Harbor House Inn: The Closet, The Rice, and What It Means to Be Better

I found my way to Harbor House Inn the way the best introductions happen—through a chef who trusted me with another chef's name. Julian Medina at Les Petites Canailles in Paso Robles made the connection through a simple DM, and Matthew Kammerer responded the way great chefs often do: immediately, warmly, and without ceremony. Come out and visit, he said. So I did.

But before that visit, there were months of back-and-forth. Emails going in circles. Plans made and unmade. I was honored just for him to ask. That's not something you take for granted in this industry.

The drive alone tells you something is different. You wind through forested roads that feel genuinely enchanted—old growth redwoods closing in around you, the light going strange and cathedral-like—and then the trees break, and you're standing on the edge of the most sweeping stretch of coastline on the West Coast. Elk, California. The kind of place that makes you feel like you drove through a portal.

When I met Matt in person, I was taken aback. All I'd ever seen of him came from Eater profiles, clips of him talking about Harbor House online—snippets. But standing in front of him, I realized he's tall. Genuinely handsome. And nothing—absolutely nothing—like the image most people carry of what a chef looks like. There's this assumption that chefs are tattooed, aggressive, burly guys standing in a dark corner ready to explode over a messed-up sauce.

Matt was the complete opposite.

His kitchen is silent. Laser-focused. His entire brigade moves at lightning speeds, and there's something almost surreal about watching it happen. It reminds me of traffic in Vietnam—cars flowing around obstacles without what appears to be any rhyme or reason, but flowing effortlessly anyway. His staff moves the same way. And I'm a big guy. I carry my camera bag with me when I'm shooting, loaded with gear. The first time around I brought a 700mm lens that made me stick out like a sore thumb. But I wanted to capture everything—every movement, every glance. I wanted to shoot it like a National Geographic nature piece: still, waiting, patient. Just like you would in the field.

When I came back for the second shoot, I brought wider lenses. And I was immediately thrown into a food shoot.

The whole drive there, I couldn't shake an image from my head. A portrait I wanted to take of Matt. The first thing I did when I got there was set up my lights—two portraits, one black and white, one color. I wanted them to feel Renaissance. Elegant. Caravaggio. Matt's not a guy who likes to be posed or put into situations that aren't organic. He's a big fan of film photography and frequently hosts a traveling photographer named Matt Morris to capture the soul of Harbor House. But I wanted these portraits my way.

Harbor House is a moving painting. Every time I'm there, it feels like I've just dropped into a movie. The light comes in from the coastline in one direction and it's nothing short of stunning. I'm constantly looking for corners, spaces, angles—places to find something true.

This was an extra special occasion. Matt had been traveling to Japan often, and on this day, I looked over to see a donabe rice cooker on the stove.

Now, let me tell you something about me and rice. I grew up on Kauai in houses with aunties and uncles. Rice was always cooking. Always. I'd say at this point it's part of my DNA. The way folks from the Midwest have potatoes with nearly every meal—that's rice for me. It's paramount. Essential. Home.

So when I saw that donabe, something caught in my chest.

As part of the food shoot, one of the dishes was rice cooked in a Japanese method and seasoned with abalone guts and urchin. Before you question it—the smell was incredible. I'm not exaggerating. I could smell it coming out of the kitchen from about thirty feet away while I waited to photograph it.

Things moved fast after that. Dishes cleared before I finished shooting them. I was moving in and around the staff, watching how they operated. I noticed that Matt had changed his dish-finishing station from the last time we shot together a couple years ago. I commented on it. He told me he's always looking for new and more efficient ways to manage service.

That's the man at Harbor House Inn. Partial lying, I believe the third star is deserved. Some people have perfectionism built into their DNA. They never rest on laurels. They're always pushing to improve their craft. I don't think it's about becoming the best—I don't think anybody really knows what that is. But people definitely know when someone is pushing to be better.

I leaned over and asked Matt if I could try the rice. He said yes without hesitation. He called an extra order of it in. Within minutes it was in my hands.

I wandered off into the tiny pantry closet just off the wing of the kitchen and ate it.

I was in shock when I first tasted it. I couldn't even describe what I was feeling. The thing is, when food is that good, sometimes you don't have words. You just feel it. So I finished it, gathered myself, and went back to work. Another two hours of shooting ahead of me. I did my job. But I wasn't entirely present.

On the drive home, I drove through the Redwood Grove just outside of Navarro. That's where it hit me.

Somewhere in the dark with moonlight breaking through the canopy, I turned off the music. The rice came back to me. I could still taste it on my tongue. And suddenly all of those country stores in the mountains back home came flooding back. All of the aunties cooking in my friends' homes. The sound of rice cookers. The smell of it. The weight of it. All of it came back.

I felt transported to a time in my life I sometimes forget about. A beautiful time. And I started to cry.

There I was, driving alone through a pitch-black forest three and a half hours from my house, a grown man sobbing—because of the rice Matt had made.

I didn't think food could ever reach into you that deeply. But it did. It was sitting in a closet at Harbor House Inn, and it changed something in me that day.

Matthew Kammerer has two Michelin stars and a green star. People are talking about a third. I don't know what the Guide is waiting for. But if someone from Michelin ever asks me for a recommendation, I know exactly where to send them: to a closet off the side of a kitchen in Elk, California, where the real answer is waiting.