Sophistication is not generally an American thing. We look to the New World for raw, unbridled energy, for shoot-from-the-hip straight talk. Americans famously don’t do nuance; so, at least, is the common European wisdom. The unreliable filter of television persuades us that they are either trailer trash sleeping with their whippet on Jerry Springer, or flag-waving crazies at election rallies. This is grossly unfair, but you don’t have to be George Bush to be caught in the headlights of crass stereotypes.
Which is why the real thing is so refreshing. The hilarious bits of America — Disney World, Las Vegas, most of west Texas, any baseball game — are hilarious because they mirror these false expectations, but the best bits make us realise what dupes we have been to fall for the stereotypes in the first place.
Santa Barbara is one of the best bits: a city so sophisticated it hurts. The fact that it’s so close to Los Angeles, home to all that is crass and wacky about American life, only adds to its poignancy. On the southern Californian coast, it is suspended in permanent summer, like some rare orchid in preserving fluid. Its Spanish colonial architecture consists of arched facades, muted plaster exteriors and trellised courtyards. Its citizens — modest, unassuming, well spoken — confound every American cliché.
Above the red-tiled roofs lie the San Rafael Mountains, bordering a world of old-fashioned ranches the size of Devon. In the other direction lies the Pacific, barely five minutes from downtown, with a golden beach that goes on for ever. I am sure that somewhere in Santa Barbara there is a mall where fat people with pick-up trucks buy Fritos by the hundredweight, but strolling along State Street, you could be forgiven for thinking you had stepped into the American Dream as portrayed by Martha Stewart. It’s a rare American conjunction of money and taste, of California and restraint.
If restaurants are a measure of sophistication, Santa Barbarians are an intimidating lot. This city has great restaurants the way Kansas has corn. Among the ahi tuna, the seared scallops and the Pacific salmon, the wine lists make fascinating reading. Many of the best wines are made within a 50-mile radius.
This is Santa Barbara’s little secret. It lies at the heart of one of California’s most exciting new wine-producing regions. You won’t find this wine yet in Oddbins or Tesco. It would be difficult to find it in New York. Most of it is still sold direct from the vineyards, or to restaurants in Santa Barbara. But connoisseurs rave about it, claiming that its reputation will eventually surpass that of Napa Valley. I set off with a local guide to sample its vintages.
The guide came from Lancashire. His was a very Santa Barbara story. He had travelled the world, from the Nile to the extremities of China, but once he had laid eyes on Santa Barbara, he was seduced. He is not alone. For well over a century, Santa Barbara has been a draw for upmarket visitors. In another era, the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, the Vanderbilts and the Du Ponts all came for the climate, the ocean, and the sense that money-grubbing America had been left behind, in spite of the fact that they were obliged to pay three dollars a night at the exorbitant Arlington Hotel. Others followed. Charlie Chaplin built the posh Montecito Inn, while Ronald Colman opened the San Ysidro Ranch to guests. In the 1950s, JFK came here for his honeymoon.
And they are still coming, though now they are more likely to stay. John Cleese lives here; so do Oprah Winfrey and Jeff Bridges and Bo Derek. Not far away is Ronald Reagan’s ranch, where he hosted both the Queen and Mikhail Gorbachev, and Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston have just bought a ranch.
If that all sounds a bit starry, a bit LA, it ain’t. This is where celebrities come when they are tired of being celebrities.
The Englishman, who arrived in a yellow Jeep panting for a workout, was keen I should experience the most spectacular route — the Refugio Road — into the Santa Ynez Valley. We climbed through tough canyon country, the road bucking and twisting between coastal oaks and mountain laurel. Behind us, the Pacific offered a blue background to old citrus plantations. Then the paved road ran out and we left the ocean behind, dropping through tangled woods scented with sage and spread with yellow poppies on a track meant for mules.
At the bottom we emerged in the valley of Santa Ynez, a wide world of vineyards and ranches, baked yellow under a big blue sky. Santa Barbara County is the only place on the West Coast, except for some parts of Alaska, where the mountain ridges run east-west — a twist of geography that allows vineyards to flourish here. The far western end of the Santa Ynez Valley is open to the sea, which brings maritime fogs and cooling sea breezes into the microclimate of the valley — ideal for the cultivation of classic grape varieties.
It was mid-morning when we drew up at the Sunstone Estate, and I was handed my first glass of merlot. The fundamental question of wine tasting is “spit or swallow?” Happy to conform to local practice, I swallowed. It was a mistake.
The merlot was followed by a gorgeous pinot noir, then a chardonnay, and then a viognier. The Sunstone Estate was followed by another vineyard, and then another. There may be only a couple of sips in a tasting glass, but each vineyard made an awful lot of wines, not to mention different vintages, and they were keen that I should try them all. It was all very civilised, with much talk of grape varietals and hang-time and subtleties of flavour. But the more I tasted, the less sophisticated I became. By the time we got to the Foley Estate, I was completely plastered.
