Breaking Eggs

Ireland-Part 2

2010-02-16T21:35:00.020-05:00

Dublin is a city that is best experienced on foot, and as we exited the top of our double deck bus ride in the heart of the city, the energy from the street was palpable. Lots of people, bustling traffic and vibrant storefronts lent a sense of electricity despite the impending rain on the way. Amazingly, this would be our only storm for the trip, quite a feat considering the reputation that the British Isles endure for precipitation. We had alighted a few blocks from our principle destination, Trinity College, to view the Book of Kells.
Founded in 1592, Trinity is considered the finest college in Ireland, and ranks 43rd in the world, as well as being a major tourist attraction. Much of the interest lies in two entities: The Book of Kells and The Long Room. Composed between the 6th and 9th centuries in Scotland, Ireland and England, the book is actually a collection of 130 folios that have been bound into 4 volumes. These exquisitely illustrated texts represent the 4 gospels of the Bible in some of the finest examples of Western Calligraphy in existence. There are always two on display at any one time, one featuring the art, the other the text. It is breathtaking to view, and easily earns its distinction as the premier treasure in Ireland.
After ascending a short flight of stairs, we gained entrance to the aptly named long room, an ancient and intriguing library. If the Book of Kells is a testament to the artistry and faith of its creators, the Long Room is a testament to the secular worship of learning: it is a cathedral of the book. This main chamber of the Old Library is 65 meters (210 feet) long and stretches two stories high and further to a beautifully timbered, barrel-vaulted ceiling. Some 200,000 of the oldest books in the library's collections are held in oak bookcases and shelving, running the length of the room in a series of alcoves on either side, not unlike the side chapels of a baroque church. Contrasting with the dark wood and bindings of the books are white marble busts that punctuate the alcoves, celebrating great writers and philosophers. Amazingly, the room is not climate controlled, and the damp Dublin air flows freely throughout, assuredly taking its toll on the fragile tomes. We take in the atmosphere in hushed reverence and study the additional display of Napoleonic paraphernalia that is enjoying a temporary exhibit stature.
A well stocked gift shop is always a treat, but especially so when there is a raging rain storm is guarding the exit from the building. We laze about, picking up a few trinkets and in short time make a break for it to Grafton Street.
Gratfon Street runs a number of blocks from Trinity College to St. Stephens Green, and what a stretch it is. Store after store, too many restaurants to count, buskers, mimes and lots of people walking freely down the mostly pedistrianized brick road. Side streets spill with the same energy and there is general sense of electricity in the air. There is very little in the way of American fast food and thankfully no big box stores to ruin the feel, although there is a four story eclectic mall where we stop for a few umbrellas for a couple of our—ahem—less prepared members of the group (here is a tip; don’t buy an umbrella from the street stores, stick to the mall).
It’s just a few blocks over to Kildare street right across the green and the next stop at the famous Cleo, a tiny shop that specializes in natural fiber knitwear at premium prices. Liz had gotten Patti a gift certificate and this was her chance to redeem it in person (a scarf). Respendid with white stone walls, a fluffy cat and low ceilings, the clothing on display is stunning and lush and I can almost fancy myself in a wool cardigan that would completely smash the budget—something to shoot for the next trip!
As I said Dublin is for walking, and we set out on our way to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Churches do not come any bigger than this - at least not in Ireland. Saint Patrick's Cathedral is the largest church in Ireland. It also is the only Irish cathedral without a bishop and was designated as the "National Cathedral of Ireland" by the Church of Ireland ... to prevent any Catholic attempts at a takeover. Apart from the imposing building itself, major attractions are historic tombs and several statues. Many visitors come specifically to see the graves of Jonathan Swift (which we missed). After leaving the grounds, we make our way past Christ Church Cathedral, which we did not stop in but admired the gothic architecture. This was the first stone building in Dublin, erected by the conqueror "Strongbow" for his close associate, Archbishop Laurence O'Toole. O'Toole, now a saint, is still in residence - his mummified heart can be seen in St. Laud's Chapel.
If you haven’t guessed by now, our wanderings are not without an ultimate purpose, and our sites are now set to reach the Guinness Storehouse, and its famous tour and museum. Along the way we pass the Brazen Head, Ireland’s oldest pub, and while it is a little early for drinking, I stop in to use the facilities, which appear to have been last cleaned for the opening party. Nonetheless, the relief is welcome and I am happy to pee a little on history whenever possible.
Soon enough we find ourselves at the fabled gate known to beer lovers everywhere and queue up for the self guided tour. Alas, it is rather pedestrian, although the plant itself is a clever mix of old and new in design and architecture, and the tour gradually takes you up seven floors where you are rewarded with a pint of the famous stout in a panoramic rooftop bar that features 360 degrees of windows. Oh, and for you purists, the beer is served ice cold. Of course we stop in the store and walk a few blocks when we finally decide to call it a day and hail a cab. Back at the hotel we settle for a somewhat disappointing dinner but no matter, we are dead tired and sleep is immediate and deep. Clearly Dublin is not a one day town and I hope to return someday to delve deeper into the marvelous history and beautiful aspects of this charming city. But tomorrow we are on the road early for a date in County Cork with …the Blarney Stone.

