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The most kid-friendly meal on the coast: an airport diner near Half Moon Bay

By Amy Wolf, Sunset travel editor

Parents, listen up. There are kid-friendly restaurants, and then there are really kid-friendly restaurants. If you, like me, have one, or in my case, two, very young and very restless children—or even more than that, heaven help you—you know that eating out with the little darlings is a huge pain in the behind roughly 95% of the time, moderately tolerable 3% of the time. That leaves a 2% margin of error for fun.

At the 3 Zero Cafe, the other day, I think I used up my 2% quota. (It was Mother’s Day, so I deserved it.) Having decided to take an impromptu road trip along Highway 1 with the main destination being an elaborate playground called Moss Beach Park (because I’m that kind of mom), we piled into the car and cruised north from Half Moon Bay to Moss Beach.

We were tempted to stop at any number of pony ride concessions, nurseries, and farm stands (note: the strawberries are spectacular right now). Instead we forged on, eager to reach the long-awaited slides and the monkey bars. But when we came upon the diminutive little Half Moon Bay Airport, where cute little planes were lined up to take off, we had to stop. Which is how we noticed the 3 Zero Cafe.

Minutes later I was sipping a mimosa made with fresh-squeezed orange juice, my husband was nursing good coffee, Lilli was standing on her chair trying to reach the miniature airplanes that hung from the ceiling, and Toby was bashing a toy airplane on the table. Which the waitress said was just fine. This is my idea of a good time out.

And our lunch was amazing! Hot grilled salmon for my husband, an artichoke heart and zucchini fritatta for me, a waffle (with whipped cream!) for Lilli, and some cute little corn dogs for Toby. All for a total of 40 bucks. This is no surprise, considering that 3 Zero is the sister restaurant of the Flying Fish Grill in Half Moon Bay, which Sunset nominated last November as one of the best 15 restaurants along our North Coast seafood tour.

En route home we stopped at Sam’s Chowder House, which you can read about in the upcoming July issue of Sunset, to pick up a couple of tuna steaks for dinner in the shop next door. The restaurant looked so tempting, with tables looking smack out on the water, and fresh-looking food, that my daughter announced that we should go out to dinner here, right now. In fact, we do want to go back to Sam's for dinner next time. But we’ll leave the kids at home.

Tacos in L.A.: keep on truckin’

by Matthew Jaffe, Sunset senior writer

These are the slogans that have moved nations and changed the world:

Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death.”

The Spanish Civil War’s “No pasaran.” They shall not pass.

And now, the rallying cry of the huddled masses yearning to eat cheap while waiting in line at taco trucks throughout Los Angeles:

“Carne asada is not a crime.”

A law is about to go into effect in Los Angeles County that would require taco trucks, those meals truly on wheels that with their blue rooftop vents and paintings of Our Lady of Guadalupe are as much a part of the L.A. landscape as palm trees and botox, to move locations every hour or face $1,000 fines or even jail time for their owners. The rationale for the law is the idea that restaurants lose business because taco trucks can undercut their prices.

Without debating the law’s merits, it’s a reminder of the role that these trucks and tacos play in the life of L.A. And not just in East L.A., where restaurant owners have been most vocal, but throughout the city. From Whittier Boulevard to the lofty climes of Bel-Air, home to a fleet of taco trucks that sets up along Mulholland Drive just east of Beverly Glen, wherever there are people looking for good and quick eats, you’ll find these camiones de carnitas, these maquinas con machaca.

I’ll hit taco trucks on occasion but there was a time when I was eating at one almost daily. Back then our office was located in the Mid Wilshire district, where a couple blocks of buildings had been demolished for construction of the Vermont and Wilshire Red Line station. We had virtually no lunch choices, except for a taco truck operated by a guy named Steve. The Truck, as it became known simply and reverentially, emerged as our local cantina and Steve, who greeted just about everyone with an improvised song, was our angel of mercy.

The food? Pretty darn good, especially the Macho Burrito, an assemblage of ingredients that reduced afternoon productivity throughout the office due to a sleep-inducing mass and density. The burrito was a favorite of a co-worker, one Mr. Trumbull, who accomplished the greatest eating feat of those years, when he followed up a macho with Steve’s famous Texas Pattie Melt.

This gastronomic event came to be known by office historians as “The Rumble In The Trumbull.” But I digress.

I recently headed out on a day of taco tasting, hitting several trucks as well as a favorite stand, Yuca’s in Los Feliz. The taco truck experience was once largely a matter of local knowledge and personal experimentation but thanks to internet sites such as The Great Taco Hunt, the accumulated wisdom of the L.A. taco underground has gone global. A veritable Tacopedia.

