How Sonoma County became a small-town foodie sensation

I'm never quite sure what to do with myself when staying in luxury accommodation. I could never afford to be there on my journalist's salary and, because I'm a walking bag of neuroses, I assume everyone knows it. I once spent a night at The Lanesborough, the grand old dame of London hotels. In my room, there was a button just by the bed that you could press to call the butler. Even the thought of pushing it sent me into a cold sweat. What would he do, put a military-grade shine on my sneakers? It's a love-hate relationship.

Now, here I am at the chic Farmhouse Inn, a former farmhouse turned Michelin-starred restaurant and rooms in Forestville, an hour outside of San Francisco. The drizzle has settled in to a comfortable haze over the chicken pen, there are handmade chocolates to welcome me to my room and someone's built a merry little fire.

I delight at the persimmon tree outside the room. "Pick as many as you like," the staff say serenely. Everything's like that here – it's utterly comfort-focused, confident and very West Coast: "Feel free to take some of our organic, locally made face scrub back to the room with you."

I discover there's a personal steam room in my bathroom. Usually, I'd approach it with the same caution I would that butler's button in London, but I'm terribly jet-lagged, and the idea of a nice steam before dinner sounds like heaven. Of course, being fairly useless at everyday things at the best of times, the steam function outwits me. I stand in the cubicle, nude and shivering, before giving up and heading into nearby Healdsburg for dinner.

Long before it was a wine destination, Healdsburg was a lumber, hops and stone-fruit town. It might be small, but it's mighty on the grand hotel and restaurant front, including the three-Michelin-star restaurant SingleThread and the more casual Valette, which is where I'm eating tonight among the locals. No matter where you go in the world, wine country folk love mid-rise jeans, plaid shirt and puffer vest. Bet they have a secret handshake, too.

I lean right into the Healdsburg vibe and start with tempura avocado, raw poke, toasted black and white sesame and crisp wakame. Local foie gras, if you swing that way, comes with a battery of brioche toast points. But the real showstopper is the scallops en croute. Served in a stout cast-iron pan, the pastry is brushed with squid ink to create a scorched-earth effect. The top is busted and then a mix of beurre blanc and sturgeon caviar is poured through the sinkhole, bathing the hand-dived scallops nesting in the bottom of the dish.

The town decided to get rid of taxis some years ago (unsightly!). This means there's no cab rank, only Uber – which is fine if you're the sort of person who buys mobile data at the airport. Not me, I run fast and loose. I try logging on to the communal town Wi-Fi, with no luck. Shutters are coming down all around town. My hotel is a 15-minute drive away. I start to weigh up sleeping on a bench. Happily, I stumble upon Duke's, a sports bar for the suede set. There's gridiron on the TV, and Hibiki boilermakers – the great American set-up of a beer with a spirit chaser on the side – slid down the bar. Welcome to wine country, where the beers are craft and the whisky Japanese single malt. From the bar, I call a car and head back to the Farmhouse Inn, feeling full of Californian hospitality.