“Merced? Why on Earth are you spending the weekend in Merced?”
I’m asked this as I’m driving northbound through the Grapevine, past Bakersfield, past miles of railroad tracks and graffiti-painted trains.
The question has merit, because of all the glorious destinations on Earth, I’d never longed for Merced. After checking the crime rates and cringing, I asked myself the same thing. But Merced is making a push to become the next hot destination spot for wine and dine enthusiasts like me, so rather than visit Sonoma or Paso Robles, I figure, OK Merced, let’s see what you’ve got.
I venture on, farther north from Fresno, until I reach this middle-of-nowhere town nestled within acres of olive and almond groves.
I arrive at the newly renovated El Capitan Hotel on the corner of Main and M streets. It’s a modern white building with nods to its art deco past incorporated into the design. Looking around, there are no clear signs of the crime rate that had me spooked. The streets are clean, cleaner than the streets of downtowns I frequent. Inside, I get settled and head to dinner in the courtyard where there’s a two-man ensemble playing stand-up bass and guitar.
Andrea, who works for the hotel, sits across from me. Platters overflowing with pork chops, barbecue chicken and elote corn cobs cover the table, bourbon and honey cocktails too. Andrea tells me between sips that she grew up in Merced and that the hotel used to be boarded-up. I ask what she did for fun, and she says her friends would typically hang out near the creek. “We never had any of this,” she says, gesturing toward the hotel.
Day two and it’s high noon at Vista Ranch. A white farmhouse sits adjacent to vast farmland and inviting vineyards. There’s a quaint wooden sign that reads “wine tasting open” with a red arrow pointing toward the farmhouse, so naturally I walk in that direction. Marc Marchini greets the group; he’s a fourth-generation Mercedian farm owner. They grow everything under the sun, even grapes for pinot noir despite them not doing so well in the Central Valley heat.
“Our zinfandel is the best,” gloats Tom Jackson, who’s worked for the family for decades. At a table outside the farmhouse, they serve guests fresh salad and pasta with sauce made from the tomatoes and garlic they grow on the farm. They pour an array of wines – merlot, chardonnay, a brut sparkling wine, and the zin (which I agree is best before enthusiastically accepting a second glass).
Marc prides himself on the pizzas they make, and I can taste why – they’re topped with peppers, mushrooms and onions grown at Vista Ranch and cooked in wood-fired ovens we can see from where we’re sitting.
Taking in my surroundings, I don’t feel like I’m in Central California. Aside from the absence of rolling hills, I feel like I’m indulging at some secluded villa in Sonoma. It’s around this point, nearing the end of my second glass of zin, that I acknowledge I’m pleasantly surprised by my weekend away in Merced.
Back at El Capitan, after a wine-tasting induced nap, I’m ready to mosey over to the newest attraction: Rainbird. While the Central California Valley hasn’t exactly been known for its culinary scene, at least not in the same vein as their San Francisco neighbors to the north or their Los Angeles neighbors to the south, Merced appears to be up for the challenge with Rainbird.
Amuse bouche kicks off the five-course experience and features a white onion macaroon filled with pork pâté, crispy chicken skin and lingonberry jam.
“That’s bark from Fish Camp Yosemite,” Abby Johnson, the hotel sales manager, says as I examine my macaroon. “Chef scavenged it himself.”
I choose the bluefoot mushroom risotto for my second course.
The third course, otherwise known as the bread course, is the clear favorite at our table – a rye and farro country loaf that’s crispy and salty on the outside, buttery and airy inside and served with a bellwether ricotta and golden raisin marmite. When the chef comes by our table to say hello, he admits the bread is his favorite too.
Main course for me is a beeswax and black salt crusted Mariposa Ranch ribeye, and for dessert, it’s the almond panna cotta, which uses almonds harvested nearby.
I tried everything on the menu, trading bites with neighbors, to make sure I experienced it all. It was delicious, but the bread, something about the bread is special.
Saturday morning, while I brace myself for the distillery tasting to come, I shop downtown Merced. At the Antique Mall, I find a rack filled with 1960s nightgowns à la Sharon Tate. I buy two for $50, and skip onward down the strip. There’s a used bookstore which the cashier tells me has been around “since before I was born!” And there’s Bobby’s Market where I run in and find Smoker’s Blend Tea, with CBD and THC harvested by the Sisters of the Valley – activists, healers and self-proclaimed pot-growing nuns. I make it back just in time to catch the shuttle to Corbin Cash Distillery in nearby Atwater.
If there’s anyone who eats, breathes and sleeps sweet potatoes, it’s David Souza, the frontman of Corbin Cash Distillery. Not only does he show us how he packs ’em and ships ’em, he explains in riveting detail how he turns them into booze. We taste all the spirits, including vodka made with sweet potatoes that goes down like butterscotch, and sweet potato liqueur, which sounds questionable but tastes like a boozy spiced holiday cider. Again, I’m thinking, who knew, Merced?
My last night in Merced, I get a feel for the nightlife. I check out Mainzer and bang my head to ’80s hair metal. I peek in at the Portuguese tapas bar. I have a cocktail at Native Son. Just as I’m ready to call it a night, I ask a local I pass on the street if there’s any karaoke bars nearby. She smiles and says, “Not yet!”