By the time I reached Yuca’s, I was stuffed but I couldn’t resist a couple of their carne asada tacos. Yuca’s is a hut that despite a fixed location shares traits with its more mobile cousins. It sits on the edge of a parking lot with al fresco seating, if one can be that grandiose, featuring shaky tables and mismatched chairs and stools. Yuca’s founder, Socorro, was on hand to take the orders. She waits outside the hut next to a poster of James Dean that for some reason is propped up against the wall along the ground. Socorro writes down your order on a paper plate before handing it off to the staff. Drink choices are limited: milk, coffee, lemonade, and orange juice. For anything else you go to the liquor store across the lot.

The tacos? Close to perfect and wrapped in soft and steamy corn tortillas, with a marinade so tasty that there’s no need to embellish with hot sauce. I walked back to my car, which was parked in front of a wellness spa that touted itself as, “Your sacred place of vibrational bliss.”

I don’t know about the vibrational part.  But sacred and blissful is a pretty good description of the Yuca’s experience.

My Virgin voyage

By Rachel Levin, Sunset senior editor

Why do I love Virgin America? You know, Richard Branson’s new low-cost airline aimed to “make flying good again.”

Oh, let me count the ways:

1. They roll out the red carpet. Literally. When I first walked into the sprawling San Francisco International Terminal, I had no clue where to find the Virgin America ticket counter. Late for my flight to New York City (I’m always late), I searched frantically, feeling like a 4-yr-old lost in Grand Central Station. And then, I caught sight of a true oasis among the chaos: a cushy red carpet and a hotel-lobby-like-table topped with an oversized vase of white orchids. (Okay, they're fake, but, still...) There were plenty of open kiosks, plus a friendly woman there to help walk me through the touch-screen. How pleasant!

2. They set the mood. No piercing lights in this Airbus. Instead, a purplish glow and comfy black leather seats (white leather—plus massage—in first class), create a calm, lounge-like atmosphere never before experienced at 39,000 feet. (The bathroom isn't bad either; they've got Method products and everything.)

3. They look good. Flight attendants aren’t dressed in some stiff, navy polyester throwback outfit with stockings, scarves, and nursing sneakers. Men wear black button downs (Johnny Cash-style); women wear white.

4. They keep you entertained. Not with a mandatory viewing of “Everybody Loves Raymond” or a grainy VHS version of “Astronaut Farmer”—but with essentially anything you want. Thanks to "Red"— your very own iMac-of-an-entertainment center. “The Office!” “30 Rock!” First-run movies on demand! (for a fee, of course, but who cares.) Video games! Seat-to-seat chat. (If you don’t like the guy drooling next to you, make a new friend.) And, best of all, a library of 3,000 songs—from Bjork to Beethoven to female folkies like Patty Griffin (my fave); listening to a crystal-clear recording of Patty’s “Trapeze” at lift-off, normally a kind of a tense time, I couldn’t have been happier.

5. And well-fed. Whenever you’re hungry, not when the stinky cart clunks by. Instead, just scroll through the touchstone menu for fresh, organic fare: yogurt parfait... caprese sandwich...fruit and cheese plate (gouda, manchego, Brie)...Swipe your credit card and food arrives within minutes. (First-class gets tapas like marinated bocconcini with peppadew peppers; Italian salametti with artichoke and roasted tomato; Louisiana crab salad.) Thirsty? Just grab as many mini-bottles of water as you want, from the always-stocked cubby hole in the back.

6. Best of all, they have the best safety video of all time. My favorite line? “For that .001 % of you who don’t know how to buckle a seatbelt...” Can’t wait to see it? Click here to watch now.

Virgin America currently flies to 7 cities with daily flights from: San Francisco (SFO) to Los Angeles (LAX), SFO to New York City (JFK), SFO to San Diego (SAD), SFO to Washington, D.C. (IAD), SFO to Las Vegas (LAS), LAX to JFK, LAX to IAD— and, this spring, they launched flights from San Francisco to Seattle and Los Angeles to Seattle. With more on the way!

The real Speed Racer...in Utah

By Peter Fish, Sunset Editor-at-Large

Speed Racer may be playing at every multiplex in the universe. But in Moab, Utah, a terrific new photography show honors the real speed racers--the daredevil drivers of Speed Week on Utah’s Bonneville Salt Flats, where countless land speed records have been set. San Francisco-based photographer Richard Morgenstein has spent over a decade hanging out at Speed Week, and he catches the saline, surreal scene with beautiful precision. His show is up at Moab Art Works through May, and if you’re traveling Utah, it’s worth making a detour to see. Go Speed Racers, GO!

