Like Shooting Fish in a Barrel

The guy with the bottle of wine approved of our Monday.

Not that I need other people's approval, but he offered it up unsolicited.

Anyway, "pretty good" is probably in the eye of the beholder, but on a hot Monday, it's hard to beat a drive to Charlottesville for an easy escape plan.

Stop #1 was Chiles Peach Orchard, passing Beagle Gap (causing me to think of my dearly departed beagle) on the winding country road that led to the orchard.

Between the cloud cover and a light breeze, it was actually a fine day to pick peaches, so we started in the main orchard where the fruit of yellow peaches was more accurately a reddish blush-color.

We agreed that the view of the rows of trees leading up and over the hill was positively Italian looking.

The trees were loaded and, with no one else in sight, we began picking fruit, intending to use it to make peach ice cream once it ripens.

It's a no-brainer; I've seen grown men go weak at the knees at the mention of peach ice cream.

Next we walked up the road a bit to the orchard where we could pick donut peaches, those lovely heirloom varieties that, to quote a peach-lover, "are smaller and cost more but are totally worth it."

Even with my peach allergy which limits how many and how often I can eat them, I'll still eat a ripe donut peach this time of year.

What's a swollen tongue and an itchy mouth when compared to the sublime taste of a ripe peach in July?

By the time we finished picking, we had nearly ten pounds of fruit and a light rain had begun so we got ourselves back to the Chile's store for cover.

Next thing we knew, it was starting to thunder over the mountaintop, so we decided to stay put and enjoy a fresh peach milkshake on the store's porch.

Sitting at a picnic table under an umbrella facing the mountains drinking peaches and cream and watching a train thread its way through the mountainous track in a steadily-falling rain is top-notch goofing off.

Eventually, we made our way to the car and set our sights on nearby King Family Winery, no easy task in what became a driving rain.

After a short roadside stop to wait out the worst of the thunderstorm, we made it to King just as another storm began pounding the polo fields.

It didn't bother us. We'd wanted to get some wine anyway (Crose Rose and Loreley), so we decided to do a tasting in the meantime.

Since our last visit for a polo match in early June, the new Viognier and Chardonnay had been released, thus providing the justification for a thorough tasting.

As a bonus, our pourer had a just-opened bottle of the 2009 Petit Verdot which he deigned to share with us.

I know it's not a grape everyone can get into, but it suits me in that way that Pinotage or Norton does.

We mentioned the train we'd just seen at the orchard and were surprised when he said he knew nothing of any nearby trains.

What? We'd been there for an afternoon and we knew about them. How could he not?

Luckily another employee walked out then and overheard us.

And he had the scoop on trains in the area.

Seems that one Claudius Crozet had been responsible for engineering the tunnels through the Blue Ridge to allow trains to cross the mountains.

The town of Crozet had grown up to house the workers who built the tunnel (before dynamite, it should be noted), he said.

So there was our mid-afternoon history lesson.

Our pourer asked where we were from and what we were doing and upon hearing our itinerary, observed, "Peaches, wine and food. Sounds like a perfect goof-off day."

It got even better when we left King Family to head into Charlottesville, passing through not one but two rainbows, one so low it appeared to be coming out of a nearby grove of trees.

We followed the end of the rainbow to Star Hill Park for happy hour on a blanket-covered bench in a deserted grassy field.

And while there were munchies, it soon became clear that our farm labor activities required more sustenance, so we drove to the downtown mall.

Agreeing to make one full loop of the mall before choosing a dinner destination, we took our time looking in shop windows and at menus before deciding on Citizen Burger Bar.

Honestly, it was as simple as I liked the way their hours were written on the white brick wall outside.

Sometimes, I'm so easy.

But I must have been hungry, too, because I was willing to overlook one of my pet peeves, the annoying four screens over the bar.

And that was before I heard that the music was all grunge, all the time, with only one side trip to Counting Crows.

Veritas sauvignon blanc allowed us to keep drinking local.

A wedge salad was notable for its Neuske's bacon and roasted garlic cloves.

Unlike at Burger Bach where  the choices are "pink" and "not pink," here we had those two options plus "red."

And since it was grass-fed beef, we went red.

The Citizen burger had Gruyere cheese, black onion, rosemary aioli, iceberg and tomato on a brioche bun and getting it "red" had been the right call.

By the time the music got to Screaming Trees, we were ready to go foraging on the mall for dessert.

Splendora's Gelato lured us in and I went all Italian all the time with two scoops, one of Bacio (chocolate hazelnut crunch) and one of Stracciatella (dark chocolate flakes in cream).

If it sounds like a lot of butterfat, it was, but some people got a whopping four scoops, so I could have been far more indulgent and fit right in.

Driving home with the sky full of stars, so much easier to see so far out, was the perfect ending to a day where the hardest thing we'd done was pull fruit off of low-hanging branches.

There's a metaphor there, but I'll leave that for the non-goof-offs to figure out.

The Ripest Peach is the Highest One

I rounded up a peach posse today and headed west to an orchard at the foot of a mountain.