Ireland Part 1

2010-01-26T22:47:00.018-05:00

When I reflect on our trip to Ireland, I cannot help but admire the fact as we drove across the Island; 6 people and serious luggage packed into a midnight blue van, that we not only did not get lost even once, nor did we crash and burn. Oh, there were some close calls to be sure—a traffic circle in Birr, a very sharp curve on a country road (sorry Shell!) and of course the ridiculously narrow roads with shear walls of bushes that conceal, well, shear walls of stone. Picturesque and deadly all at once, the Emerald Isle is. And I might as well say at this point that while I did all of the driving, it would have been impossible without Andrew manning the GPS in his inimitably calm demur—no one navigates like him—and everyone else biting there tongues while we careened into the shank of our itinerary.
Patti, Shelly, Mark and I arrived at Dublin port via the ferry across the Irish Sea from Holyhead, Wales.
The four of us had elected to arrive in London and take the train to the coast, while Liz and Andrew flew direct to Dublin, where they were to secure our van rental for the week.

As enjoyable as the crossing was,(after some last minute drama over our reservations) with our comfortable first class seating in the private

upstairs club (excellent food included!), our anticipation evenly matched by some fairly ambitious choppiness in the sea, a quick deflation set in as we established cell communication with Liz only to find that our van was not in her keep. Remember that the horror stories you hear about car rentals in Ireland are true; Liz had prepaid and was guaranteed an automatic transmission van for six upon landing at the airport….and it was not to be. No vehicle, no explanation, no nothing. Crestfallen, she and Andrew had made it by taxi to the Finnstown Hotel, our first stay of the trip. We did the same, and, our party complete, settled in to what seemed to be a disaster for the future of our trek.

Now, in my life I have learned a few incontrovertible truths: you don’t tease the alligators in the swamps of Florida, you avoid the under lit side streets in Paris after dark and you never, ever cross Shelly.

After a discussion with the charming clerk at the Finnstown about our plight, she advised that we were being “nice” and that the rental company was taking advantage of us—we should call them and be firmer in our request that they uphold their end of the contract. And that was that; Shelly and Liz (who is tenacious enough in her own right) teamed up on the phone; advantage yanks. The morning brought a clear day, moderate weather and a blue 6 passenger automatic van delivered by a less than affable driver (“There… Ya happy now?”). Early morning victories on foreign soil taste the best.

Back to the Finnstown Country House Hotel…the town of Lucan just outside County Dublin is the home of this 18th century masterpiece of a hotel. 45 acres consist of rolling fields, lush forests and impeccably kept grounds with horses in the pasture and peacocks roaming freely. The mansion may be ancient, but the accommodations are first class and comfortable; modern as any hotel I have been in, yet retaining an indescribable charm. When we settled in we gathered in the Peacock Restaurant for an exceptional dinner; our first together on the Island. Retiring to the rooms came early, and sleep was immediate.
Tuesday morning brought our first exercise in loading and unloading the van, something that we would become quite proficient at before the end of the trip. Part of our plans included staying in a different interesting hotel every night, and on this point we scored handsomely as we headed off across Dublin to the Radisson St. Helen’s. As a side note, they drive on the left over there, so the steering wheel is on the right hand side of the car. Obviously this is somewhat unnerving at first, and I swung the car around the parking lot at Finnstown’s a few times to get the feel. It was certainly my intention to display confidence to our group, but as I drove down the long entrance from the hotel and prepared to spill out on to the road, a sense of dread encapsulated me and I feared the worst; that my driving would not be up to task and that I would surely get us all killed. Happily--for whatever reason--I felt quite comfortable and managed to adapt to the traffic infrastructure rather easily, if I do say so (although traffic circles are vexing; more on that later).
So this was the start of our first full day in Dublin, and the itinerary was packed.

