Review: The Vaquero BarTwo years in, this Solvang watering hole might just be the best bar on the Central Coast.
WORDS Ninette Paloma
It is 10pm on a Saturday, and the Vaquero Bar is filled shoulder to shoulder with thirsty guests. I squeeze past an ageing cowboy and a brunette in a suit jacket and rest my elbows on the cool marble bar. A man with sleepy eyes and worn overalls hands me a cocktail menu and waves the bartender over, who greets me with a warm nod before leaning in to take my order. At the far end of the room, someone hands barkeep Joey Sabato an Aerosmith record and when the needle drops, the group bursts into song. New arrivals press into the barstools and a framed Dolly Parton photograph smiles over the swaying crowd.
This is the house that Sabato built. Well, technically, all of his business partners rolled up their sleeves to hang flocked wallpaper and nail tin tiles to the ceiling, but The Vaquero’s vibe – a carefully balanced ecosystem of serious cocktails, killer records on rotation, and a fiercely diverse clientele – is the unmistakable signature of a barroom thoroughbred. At any given evening you might find yourself bookended by winemakers and realtors, farm hands and influencers, with Sabato in Elvis Costello glasses shaking up drinks in the epicenter of his own cultural curation. Truth is, when word spread that a group of Angelenos with industry pedigrees were heading up north for a slice of the Central Coast pie, I rolled my eyes with skepticism. Grumblings over the Napafication of the Santa Ynez Valley had quieted down since the start of the pandemic, so it seemed reckless for anyone to kick up dust during vulnerable times. I remember dragging my feet across a half-finished bar back then to sit down with co-owner Anthony Carron and tour the kitchen with executive chef Christopher Fox. Charming and passionate, they talked about their plans to open up The Vaquero while COVID raged on, offering up an edited food menu and full cocktail program before spilling over to their restaurant Coast Range once state guidelines became clearer. I took the bait and pulled up a barstool during those early months, sipping amaretto sours and spooning herb-scented peaches onto creamy burrata while chatting with the folks around me: A recently laid off deli worker nursing a pint of M. Special, a sprightly winemaker eating fish and chips while bemoaning the end of civilization, a soft-spoken rancher picking up his weekly carry-out order. When the main dining room opened a few months later, bustling crowds from up and down the state poured in for prime rib Sundays and glazed chicken with wild mushrooms. But I kept my seat at The Vaquero, where Creedence Clearwater wailed from a record player and Sabato received everyone that walked into his shoebox saloon like a longtime friend. I’ve been a regular ever since. Back to that lively Saturday night, where the clock is now inching toward 11pm and the lights are dimming in the main dining room. The culinary team marches out from the service door, their faces red from the kitchen heat. They high-five guests as they weave through the bar, but it’s really Gus the Basset Hound mascot that everyone wants to greet. Sabato fishes around for a Village People album, and when he turns the volume up on YMCA everyone jumps to their feet. I survey the room and catch a glimpse of Carron and Fox taking in the crowd, their expressions at once fatigued and radiant with pride. These city boys didn’t come up to the valley to rest on their industry laurels, they came here to live. Authentically and in the absence of pretense. In the process, they have managed to inject fairytale Solvang with a much-needed dose of serious food in grown-up environs, all the while reminding us to make time for the simple pleasure of a well-balanced cocktail over a feelgood song. In other words, everything a great bar should aspire to. |
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