Of course my companions were restaurant people because who else would be off on a Monday?

I drew the short straw and had to play driver, but other than having to listen to other people's road trip CDs (Fleetwood Mac and INXS, wtf?), it was a pretty perfect day.

An hour and a half later, we pulled into Chiles Peach Orchard under a beautiful blue sky with puffy little clouds hanging over the mountaintop.

We had our choice of picked fruit or picking our own, but why drive all that way and not spend time in the orchards?

The trees were laden with picture-perfect fruit (and many pictures were taken by my cohorts) and the ground covered in peaches in various stages of decomposition.

We agreed that we were in no hurry (in fact, that became the mantra of the day) and took our time walking up and down rows of trees to admire them before picking a single peach.

Because I am allergic to peaches, I picked just enough to make peach ice cream and have a peach every other day for a week.

Let's hope it doesn't kill me.

I've been making peach ice cream every summer since I can remember, but this will be the first time with peaches I picked.

For the record, I expect great things.

After the others had gathered enough to suit them, we headed back to the orchard shop to have them weighed.

Part of our motivation in going had been that they also have a dairy shop with fresh peach milkshakes. Yes, we're that shallow.

The sign at the window said they were out of chocolate flavor today. My question would be, who cares?

And who would buy a small peach milkshake instead of a large?

None of us. We took ours out to the porch and sat under the pergola enjoying the richness of peaches and cream while admiring the mountain view.

We were debating whether or not to go pick another kind of peaches, the flat donut peaches, which tend to be even sweeter than the round varieties.

Why not? We weren't in any hurry.

So we wandered up the road to those trees and gathered donut peaches. One of my posse had never even had them before.

Back in the shop, we continued our peach bliss. I got peach cider donuts and one of us got a peach cider slushie.

At that point we knew we were losing our grip on reality and needed to escape the peach fumes before we also bought peach butter or peach pie.

Luckily, we weren't far from what Food Network Magazine had recently dubbed the best pizza in Virginia.

Crozet Pizza, a local mainstay for decades, was next on our agenda.

The unprepossessing building in an old strip center with no separation from the road was everything we hoped it would be.

It was small, dusty, and crowded with the detritus of 35 years in business; the server and pizza maker welcomed us as we walked in.

And they would know about everyone's arrival because a piece of rope is tied to the front door, strung across the ceiling and connected to a bell directly over the tiny kitchen.

I am such a fan of that kind of anti-technology. Even better, they take no plastic. These were my kind of people.

The place was tiny with a focus on one thing: pie. A sign hangs over the counter making that perfectly clear: "NO Pizza, NO Beer!"

But we did want pizza, so getting a Star Hill was not a problem. The hard part was sifting through the list of toppings.

We decided that the oddest were snow peas and peanuts, neither of which we wanted.

FNM had cited their white pizza with mushrooms on a perfectly chewy crust as the best of the best, but we weren't going to let them be the boss of us.

We got a large white (garlic, herbs, onion and olive oil) but with tomatoes and spinach instead of fungus.

It was an outstanding pizza in every way. We took our time with it, even taking breaks to admire the wall of photos of people in far-flung places wearing their red "Crozet Pizza" t-shirts.

The funniest one was the naked couple at a nudist camp, holding one XL t-shirt in front of their birthday suits. Judging by their hair styles, we guessed it was a late 70s gem.

It was clear from the stream of people coming in to pick up pies that this place has a devoted following and with good reason.

Naturally the restaurant types with me ended up talking to the pizza maker since he was so close to our booth and kitchen people love to commiserate with each other.

Leaving, my cohorts agreed that I'd made a terrific suggestion for eating post-picking.

Hey, I may not watch Food Network (okay, any TV), but it was a gamble that paid off. Anyway, I'd read it.

Our last stop was Blue Mountain Brewery, partly for the beer lover in our group and partly so we could sit outside and admire the view before nightfall.

I hadn't been in a couple of years and weather had prohibited an outdoor meal then.

Today, we found a table outside, shaded and facing the mountain, and settled in for some conversation and libations.

Blue Mountain's wine list is short (duh, they're a brewpub) with just a half dozen Virginia wines.

I chose today's special, the Flying Fox Rose, made with Cab Franc and Merlot in a traditional style and pleasantly refreshing on a hot evening.

Beer Geek opted to taste something he hadn't seen before, the Big D.I.P.A, a double IPA that billed itself as less bitter than many IPAs.

Wait, aren't IPAs known for their bitterness? It must have been plenty hoppy enough because he ended up ordering it.

And we ended up lingering, talking about everything and nothing, quaffing our Virginia bevvies as my car filled up with the heady scent of fresh-picked peaches.

On the drive home, my posse was already asking me to start planning another road trip for a future Monday off.

I'll just how to figure out how to top peaches, pizza and pink. Not to mention donuts, milkshakes and Big DIPAs.

Bet I can.

But I won't be driving and we will not be listening to music from the last century.

Planning must have its privileges.