JM's Playbook

Three and a half hours.

That's it.

The drink is just the excuse. The conversation is the destination

— JM (John Mahloch), JM's Playbook

That's what stands between a guy in Clayton and standing in Lake Tahoe with his shoes in his hand.

People in other parts of the country save up for a year to see water like that. We leave after work on a Friday and we're there before dark. I don't think we appreciate it enough. Somewhere on the planet right now there's somebody looking at a screensaver of the lake we drive to on a whim.

So here's how this column works.

People always ask me how I find these places.

The answer's pretty simple.

I've got a guy.

Actually... I've got a lot of guys.

Almost thirty years behind the bar at Ed's Mudville Grill will do that. Before that it was Skipolini's Pizza, same town, same handshake.

Bartenders. Owners. Beer reps. Regulars. Coaches and parents from a decade of driving my boys to tournaments in Los Angeles, Phoenix and Vegas, where the first question in a strange town was always the same: where do you eat around here?

Thirty years of asking that question turns into a little black book.

This week the black book goes to Tahoe.

Base Camp: Lakeland Village

Every summer my family heads to South Lake. We've stayed at Lakeland Village for years, and if you've never been, let me save you the searching. Condos, not hotel rooms. Full kitchens. Right on the water. Kayaks for rent about forty steps from the door.

That kitchen matters more than people think. A week of restaurant breakfasts with a pack of kids will bankrupt you and nobody enjoys it. We cook in. Somebody's always got something going.

Here's the part the website won't tell you: the tents have to come down at eight every night. Which means every morning I'm up before the crack of dawn cooking breakfast while making sure my nephews are hauling ours back out, staking our little piece of sand before the rest of the world wakes up. Then the kids are on the beach all day. The adults aren't doing much of anything.

That's the vacation. Simple. Exactly the way it ought to be.

The Guy Behind the Bar

One afternoon we walked over to Riva Grill. If you've been to Tahoe you already know about the Wet Woody.

If you haven't, go order one. They're closing in on seven million served, so I'm not exactly breaking news. This year I tried the Redheaded Woody, macadamia nut rum and it may have taken the crown from the original. Twenty years of loyalty, gone in one glass. But here's the thing. I don't just order a drink. I order information.

Bartender named Mike. Fabulous guy. We come back the next day and he's not even behind the bar anymore, he's running the floor. So we talk. Where do the locals eat? Who's cooking well right now? What's changed since last summer? Who's new?

One conversation turned into five more recommendations. That's how this works. The drink is just the excuse. The conversation is the destination. One more tip while you're on that stool: Riva staffs up every summer with students from all over the world. Sit there long enough and you'll walk out with restaurant recommendations for countries you've never set foot in.

The Scenic Route

Later that week my dad and I took a drive over Kingsbury Grade into the Carson Valley. He is the OG, Original Guy. No destination. Just the two of us, looking around. Right at the top of the grade sits Fox & Hound. Mountain views that go on forever, food that's better than it has any business being at that elevation, and a house barbecue sauce so good I bought bottles to bring home. Funny thing. A few days later my parents got their welcome basket back at Lakeland Village. Same sauce. That's usually a pretty good sign you've found something the locals already knew about.

Down the other side, a few miles into the valley, is Genoa. One block long. A couple of shops. And the oldest bar in the state of Nevada. You don't even need the name. Type in "oldest bar in Nevada" and it comes right up. That's my kind of town. Make it a half day. You'll be back at the lake by dinner.

The One Night I Didn't Have a Guy

I'll tell you where the system breaks down. Saturday night. My son Quentin could only make the one night, so we went down to the casinos. Packed. Shoulder to shoulder. And every blackjack table in the place had a fifty dollar minimum, which I'll admit was a little uncomfortable. So I did what any reasonable man does. Played the slots. Won two hundred bucks. Walked it directly to the roulette table and gave back every dollar.

Nobody's got a guy for roulette. If somebody tells you they do, walk away.

Fifty Years of Favorites

My parents had a cabin on the way up when I was a kid. Fifty summers on that lake. You collect a few things.

The Grove, Camp Richardson. You might know it as the Beacon, same spot, new name, same reason to go. It's right on the sand on Jameson Beach Road, live music on the water on weekend afternoons, and you can pull straight up in the boat. The Rum Runner is the famous one and it earns it. But order the ahi nachos. I've paid Bay Area money for ahi nachos plated like a science experiment, four chips, a smear of something, and a bill that makes you laugh out loud. The Grove gives you the same flavor in a portion an adult can eat, on a beach, looking at Lake Tahoe. That's the whole trip in one appetizer. And the ice cream parlor at Camp Rich is worth an entire afternoon with a pack of nieces and nephews. We missed it this year. Still bothers me.

Crosby's, North Shore. Order the Double Dippers, hot sauce, under the salamander, then tossed in teriyaki. Best wings I've had anywhere, and I've had a professional quantity of wings.

The Chart House. My cousin ran that kitchen ten, twelve years back and we practically lived there. The trees have grown in on the view some, but the happy hour is unbelievable and the chocolate lava cake is a must-order. Ask for it early in the meal. It takes extra time to prepare.

The Bridgetender, West Shore. Still perfect. Still the first place I take anybody.

