Many Happy Returns

By Henri Bouride

Sacre bleu! Dix ans? Can it really be ten years since Henri left Chico for the Big Pomme.

Alas. Miss Marilyn has left us for that perfect poodle-friendly bistro in the sky, where all like it hot. Thankfully, I rescued a sweet Cairn terrier mix, who loved my modest walk-up on the Lower East Side. I named her Dorothy, of course.

Etienne, too, has passed. One evening he showed his French cinema students Jean-Luc Goddard’s Breathless, then collapsed in front of the whiteboard as the students filed out. As wonderful a pere as a Henri could ever hope for.

Meanwhile, except for the lonely nights, Henri has been hard at work. A chapter and a half of a cookbook, the first page of a newsletter, and a podcast (with 17 subscribers!) with recipes for his favorite meals—coq au vin, bouillabaisse, and cassoulet, and the best wines to go with them.

But it was hard to be so far away from Chico, despite so often feeling like a poisson out of water here.

Especially that one day. November 8, 2018.

Henri was glued to the news all day. In fact, for days. Weeks. I followed the horrendous story, not only of the Camp Fire but of the transformation of Chico, the little town I’d called home for ten years.

And now I’m back. Henri’s first Sunday in town I ventured up the Skyway in Liza, my new car—well, 12-year-old sea-green Prius. I wanted to see the damage for myself.

Also, what had become of one of my favorite restaurants, Barney O’Rourke’s, whose original location on Clark Rd. I first discovered in 2008 and where, despite my obvious inclinations, I always felt welcome among the Clampers, with their cowboy hats, shorts, and tin-badged red vests. A year later, Barney’s moved over by the Skyway, where it transformed from a bar-restaurant to a restaurant-bar—only to be destroyed by the fire. But it rose from the ashes and re-opened in 2022. I hoped I’d still find Paradise in a cheeseburger.

And: parfait timing! After lunch I could catch the matinee at Theatre on the Ridge, which I’d heard had somehow survived the fire.

The first part of the drive up was fine. I couldn’t see much of the destruction I’d imagined.

Until approaching the town itself. Barren brown hillsides, charred pines, chain-linked lots with crumbling rectangular home foundations, lone chimneys, and, in some cases, swimming pools empty except for six inches of murky water. Roadside ads for stump grinding and billboards for property-damage attorneys. At least I didn’t see the torched cars I’d seen in news footage.

But also: new construction and life. Up one side street the frame of a new house. And through the fallen pines across the glen: one that looked almost done, with new, stickered windows. A worker man with a hammer was on the roof of one. There was even a handful of completed homes with big trucks in their driveways.

And some new stores and restaurants. Motels. Tire stores. Somehow, there was hope in the air.

I turned right on Elliott and there in a clearing on the hillside off to the right, Barney O’Rourke’s, the bold letters of the sign seeming to proclaim: We’re back.

I parked Liza between a truck with a State of Jefferson bumper sticker and a huge chrome-y motorcycle with fat, fringed-leather bags on both sides of the back wheel. I knew that despite the parking lot full of trucks and the motorcycle dressed like Davy Crockett that I was going to be fine.

Not much had changed inside. The walls were still decorated with elk heads and cowhides and American flags and old logging saws, and the long two-sided bar still defined the room. It was three quarters full, and laughter and chatter filled the air. Again, an air of hope.

I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered a cabernet—the waitress raised an eyebrow, then shrugged—and scanned the menu. Talk about being tempted with a good time! Fish and chips, Louisiana hot links, patty melt, fish tacos, chicken tostada ($9-$14.50).

But then I recalled when I’d first discovered the old Barney’s in 2008 after they won radio station KALF’s award for best local cheeseburger. Henri had no choice. I ordered the Barney’s burger with Swiss ($12), and substituted Tater Tots for the potato chips.

Heavenly.

I ordered a second cabernet and dipped my last Tot in the tarter sauce.

Heavenly.

I looked at my watch. The play was starting in 20 minutes. Perfect.

On my way out, I noticed the “Straight out of Barney’s” t-shirts for sale. I was tempted to buy one but figured no one would believe me.

Neal Road was flanked mostly by empty lots and charred pines—but also, again, new life and rebuilding. Then there it was. On the right. Theatre on the Ridge. Still standing. Its aproned asphalt parking lot having kept the flames at bay, most all of the buildings around it having been destroyed. I parked under the new comedy-tragedy masks on the wall.

“Thanksgiving Play” was everything I remembered about TOTR productions. Hilarious and incredibly well acted, the set design stunning, the story thought-provoking—a Thanksgiving play written by a native American woman.

As I drove home, hoping that Dorothy hadn’t made too big a mess in my little house, I looked out over the steep walls and deep snaking floor of Butte Creek Canyon. Despite some darkness and the post-election unease, I still felt thankful to be back in California and Chico. Paradise. Henri had come home.

Barney O’Rourke’s is located at 740 Elliott Rd. in Paradise and is open Sun.-Thurs. 11am-8pm and Fri. and Sat. 11am-9pm. Phone (530) 877-0073. Theatre on the Ridge is celebrating its 50th anniversary next season and, beginning in January, will be re-producing a play from each decade. Phone (530) 877-5760.