We hiked (OK, took the tram) to a mountain, then walked around it a bit. This was in Palm Springs, where apparently the rich are so rich they don’t need to, you know, expend energy to climb mountains. It was actually pretty cool, an amazing view during the tram ride.
Also, the trails at the top of the mountain were of many different challenge levels and could involve primitive camping for those who really felt guilty about it. It was clean, cold, dry, beautiful and the trees smelled like butterscotch cookies.
Dinner was offered at the restaurant at the end of the—er, top of the mountain.
Again, I ordered the filet, and again, I was burned. Or it was burned, rather. This time the sauce was fine, a red-wine reduction. The sauce, the scenery, and a glass of lukewarm red wine helped to make the hockey puck somewhat edible.
The view was spectacular, which made up for the lackluster and overpriced food. I’d do it again, but next time, go with the pasta.
I was reminded that there was once a time when well-done steak was the norm. My family didn’t start eating its meat rare until I was at least out of grade school. Possibly later. Of course, my father still likes his meat more well-done than my mother, but they can both enjoy a good medium-rare steak from time to time.
Thus ends the California food blog travel adventure.