Artichokes and Highway Robbery: A Day on California Highway 1.

I spent last night in Gilroy, California, at the Gilroy Inn. I was in the mood for something authentic, and the giddy cartoon garlic logo on the sign sucked me in. I'm not sure why I was there, after leaving Santa Cruz on a quest for something less expensive and beyond the Madonna Mountain, but the drive up Highway 152 was gorgeous and it convinced me that I'd made the right choice.

This morning I repeated the drive, back down the beautifully winding 152, which ends in Watsonville. This is a town full of Mexican migrant workers, taquerias, carnecerias, haciendas, and produce stands with names like "Roberto's" and "Delicia's." I stopped to peruse the goods and although I was unable to speak the language, was completely blown away by the prices. A dollar for artichokes? Fifty cents for strawberries?! I realized that prices were low because the produce had been picked right there, and that the going rate was in pace with the going wages. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world Central California is. After visiting a few very Catholic churches and walking through some old migrant cemetaries, I continued my voyage south.



I decided to take Highway 1 because I had time to kill. In any other situation I am the most impatient on-your-ass driver out there, but this time I could afford both the meandering and the inevitable 20 mph dipshit in front of me. I saw a sign for Monterey and thought, what the hell? I have very good memories of clam chowder in bread bowls and strolls through the pier with my family when I was young... plus barking seals. Sold.

The gyst of this story is that my worlds collided at lunch. I chose a somewhat schmi-schmi place on the pier, Rabbo's. I saw at the door that the special of the day was artichokes from Castroville with a garlic Aeoli dip made from Gilroy's finest. Again, sold. I sat, photographed the old people strolling by on the pier outside of my window, sipped a Savignon Blanc, and let my mouth begin to water for the local goodness that was going to arrive on my red-and-white checkered tablecloth at any moment.



What arrived was a cold, hard, obviously steamed-a-week-ago artichoke that had no business claiming it was from anywhere nearby. And when I poked at it suspiciously, the waiter (Mexican by ethnicity, yet attempting some half-assed Italian brogue) asked me what I was looking for. I politely informed him that this wasn't what I had in mind, that I'd thought the food was local and fresh, and damnit, I'd eat it, but what was it, really?

And they charged me eight dollars for one artichoke.

What I should have done was bought up all of Roberto's artichokes and brought them to Monterey and had them steamed. Like a corkage fee of sorts, just line 'em up and do it please, I'll be taking these to go. Rabbo's did Roberto's a massive disservice not only by serving some bullshit on a plate and crediting it to local farmers, but the prices officially count as highway robbery.

Farm workers in California do not make very much money, especially the migrant Mexican ones. Those who go out on a limb and open their own produce stand risk a lot, the least of which is price gouging by larger restaurant chains who want to claim "local authenticity" by purchasing their food and selling it at upwards of an 800% markup. I watched people strolling around Monterey and buying up crap left and right that they will give as gifts or never use, and meanwhile twenty miles away people like Roberto and Delicia scrape by, off the beaten path (less than a mile away from the Highway 1 on-ramp) to feed their families and continue to tend their vegetable patches. California is a fabulously rich place for growing all manner of good things, from rice and beautiful fruits and vegetables to kind marijuana and splendid wine grapes. Yet California is still full of people who are willing to pay prices they shouldn't (or who refuse to pay actual costs of labor) for the luxury of fresh, "local" food and goods.

My cold, old, steamed artichoke and aeoli sat in my stomach as I made my way down Highway 1. The coast is heartbreakingly beautiful, and around every turn I renewed my sense of child-like awe at the mere sight of the Pacific Ocean to my right, the mountains and trees and reeds and stunning expanses to my left. Every so often I passed a real estate sign and paused to wonder at the pricetag of such a location. Could Roberto, who supplies these folks with their daily vitamins and minerals, ever afford the price for a piece of the coast he works so hard to tend?