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NOVEMBER 2012
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BOUNTY HUNTER
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abandon I initially fail to notice that we’re
approaching an avocado ranch. Actually,
the
avocado ranch, the one that more or
less got me interested in Clasby and her
bounty in the first place.
Collecting myself, I put a key question
tomy guide: What’s the secret? Hardwork
andgood taste are important to aperson in
her job, but then there are many discrimi-
nating peoplewhowork hard. Theremust
be something else.
“
It’s a sixth sense,” says Clasby. She calls
herself “the intuitive forager,”meaning she
believes in thinking innonlinearways. “I’ve
alwayshad it, but it tookme awhile to trust
it,” she says. “For example, there’s an incred-
ible apple called thePinkPearl. It’s rare and
only grows in the summer. I deal with 200
farmers, and two years ago I sawone at an
obscure market selling Pink Pearls. At the
end of this summer, it dawned on me to
buy those apples. Morningstarwas all over
them.
That’s
an intuitive hit.”
So was her decision to make a first
impression on Myers with the unforget-
table peach, tobringMina the rose-scented
geraniums, and even to handme that life-
changing avocado. It’s a sense of knowing
what someone wants even before they
do. Kim Canteenwalla, chef and manag-
ing partner of Society Café at Encore Las
Vegas, has seen this firsthand. “It shows
in what she gets,” he says, adding that his
forthcoming Vegas restaurant, Honey
Salt, will build a retail operation around
Clasby’s goods.
From a distance, the avocado ranch
looks like any other. It’s about 300 acres,
and most of that space is devoted to Hass
avocados, the kind you typicallyfind in the
supermarket. But on top of a hill, around a
li le house, there are a dozen trees: some
small and gnarled, some tall and majestic,
and all bearing Surprise avocados. Despite
the fruit’s superior quality, Clasby says, it’s
not widely known because big companies
don’twant it. Surprise avocados are fragile,
oversize and difficult to ship. Until she
came along, this crop was grown mostly
for the enjoyment of family and friends.
As she shows me around, Clasby
reminds me that I am forbidden, per the
terms of our tour, to name the ranch. It’s
understandable—the last thing shewants
is to have competitors buying up the avo-
cados that have become synonymouswith
the name Clasby
.
But there’s more. This is the mother
lode. One of the men charged with man-
aging the land here has been given a small
parcel on which to cultivate whatever he
pleases. He’s chosen to grow stuff from
special seeds that Clasby gives him. Where
they come from, she won’t say. This man
is a burly sort (and nameless, per Clasby),
with enormous hands and an agriculture
degree from California Polytechnic State
University. He makes his living growing
big-money produce for his bosses, but
his passion is evident in this little piece
of farmland where the yield is all rare,
heirloom, expensive, delicious and grown
specifically for Clasby. There are chef José
Andrés’ beloved caviar limes, sugar-bomb
Golden Nugget tangerines that would
never make it to the supermarket shelves,
and baby savoy cabbage that’s so veiny it
looks like psychedelic art. Clasby and the
farmer enjoy some easy banter before
doing a quick inventory on what he’ll be
harvesting over the next couple of weeks.
Clasby and I end the day at the State
Street farmers’ market in Santa Barbara.
Musicians busk along the sidewalk and
civilian foodies pick and sniff through
the produce. Clasby, who uses the market
as a weekly opportunity to connect with
several of her farmers in one place, asks
what I’min themood for. I say apeach, and
she hands me one that feels as hard as a
rock. I’m dubious, but I buy the thing and
bite into it. And I am struck dumb. How
can this
be
?
“
It’s a particular kind of peachhe grows:
hard on the outside and juicy and sugary
on the inside,” Clasby explains, gesturing to
a bearded farmer behind a table overflow-
ing with stone fruit. “But that’s the point.
Youneed toknowthe grower andyouneed
to know his fruit.”
KRIS MORNINGSTAR IS BUZZING
around
the kitchenof Ray’s andStarkBar, hisWest
Hollywood eatery. He’s agreed to cook a
meal with whatever Clasby turns up over
the course of our day of foraging. She and
I have made ourselves comfortable on a
counter across from the wood-burning
oven, withaperfect viewofMorningstar in
action. Hewhips up dishes likewild celery
soup (madewithour hard-earned roadside
celery) with goat cheese–topped croutons,
and wild fennel with mussels, and a salad
toppedwithbighunksofSurpriseavocado.
Between frothing and slicing, Morn-
ingstar sings Clasby’s praises. “I have one
day off per week and I used to spend it at
the farmers’ market,” he says. “Now I don’t
need to because Kerry getsme be er stuff
than I can get on my own. She finds mul-
berries, the best sorrel, peas pulled from
different resources. It’s amazing. We don’t
even pre-order. We get in [Clasby’s] truck
and pick out what we like.”
And he’s not alone. Of all the fans of
Clasby’s wares, she herself might be the
most devoted—the aforementioned deliv-
ery truck is, in fact, her personal fridge.
“
My stuff is almost all I eat.” She takes
another bite of the salad. “Youwould too.”
MICHAEL KAPLAN
has become disenchanted
with his local supermarket.