The rest of the fifty years are down at the bottom of this column, where lists belong.

The One Nobody Knew

Here's my weakness. Speakeasies. I hunt them. Always have. Somebody tells me they're headed to Vegas, or Chicago, or Nashville, and before they've finished the sentence I'm telling them about a door they'd never find on their own. Word gets around that you're that guy. And a while back, in the middle of one of those conversations, somebody stopped me and said: "I got one for you." Tahoe.

Fifty years I've been going up there. I'd never heard of it.

Social House sits in Heavenly Village, right in the middle of everything, and ten thousand people a day walk past it on their way to the gondola. Breakfast bowls. Bagels from a local baker. Locally roasted espresso. Adult slushies in the summer. Live music every night. There's a Bloody Mary on the menu called the Big 'O' that the locals order without looking. Perfectly good coffee shop.

That's not why you go. Hidden inside it is a speakeasy called Community.

I didn't tell my family where we were going. Just told them to come along. And when the room opened up, my son looked at me and said what I've been waiting years for somebody to say: "I can't believe you did it again. How do you keep finding this stuff? After all these years coming to Tahoe, who knew?" I didn't say much. Just laughed. Because that's the whole point, isn't it.

Fifty years on the same lake and there's still a room I hadn't found. Somebody hands you a challenge like that, you take it.

The Way Home

Vacation's over. Car's packed. Most people would point it toward the Bay and call it a great week. Not me. Here's the thing about coming home from Tahoe: the Delta is on the way. Highway 160 winds through miles of levees, farms, and open road where there aren't many reasons to stop. Little Delta towns with names most people recognize from road signs but have never actually explored. Rio Vista. Isleton. Locke. Walnut Grove. Something about Walnut Grove always caught my eye.

You roll over the bridge and suddenly there's life. Cars lined up along the highway. Every parking spot seems to be taken. A little marina. A handful of old storefronts. People walking from one place to another. It's not a destination most people plan a trip around, but it has an energy that makes you wonder, "What's going on here?" I've driven past it for years. This time, I decided to find out.

That's when I spotted Fat Lou's.

Truth be told, it doesn't look like much. Just a modest roadside stop tucked alongside the highway, next to a hair salon and a thrift store. Blink and you might drive right past it. But after all these years, I've learned not to judge a place by its parking lot. Sometimes the places trying the least to impress you end up being the ones you remember most. I walked in, met Lou, ordered the chilaquiles, tasted all his sauces and salsa, ended up with a couple of jars and by the time lunch was over, I had another guy.

Which is exactly why I already know where we're going next. Lou pointed me around the corner to Tony's on the Delta. Then a couple of miles up the road to Al's Place in Locke, where there's a hundred years of stories stuck to the ceiling.

I'll save those for next time.

Three and a half hours to Tahoe. Forty-five minutes to the Delta.

Sometimes the best part of the trip isn't where you're going... It's where you decide to stop.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

How I Know

Lakeland Village - Twenty-plus summers. Same beach, same tents, same eight o'clock rule.

Riva Grill - Longtime favorite, and this year's best conversation.

Fox & Hound - Found it on a drive with my dad. Bought the sauce twice.

The Grove - Been going since it was the Beacon.

The Chart House - My cousin ran that kitchen. We practically lived there.

The Bridgetender, Crosby's, Sunnyside, Gar Woods - Fifty years of favorites.

Off the Hook - I don't eat sushi. Everyone I trust does.

Community at Social House - A guy said, "I got one for you." He was right.

Fat Lou's - Lou's now one of my guys.

Plan Your Own

Get there: About 3.5 hours from the East Bay to South Lake. Leave Friday afternoon, be on the sand before dark.

Stay: Book the condo, not the room. The kitchen pays for itself by Wednesday.

The beach rhythm: Tents down at eight, out again at dawn. Set an alarm on day one and you'll own your spot all week.

Split your shores: South Shore for the family base. One day north for Crosby's and Gar Woods. One day west for Sunnyside and the Bridgetender. One half-day over Kingsbury Grade for Fox & Hound and Genoa.

Boat day: The Grove at Camp Richardson. Tie up, Rum Runner, ahi nachos, live music on the water. Open daily from 10:30.

Last night: Heavenly Village. Find Social House. Then find what's behind it.

Also worth your time:

Gar Woods Grill & Pier, North Shore - Riva's sister.

Sunnyside, West Shore, before you climb toward Emerald Bay. That deck on a clear afternoon is the postcard everybody's trying to take.

Bar of America, if you're coming through Truckee.

Whiskey Dick's, which lands somewhere between a dive bar and a dive. I mean that as a compliment.

Off the Hook Sushi, right across the parking lot. I don't eat sushi. Never have. Doesn't matter, everybody who does swears it's the best in Tahoe, and I trust them.

Lake Tahoe Pizza Company, for the night nobody feels like cooking.

Don't take the freeway home. Highway 160 through Walnut Grove. Lou fires up the smoker on weekends, chicken, tri-tip and ribs, and he'll tell you straight that it's usually gone by two o'clock.

Next time we go deeper into the Delta, where Fat Lou's, Tony's and Al's Place prove that some of Northern California's best weekends are hiding a few miles off Highway 160.

Until then...

Everybody's got Google. JM's got a guy.