grape, in the same region, over thousands of years, well that’s something worth noting beyond one’s passing impressions.

The information in those pages may be available online, but there is something about sitting with a stack of books, the ones too big to pack up and travel with, that makes me feel grounded in my study. After reviewing the scientific characteristics of a vine variety, the influence of different soil types, and specific methods of production, only then can I throw out words like supple, sappy, briary, disjointed, or austere. The most interesting story of a wine for me is always the most complete picture, best rendered by a full glass and a stack of books, and I hope that when we reopen our tasting bar in the coming weeks, we’ll find you there, flight in hand, flipping through our permanent collection with a fascination akin to mine.

Cheers,
Max

Several years ago I was living in Guerneville, and making wine for a small label in Santa Rosa. My boss at the time was nice enough to invite me and my fiancée to join him and his neighbors for a Fourth of July BBQ. The host had a home with a hillside view for the fireworks show promoted at the nearby school. There were a handful of kids running around, including my boss' son, a quirky 6 year old named Max. This is the same kid who asked to be a mop for Halloween the year before (and was a mop). Max had the adults laughing earlier in the evening, when his Dad was reminiscing about his annual traditions as a kid growing up in Sugar Pine. "Was that in the olden days, Dad?", Max inquired in earnest.

Later in the evening, dusk settling and everyone full and feeling merry, we positioned our lawn chairs for the show, random firecrackers setting off from local neighborhood driveways. The pops and booms began to echo around us. Little Max ran to his dad full of energy and wonder: "Is this the Grand Finale, dad?". It was sweet, clearly a new phrase discussed earlier that day. "No, Max. That's coming later". Then as the proper spectacle began, and the sky lit with bright, brilliant flashes, Max and his friends raced back from their vantage point to our huddle of chairs at least two more times later to confirm: "Is this the grand finale?!! (... Is this??)". Trust me boys, you'll know!, one of the moms reassured.

I don't remember much else from the evening. But I do remember the sounds and the smell. The warmth and electricity in the air. The gasps and giggles with each startling thunderclap. And, of course, the ending. I still smile thinking of the shouts of delight as the young ones absorbed the frenetic, unrelenting crescendos above, and all at once understood. Their chorus of voices in unison, at decibels rivaling what their eyes and ears now registered:"THE GRAAAAAANNNNND FINALEEEEE!!!!....."


While we wish there was more certainty with the end the pandemic, a true grand finale to celebrate, it seems like many of us are still holding our collective breaths. But even if not certain and final, here's to some bright lights and a little cheer now and again. We'll take all the small celebrations we can. It's been a hell of year and thanks to you all we're still standing here among friends, looking up into the skies with hope and anticipation. The shop has reopened. We are also looking forward to reopening the tasting bar this month, and expect to announce that and be pouring glasses and flights for you again very soon! Until then, let's channel some of little Max's wonder. Let's relish and revel in all the pop and sparkle along the way... all the recurring delight, the reaffirmations of joy. The feeling that this must be it. This must be it. That it can't possibly get any better. Like being in love. Like a sense of belonging. Or just feeling gratitude, I suppose.

Cheers,

Daniel

A sphere of hot plasma ninety-three million miles away is the most important source of energy for life on earth. In sunny California, this central star is both our saviour and mortal enemy. Last Sunday, the sun reached its highest point and traveled its longest path through this year’s sky, and at some time in the next month, the grapes in our local vineyards will begin to change color, a point in the ripening process known as veraison, French for the moment of truth. The optimal harvest date is usually very close to one hundred days after veraison.

Grape vines can live for centuries, and though harvest yields decrease, the fruit from older vines gains complexity and concentration. Many of the most distinctive wines we drink are made from plants much older than ourselves, planted and tended by previous generations. These vines have eluded disease, fire, pests!, severe weather, and the fickle human shovel, and they continue to provide our most prized fruit.

This March was unseasonably warm in France, promoting early budding, but when temperatures dropped ten degrees below freezing in early April, frost destroyed much of the harvest and killed many old vines. Winemakers in Burgundy, the Loire and the Jura are reporting anywhere from sixty to one hundred percent losses this year, and some have declared it the most devastating spring in French winemaking history. Following last year’s fruit-splitting hailstorms and US imposed tariffs, this season’s losses are an especially bitter pill for the vignerons of France. Here in California, we’ve been skirting frost, but our vines fall prey to drought, fire, insects and fungus.

If you trace the origin of your wine beyond our shelves, you will find that it is more than just a commercial product, something to buy and consume. The liquid in the bottle is linked to the vineyard site and the forces that defined, and continue to shape it. These forces, geological, meteorological, and human - volcanic eruption, fire, wind and rain, grafting, replanting and pruning - make every wine unique and ephemeral, and remind us that wine appreciation is not only about what’s in the glass.

Cheers,
Max

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