Dinner at the Pig Farm

On the coldest Memorial Day weekend in Northern California history, I went to an outdoor dinner in Nicasio at Devil’s Gulch Ranch. Outdoor dinners, particularly ones in the middle of a vineyard, are supposed to be warm and summery affairs. Skinny-strapped dresses, bare legs and shoulders, heels (but not spiky ones that might sink into vineyard soil and leave you stuck), a floppy hat and some movie star–size sunglasses, and maybe, if you’re feeling particularly cautious, a floaty, gauzey scarf for a cover-up. That’s what I had in mind (in addition to delicious food and a beautiful setting) when I bought the $200 tickets for the event. The reality was more like this.

It was freezing. In classic Norcal fashion, we showed up in sunshine and spent the first hour keeping an anxious eye on the fog bank looming on the horizon. Take a sip of wine, nibble on halibut ceviche, glance to the west, shiver, sip, repeat.

The farm tour diverted our attention. Who can worry about fog when a rancher is saving a newborn piglet from being crushed by its mother? Any dinner that starts out with potential piglet infanticide is worth enduring some fog and wind.

It didn’t get really cold until we sat down to eat. If you go to one of these dinners, don’t linger too long taking pictures at the pig barn. By the time we made it to the table, there were only two seats left at the far end. A party of seven celebrating a birthday, however, insisted on sitting together, and the staff put up another table for them.

I witnessed some discreet eye-rolling and muttering by the staff about demands and entitlement. On one hand, when you ask for another table to be set up just for your party, you should ask nicely. On the other hand, people who pay $200 apiece to eat outside at a pig ranch tend to be an entitled, demanding bunch. Who are these people? Hedge fund managers, young men trying to rustle up investors for solar power, and their wives and girlfriends. Demands for extra attention and exceptions are just another day at the office for people working at such an event.

The sun went down and the wind picked up. You might think that for $200, there would be heat lamps. What are you, an over-entitled hedge fund manager? Instead the staff handed out blankets. We wrapped ourselves in musty quilts, Disney princess blankets, and teddy bear prints and ate like kings (or hedge fund managers). Warm rabbit salad with asparagus, peanuts, and lime; pork-quinoa stew with fava beans; grilled lamb shoulder with chard and turnips; and a rhubarb crostata for dessert.

At one point the wind blew so hard that it knocked a wine glass over, spilling Dutton-Goldfield pinot noir all over the people sitting opposite me. We suffered for our luxury.

This, I thought, is exactly what a refugee camp for hedge fund managers would look like.