Dive Into Local Cuisine Along California’s Central Coast

The Pacific Ocean is a couple of blocks away, but I can taste its saltiness on my lips. 

The oyster under my left hand isn’t giving at all as I try to pry it open with my shucking knife. Evan, the tasting room manager at Sinor-LaVallee, freed his with ease during our back patio demonstration. I, however, am making zero progress. Until, so suddenly that I almost lose control of my knife, the metal breaks through the bivalve’s hard exterior. I coerce the top shell off, free the oyster from its tendon, and add it to the growing pile my girlfriends and I are making. They’ll pair nicely with Sinor’s fruity sparkling natural wine. 

The winery’s tasting room in Avila Beach—one of 10 small communities that make up the Highway 1 Road Trip—is a celebration of California’s Central Coast. The organic wines served at the casual outpost are made from grapes grown just 3 mi (4.82 km) up the coast; the estate, Bassi Vineyard, is part of the San Luis Obispo Coast American Viticultural Area, which claims one of the world’s longest growing seasons. Sinor’s concise food menu has a hyperlocal focus, too: the bread plate’s sourdough, olive oil, and cultured butter are all sourced from within 45 mi (72 km), and the Pacific Gold oysters we’re shucking were sustainably farmed by nearby Morro Bay Oyster Company. 

Most people who drive Highway 1—California’s most famous roadway, spanning 650-plus mi (1,046 km) from north of San Francisco all the way past Los Angeles—head directly to the rugged cliffs and turquoise waters of Big Sur. But passing up this stretch through San Luis Obispo County (aka SLO CAL) is an oversight for travellers who want to connect with their destinations, not just roll through them. 

That’s precisely what my girlfriends and I were seeking. We started our long weekend getaway with a pit stop at Piedras Blancas Elephant Seal Rookery, just off the highway in San Simeon; thanks to stewardship efforts, the colony has grown to 25,000 of the marine mammals. And we fuelled up with blue corn waffles—made from a regional strain of the grain—at Hidden Kitchen in Cayucos, a local favourite.

Just down the road, at Estero Bluffs State Park, we met up with Spencer Marley, founder of Marley Family Seaweeds, to survey the tide pools that pockmark the area and forage for seaweed. Marley, a former commercial fisherman turned college professor, explains that we’ll be able to glean fresh seaweed from near the shore—the tide has already done the hard work of pulling ribbons of nori, kombu, and ogo from the rocks. (Ripping or cutting can prevent the plant from regrowing.) “It dislodged about 12 hours ago and came in on the last tide cycle,” Marley says. “It’s not like picking up a bruised fruit that’s fallen off the tree.” 

We wade into the cool water searching for loose pieces of neon green sea lettuce. Once we’ve filled our oversize baskets, Marley leads us to a rock-protected spot on the beach for the final spectacle of the day: cooking a fresh bowl of seaweed ramen with our just-harvested goods. I slurp the warm broth as the dusk just begins to make itself known on the horizon. 

Our southward journey continued the next day in Nipomo. Known for its sand dunes and golf courses, we instead set our GPS for somewhere more off-the-beaten path. When we arrive at the five-acre Luffa Farm, it appears empty save for a single volunteer, Victoria. She walks us over to the greenhouse for a free tour, introducing us to the tropical gourd and explaining how it grows from the bud of a female flower into a fuzzy, cucumber-like “fruit” before it’s picked, skinned, washed, and left to dry in the sun, with no chemical treatments. Who knew our shower sponges grew on trees? 

Our minds expanded, we set off to our next destination. We’re not quite sure where it is yet, but if the Central Coast has taught us anything during our brief visit, it’s to be open to whatever lies around the next bend in the road.

By Daliah Singer