A Michelin surprise hides in California’s most unexpected place: Lodi

Until recently, I’d never been to Lodi, the small San Joaquin County town just north of Stockton, even though I’ve lived in the Bay Area my entire life. Apparently, neither had John Fogerty, frontman for rock band Creedence Clearwater Revival, even though he wrote a song named after the 154-year-old town about a musician seeking to make it big. As the song goes, when he rode into Lodi on a Greyhound bus, his luck ran out, and he became eternally stuck there. Given the town’s legacy as a wine-producing region, I suppose it’s not a bad place to be stuck.

But, as I learned on my first visit, Lodi is so much more than wine. There are some fantastic eats, including a bakery that makes a sugar bun tastier than the best in San Francisco, Indian British pub food from a Michelin-starred chef and a root beer float that brought my mom back to her childhood.

I’m not going to write a song about this Northern California oasis, but I am going to tell you why it’s worth a visit.

I’ve driven the route to the Central Valley where 580 turns into Highway 5, just before Tracy, many times, usually on the way to enjoy my aunt’s breakfast burritos. But this time, my mom and I cut over to Highway 99, which took us to Lodi. For miles, all I could see were signs for every fast food chain imaginable. McDonald’s. Burger King. Wendy’s. You name it.

When we finally exited the freeway and made a right turn on East Pine Street, we were greeted by an archway that read “Lodi” in Western-inspired bulbed letters and had a shiny golden bear at the top above three bells. It was originally built in 1907 for the first Tokay Carnival, which was a festival celebrating the abundance of grapes and wine in the region. Today, the city celebrates its bounty every fall with the Lodi Grape Festival.

We crossed the railroad tracks, and the eerie silence turned to the honks of horns and music playing from speakers outside wine bars. As we walked to our first stop, Ruby’s Bakery and Cafe, I couldn’t help but think of the stark contrast between the two sides of town.

Housed in a one-story building next to a real estate brokerage and a mortgage lender business, Ruby’s didn’t scream “destination bakery.” Blue tiles lined the countertop where the day’s pastries were prominently displayed behind glass, and it smelled like butter and sugar, as all good bakeries should. The hubbub from the open kitchen in the back rounded out the small talk between friends and neighbors upfront.

A sucker for morning buns, the rolled-up croissant dough filled with cinnamon, sugar and orange zest, I instantly gravitated toward that end of the counter. At Ruby’s, they call them sugar buns, and I wanted two, but I thought better of it and asked for a slice of coffee cake to complete my order. On first bite, I could tell this was easily the best morning/sugar bun I’d ever had. The edges were crunchy and flaky while the inside of the swirl was soft and buttery. Cinnamon and tiny pieces of what seemed to be candied orange rind hid between each fold. My shirt was a mess with itty-bitty granulated sugar crystals and shards of the flaky exterior. The hardened nub at the center of the swirl was perfect — the dough was so drowned and baked in sugars that it was more candy than pastry.

I’ve had many morning buns in my time, and my favorite used to be from Tartine. Ruby’s version, where I could actually taste the butter in the dough, unlike what I can get in San Francisco, was worth the drive on its own.

We headed back downtown to check out the Oxford, a restaurant from Srijith Gopinathan whose offerings are inspired by “the vibrant diverse foods of London street markets.” Gopinathan, who goes by Sri, gained acclaim after bringing two Michelin stars to Campton Place Restaurant, inside the Taj Campton Place hotel near Union Square. Since then, he has opened celebrated restaurants like Ettan in Palo Alto and, more recently, Copra in San Francisco.

Gopinathan co-founded the restaurant in late 2021 with his friend and business partner Narender Ramarapu, who convinced him to take a chance on Lodi. The bar at the center of the space mesmerized me upon entering. It was partly exposed brick, and bottles of alcohol sat on four levels of shelves in front of a back-lit wall. There was a sliding library ladder to reach the top shelf. A copper-colored ceiling, wooden barrels and black-and-white photos really brought out the turn-of-the-century London docks vibe.

The menu had an eclectic mix of dishes, including beef Wellington, chermoula roasted eggplant, and classic fish and chips. But there were also a fried chicken sandwich and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I opted for the British tikka masala bowl. It was remarkable: creamy but with a distinctive earthiness. It wasn’t as rich as other versions, which made it all the better. The dark meat was tender, and I found myself continuously dipping it into the masala after each bite even though it was already drenched in it. The saffron rice also put this tikka masala head and shoulders above my past experiences. It wasn’t overly powerful, just a hint of that sweet, floral flavor that made me want all of my tikka masala sides of rice for the remainder of my life to be served with a tinge of saffron. I’m not sure I can ever go back.

Those rich flavors left us thirsty. But not for zinfandel, which is king in Lodi. We wanted a cold beer. Luckily, Lodi has some excellent breweries, including the Lodi Beer Company. The downtown brewery, which was started in 2004 and has won numerous awards for its lagers and ales, has a 19th-century train station-meets-tavern look, with exposed metal arches near the ceiling and wooden pillars. In the center of the brewery were two vats for brewing. The teal rust on the copper vessels fit with the vibe.

At the bar, which was decorated with two giant, ornate mirrors, we were handed menus by a not-so-pleasant bartender. Despite this, two items caught our attention. 

The Hazy Rhapsody New England IPA, which I ordered, was cold and crisp, just how I want my beer, and it also had aromas of pine tree, grapefruit and pineapple. The eccentric combination completely worked. The restaurant is also known for its burgers, but, disgracefully, I did not have room for one. I was still in tikka masala heaven.

Somehow, my mother’s stomach still wanted a root beer float — the soda at the brewery, after all, was housemade, which piqued her interest. Being my mother, she was nice enough to share, and the soda itself was herbal and anisey but not as carbonated as A&W’s or Barq’s. We immediately started researching how to make root beer at home. The rich and creamy vanilla complemented the earthy notes and reminded my mom of her days driving an ice cream truck in her hometown of Lemoore, California. When the fizz “crystalizes” on the obtuse scoops, that unique texture of “rough” ice cream is created, which reminds me of amethyst crystal geodes. It was exceptional.

My mom had only one qualm. “I would have put three scoops of ice cream,” she said. “Not two.”

Regardless of whether Fogerty ever visited Lodi (he apparently does not want to be asked about it), the town should not be seen as a down-on-its-luck kind of place like the song suggests. To me, Lodi is much more than its wine scene or the title of a song. The eats are as good as, if not better than, meals in San Francisco, and it feels like an oasis in the middle of San Joaquin County.

John Fogerty, ride in on a Greyhound and check out Lodi — it’s worth it.