On a recent lazy spring afternoon, the sous chef and I went on a meandering drive along the winding mountain roads of Northern California.
After quite a few miles of sun-dappled trees and fetching vistas, as lovely as everything was, we realized something else had begun to occupy us. “Are you hungry?” he said, not really needing to know the answer. “I have a little something in mind …”
As he pulled into the small town of Portola Valley, the sous chef began to slow down. Amid the greenery, an empty parking lot emerged, anchored by a small wooden building that would not have looked out of place in an old Western movie.
“We’re here,” he said, stopping the car. “Zott’s!”