Sights & SEANWICHES: The Mission Was Meat, Not Merlot

Sonoma County—rolling green hills, sun-drenched vineyards, and wines that lure people from every corner of the globe. But while most visitors chase the perfect pour, swirling and sniffing like it’s a sport, I was after something far more elemental—a sandwich.

Oakland was home base, so we had to take a day trip north—out of the city and straight into postcard country. This wasn’t just a lunch run—it was a small pilgrimage. Highway 37 out of Vallejo is one of my favorites, flanked by wetlands and estuaries that feel more like a nature documentary than a freeway. It’s the kind of road that shifts your mood before you even realize it.

As you pass the racetrack—confusingly plopped in the middle of Wine Country—the Carneros region begins to unfold. Vineyards stretch like green veins across the hills. It’s the perfect moment to roll the windows down, let the air change, and take a long breath.

The Church of Broadway Market 

Most people bee-line it to the nearest winery, trying to see how many pours they can squeeze in before the early curtain calls. Not me. I was locked in on a local legend: Broadway Market.

Carneros Deli almost pulled me off course—their chicken salad whispering sweet nothings in my ear—but I was a man with a mission. Broadway Market isn’t some hipster sandwich lab with curated playlists and ironic decor. It’s a community anchor. The kind of place where high schoolers get their first taste of freedom and locals line up like it’s communion Sunday.

You make your way to the back of the market, grab a paper slip and check your boxes, then you hand it over. No nonsense. No “do you have gluten-free ciabatta?” This isn’t that kind of place. The women behind the counter are busy—know what you want or kindly move aside.

I built an Italian sub: thinly sliced cured meats, provolone, shredded lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions, oil, vinegar—the full damn orchestra, all on a soft sweet roll. Maria, my co-conspirator, went for a glorious turkey concoction but took a gamble on the Dutch Crunch roll. It's a Bay Area thing. but like Ron Burgundy, she would later question her decisions.

The Plaza, the Past, and the Payoff 

Armed with sandwiches creations, cold drinks, and a bag of chips (because balance), we made our way down the street to the Sonoma Plaza.

Imagine an old Western set if the cowboys swapped six-shooters for wine flights. The plaza is a charming contradiction: adobe buildings and boutique shops, history and curated rusticity. It’s where locals day-drink with sophistication and visitors pretend they’re not half-drunk by 2 p.m.

This town has history baked into its walls—originally a Spanish mission, later a Mexican military post, and eventually ground zero for the 1846 Bear Flag Revolt, when a handful of American settlers decided they’d had enough and declared California an independent republic. It didn’t last, but it makes for a good story—and the flag still hits with some outlaw charm.

We cozied up with some ducks on a bench near the pond and unwrapping our sandwiches with the kind of reverence normally reserved for vintage Bordeaux or a 93 mixtape. First bite? A revelation.

The Sandwich That Preached 

The bread—soft enough to soak up the oil and vinegar but sturdy enough to hold its dignity. The meats—salty and rich, layering into each other like a well-conducted orchestra. The mustard—cutting through the fat with the precision of a seasoned assassin. And the onions? Best supporting actor, no question.

Was it messy? Yes—and perfect. No wine tasting could top it. No guided tour, no flight of reds with tasting notes you pretend to taste. Just meat, bread, and a sunny spot with someone who gets it.

Because sometimes, the best thing you can do in a place like Sonoma... is skip the wine.

I’m joking—of course we headed straight to the winery when we were done. What kind of sociopath comes to Sonoma just for the sandwiches? Okay, maybe me. But even I couldn’t resist the pull of Buena Vista—a place steeped in more history than most cities can muster in a century. Founded in 1857 by a Hungarian dreamer, it’s the kind of spot where you wander the courtyard with a glass in hand, sun slipping through the leaves. Maria was in her element, swirling, sipping, and smiling as we drifted through rooms echoing with the ghosts of winemakers past.

buy the sandwich, take the walk

@Seanwiches_