Buying groceries at Ralph’s is the equivalent of wardrobe shopping at Target. Going to the farmer’s market is like visiting a Robertson Boulevard boutique. And if you’re buying your produce from the stand at Chino Farm, you’re going to a haute couture outlet mall.
I didn't shoot this, but it's exactly what Chino Farm looks like.
Located in Rancho Santa Fe, about 25 miles north of San Diego, Chino Farm is the longtime supplier for Alice Waters, Wolfgang Puck and other righteously persnickety chefs. The farm stand that’s open to the public is at the edge of the acreage owned by the righteously persnickety Tom Chino.
For anyone who’s accustomed to the largesse of, say, the Wednesday morning market in Santa Monica, Chino may appear to be hardly worth the effort. The stand is really a wooden shack, maybe 14 feet long and just three feet deep. Selling to the common people is very much a sideline; it’s whatever that’s available after the big boys have their pick.
However, there’s always at least a half-dozen fancy cars in the parking lot and none of them got here by accident. On a Saturday afternoon in May, everything was laid out like a Tiffany’s jewelry tray with purple cauliflower, fractal-looking absinthe-green romenesco, heirloom carrots in deep red, deep orange and palest yellow, baby beets no larger than a chocolate truffle and greens like dinosaur kale, oak leaf lettuce and frisee.
Everything is beautiful but Chino grows for flavor as much as for looks. The carrots make you wonder if you've spent years munching on dyed-orange balsa wood. There's nothing bitter in the kale. Strawberries smell like a rose petals and biting into it reveals a fruit that ranges from bright red to deep pink. It is tart and sweet and everything a strawberry is supposed to be.
However, Mr. Chino is no one’s idea of a folksy farmer. As a regular presence at the stand, he’s there to take care of the produce, not you. He doesn’t have much use for freebies or for customer chit-chat, beyond correcting them when they've said something so stupid he can’t bear let it stand uncontested. (Like the time I asked if he grew fraise de bois, the little “wild” strawberries. Apparently, the soil in California makes this impossible.)
Perfection, especially when it's grown with sustainable methods, isn’t cheap. Fava beans are $4 per pound in the pod; strawberries are $3 pint for the “American” variety, $5 for the “French.” Both are beautiful, a deep, shiny red; what’s the difference?
“The American kind is the flavor you’re used to, “ says a cheerful young man in the shack. With his pale skin, black T-shirt and matching hornrims, he looks like a “Top Chef”-loving pilgrim rather than a local. “The French variety is more fragrant, almost flowery.”
Could we try one?
The question makes his face fall, but he works to hide it. He tries to smile as he says “Sure,” but his voice is low and has taken on a tone suggesting that we have requested a sample of crack cocaine on a very public street corner. Before he has a chance to chicken out, he looks over his shoulder to confirm that Mr. Chino is out of range, reaches for a French strawberry and hands it to me, all in one swift movement. Then he looks away like it never happened.
Chino Farm, 6123 Calzada Del Bosque, Rancho Santa Fe, CA. (858) 756-3184
Comments