My favorite spa in the West

By Irene Edwards, Sunset executive editor

I confess: I love me a good spa. One might even call me a spa connoisseur, but I’m leery of the pampered/hedonistic/snobbish tones that might suggest. Suffice to say that given the hectic nature of my life, any extra dollars in my pocket go straight to the Irene Edwards Spa Fund. And over the years I’ve tried them all: from the vinotherapy farm in Provence to the holistic beach retreat in Thailand to my favorite no-frills Chinatown reflexology center. So trust me when I say that Portland’s Spa Willamina is a true gem indeed.

First of all, it feels like a true discovery, tucked away in a beautifully restored private bungalow in a cool neighborhood called Hollywood. The owner, Willow Light (yes, I think that’s really her name), turned the basement of her home into a transporting little oasis—you come in, take off your shoes, breathe in the wonderful aromatherapy, and savor a cup of tea. Willow’s husband, Michael, is a builder who remodeled the space and added innovative touches like a shower-room floor hand-set with river rock (DIY reflexology!). But what truly sets the spa apart is Willow’s innate gift for healing, and her belief in an all-natural, holistic way of life. (See p. 18 of our June issue for summer wellness tips, including salves for poison oak and sunburn.)

Here are a few more of her natural salves and homemade concoctions.
• For diarrhea, gas, or upset stomach: 10 peppermint leaves (chew or make a tea)
• For skin inflammations: Treat affected area with a couple of drops of chamomile essential oil (always test remedies like this on a small patch of skin first).
• Sleepytime bath: Fill tub and add ¼ cup Epsom salts and 4 chamomile tea bags to the water. Turn out the lights and light a candle. Soak in tub for at least 20 minutes.
• Hydrating bath: In a large washcloth, mix 1 cup rolled oats, ¼ cup honey, and 1 cup powdered milk (or use fresh milk and add it directly to your bathtub); tie washcloth with a rubber band. Fill tub with lukewarm water and place washcloth in bath. Soak in tub for as long as possible.

• Sources for herbs: Willow gets her dried herbs from Mountain Rose Herbs in Eugene, Oregon. For fresh herbs, plants, and veggies, she loves going to her local farmers’ market. 
• Favorite road trip: Willow loves heading to Enterprise, Oregon. “It’s breathtaking, peaceful, and calm, with a lot of open land. Drive to Joseph and go to Wallowa Lake. I like to stay at Barking Mad Farm bed-and-breakfast. The food is great, and it’s super-cozy, with views of the Wallowa Mountains. A great place to slow down and take a deep breath.”

 

Seeing double on San Francisco's Nob Hill

by MacKenzie Geidt, Sunset assistant travel editor

I'm a San Francisco native.  Born and raised.  But I STILL manage to get a thrill every time I experience a sighting.  I'm not talking about anything extraterrestrial, or your garden variety celebrities.  I'm talking about THE TWINS! San Francisco's Brown Twins!  And if you're on Nob Hill, or The Nob, as I like to call it, you might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of these 81-year-old San Francisco icons.

Last night....I got lucky.  I caught Marian and Vivian in their leopard cowgirl splendor!

I was in the middle of devouring the most amazing salami pizza at Nob Hill Cafe (an adorable neighborhood nook with truly truly exceptional Italian fare--they deserve their own un-twin-focused posting), and my heart stopped when, lo and behold, the twins walked in!

Let's be serious...who the heck are these ladies?  Well, according to Wikipedia, you might recognize them from a slew of television commercials, even a cameo in the movie Nine to Five. The San Francisco Chronicle awarded them the "Best Local Character" in 2000 (they even beat Robin Williams!), and they've also won "most identical"  at  twin conventions.   (TWIN CONVENTIONS?)  In any case, Marian and Vivian have dressed alike since birth, and they've only been apart for 3 weeks total.  Wow.  (You can't really hold twins to the same co-dependency standards as the rest of us...) 

Apparently the gals have a standing Tuesday night date at Nob Hill Cafe, so you'll probably see them in their window seat if you walk by.... (or if you eat there, which you should since the food is amazing...)

Do me a favor--if you see them, let us know!  Let's record all the fun places that we see them around town.

And because I just can't resist, here's them cutting a caper near the Transamerica Pyramid. 
                                            Vive the Twins!

Our staff photographer's favorite places

By Christine Richard, Sunset senior editor

This morning in an editorial meeting, staff photographer Tom Story sat next to me. He hadn’t been in the offices much lately because he’s been on the road. Because he travels constantly and looks at landscapes in a different light, I asked him what some of his favorite destinations are. Here’s what he said:

Eastern Sierras — beautiful — I'm looking at getting a little piece of land out there to build an A-frame … The Salton Sea is another one of my favorite-est places in the West — the beautiful decay, crazy surreal light and people, the fact that John Waters narrated a documentary about it, tons of bird watching… Orcas Island. Amazing.

