One could compose an autobiography mentioning every memorable meal in one’s life and it would probably make better reading than what one ordinarily gets. Honestly, what would you rather have, the description of a first kiss or of a stuffed cabbage done to perfection? -Charles Simic
Even though the place I live sometimes makes me cry, there are certainly more than a few pockets of fun that make living here bearable wonderful. The Ramos House Cafe is one of these magical palm-frond-becomes-a fairy-wand pockets.
Ramos House is located in San Juan Capistrano on a tiny, weed-lined road, so narrow that two cars going in opposite directions must decide which one is going to pass first. Train tracks border the restaurant and the neighboring houses date back to the 19th century. It’s a warm, inviting place with no indoor seating: all tables are set on the patio, and it’s cozy even in winter when guests can shawl themselves with heavy blankets. It’s casual but pricey, so we only eat here about once a year, saving it up special like a first day of school outfit. The charm would feel hollow as a rusted watering can if the food wasn’t good. But it’s delicious. It’s the kind of food your mama would feed you if she was an incredible cook with a great sense of humor and a lot of extra time to bake fall-apart fluffy biscuits served with soft butter and strawberry jam, to cure her own salmon, and to bottle her own balsamic vinegar, thick as slow syrup.
The menu is printed each day, but the front always remains the same:
The idea of Ramos House is simple. Like the old days, its owner lives and works at the house. The wines are kept in the cellar, the herbs are grown in the garden and the ice cream is turned out back. The menu changes daily and everything is made from scratch. Welcome to my home, John Q.
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Here’s the thing. I write odes to the desert and pray to the gods of graffiti to be redeemed from a fate of suburban purgatory and now I’m taking you down a dusty little back road; confusing, I know. But everything that grabs me has a common denominator: the ability to make me think and feel. The people and places and things I love all share the ability to spark me out of a numbingly soft, cotton ball-plain existence. Poetry does that. It opens the window to fresh images, provides new eyes with which to see the world. There’s something interesting or heart-thumping or laughter-inducing or mind-rearranging to see this very moment, even in the suburbs.
Locate yourself. Anything interesting to see or hear right now? Please feed this hungry voyeur.