When I asked him to explain amazing, he had already hit the road again (but I found a couple of his Orcas photos on the server, above). Executive editor Irene Edwards would back him on that: She has an Orcas Island license plate holder. (She's got a mild obsession with it).

Kids at art: San Diego's New Children's Museum

By Matthew Jaffe, Sunset  senior writer

It was always one of the sweetest moments of the year: I can still remember the instant on the first day of school when I broke the seal and opened a new 64-count box of Crayola crayons. There was that unmistakable waxy aroma and a blast of colors. From burnt sienna to periwinkle, the crayons stood at attention, immaculate and pointy with possibilities.

I had a similar sensation walking into The New Children’s Museum in San Diego, a 50,000-square-foot facility devoted to visual arts that opened this past weekend.

Talk about possibilities. At time when schools have cut back on arts education, the museum puts the visual arts front and center in a dramatic building designed by San Diego architect Rob Wellington Quigley. 

This is no cutesy little playhouse but a soaring, light-filled space that also happens to be one of the greenest museums in the state: it incorporates recycled materials, uses a passive air handling system, and its elevator shaft doubles as a cooling tower.

On one gallery wall, there’s a quote from Andy Warhol, who declares, “Art is what you can get away with.” And at this museum, compared to the more staid destinations of my own field trips past, kids are going to get away with murder—and maybe create a lot of art in the process. Out front they can paint an old Volkswagen bug. Inside they can climb on a mural, get hands on (a nice word for messy), and ride around on Legways, scooter-like vehicles designed by artist Roman de Salvo. This is a museum to engage bodies as well as imaginations.

While most of the galleries and installations were designed for the museum, other pieces are works of art that were not specifically designed with kids in mind. That’s in keeping with the museum’s mission to bring sophisticated contemporary art to families without making false distinctions between what's for children and what's for their parents.

Here’s a museum that knows fun can be good for you, and what’s good for you can be fun. No matter how old you are.

Spa with a twist

By Christine Richard, Sunset senior editor

I bet you didn’t know this but one person EVERY day dies of embarrassment getting a butt facial. OK, the stat is made up; don’t worry; just get your butt in gear — fanny season is upon us (summer). For $45, your rear’s collagen can be stimulated, its skin exfoliated.

Although you don’t have to be a guest of Poets Cove on Pender Island in British Columbia to partake, we don’t recommend you try this at home. No, honestly. The fanny facial is available at Poets Cove's Susurrus spa for guests and non guests. Pender is about a 2-hour ferry ride from Vancouver. By the way, I didn't bare my butt for this ... This is the find of Anne Dimon, who runs a wellness newsletter.

photo courtesy of Poets Cove

Spring trip to Lake Tahoe: Snowshoes or sneakers?

By Rachel Levin, Sunset senior editor

There's a reason there's no traffic getting from San Francisco to Lake Tahoe on a 70-degree weekend in late April: The skiing, for lack of a better word, sucks. Most folks think there's nothing to do on a sunny, slushy, Saturday in the mountains — and so, lucky for us, they stay home.

So we packed the car with a few friends, fly-fishing rods, and one furry dog — and left our skis in the garage. (How liberating! How hassle-free!) The plan was to snowshoe to a pretty lake. Preferably one filled with big fish, said the guys.

We wound along Highway 89 and pulled in to the parking lot above sparkling Emerald Bay, where a low-key wedding was just wrapping up. The sky was clear blue, the ground covered in pine needles — only snow in sight was high on the peaks above in the Desolation Wilderness.

"Sneakers it is!" everyone said. We happily ditched the snowshoe idea. Enough winter; we were ready for a carefree, spring hike into the backcountry! A little too ready, it turns out.

We didn't get very far before the pine needles turned into a slippery, snowy path. After a few slides and spills, we headed back to the car for our snowshoes. The spikes certainly made it easier to make our way... until the snow suddenly disappeared.

Too lazy to keep strapping in and out, we instead stomped in our 'shoes over mud and rocks and roots until the next snowfield, looking like a poster warning against global warming. "Snowshoeing in 2020" it would read.

Eventually, we made it to Eagle Lake — still frozen over, of course; melted just enough around the edges for a few failed casts. We lounged like seals, over boulders warmed by the sun, dipped our barefeet into the frigid water, and tossed snowballs that would barely stick together.

Ah, late spring in Lake Tahoe. Sun-kissed and anxious for summer, we walked, slowly, back to the car. In sneakers.