The Radisson proved to be another stunner with spectacular grounds and cozy rooms all set in a enormous stone mansion.

Plus, I only managed to miss the turn in to the lot twice! Built in 1750, the black and white marbled floored lobby exudes history with beautiful crafted furniture, exquisite details in the wall and ceiling details…and terrific staff. Check in completed, we walked across the grounds to Stillorgan Road to await the bus to downtown. Next…Trinity College, Guinness and much more!

The Day that Elvis Died

2009-08-16T13:15:00.008-04:00

In August of 1977 I was the night sous chef at Maison Pierre, a fine-dining spot on the gold coast of Cleveland, Ohio anchored on the ground floor of the Lakeshore hotel. On the 16th of the month, Elvis Presley died.

I never had all that much interest in him, although I was certainly acclimated to his early catalog via my mother, who was a big fan. She played his albums on the Emerson combination television/record player that centered our living room throughout the late 50’s and early 60’s. As I grew older, my own tastes were decidedly more of my generation of mid-sixties on, with a passion for acid rock. Still, it would be hard, even for a soon-to-be-a -hippie-no-more-like-me, to not at least acknowledge his impact.

Anyway, I’m headed to work in my ’70 alien green Ford Galaxy, no doubt with a Hendrix or Jethro Tull 8-track playing so I had not heard the news, as I bounce on in to the kitchen. Most of the staff in this place is either too old or too young to care one way or another about the King, so it’s mentioned, but more in passing than anything else. I greet the chef—a useless old mutt that stays drunk most of the time—and he grunts as usual and heads into the bar where he will command a stool for the evening (he comes back at one point to saw a beer can in half on the Biro band saw for a bar trick—the meat saw, for Christ sakes!). I post up and start assigning my line cooks, Dave and a guy I can’t remember, duties for the night, while I start breaking down a veal leg for pâté, escallops and so on. It’s the usual kitchen banter; bitching about the heat (this place was crazy hot. I actually passed out one night while holding a pan full of Francaise—I woke up outside with the EMS over me) when the fight begins.

Two of the waiters, who also happened to be lovers, were having a spat as they burst through the kitchen door. It was almost cartoon-like as they pranced and prattled around the kitchen. One was reasonably tall and one was short and their tuxedo coats flapped as they became more aggressive until—accompanied by a screeching howl- the little guy stuck a steak knife into the ass cheek of the tall guy. As he ran around in circles with his hands on his back side he yelled "you stabbed me in the ass! You stabbed me in the ass!" over and over. Now, I know this sounds serious, but I have to say I laughed until tears welled up—as did everyone else who witnessed the episode. The owner comes in to see about the noise and starts having a fit with these two as he escorts them to the bathroom where he extracts the weapon of ass-destruction. The whole time the fighters are screaming back and forth, although it is clear that this is a step too far as tempers settle and the (emotional) healing begins. Most days I just come to work with no entertainment.

So what does any of this have to do with Elvis, you ask? Well, while the show was going, our violinist who strolled the dining room nightly sauntered into the kitchen bowing out Elvis tunes in commemoration (Hound Dog sucks in this format, by the way) contributing to the surrealistic atmosphere, while a young ersatz hipster college kid waiter is running around saying ‘give me five,formaldehyde' to everyone in site, and Dave is laying on the floor covered in the bushel of oysters he just dropped as he slipped on a wet spot. Really, who needs carny folk when you’re in this business? And this is how I remember the day Elvis died.

some food pics

2009-08-10T00:03:00.008-04:00

Shoulder Tenderloin grill with pancetta potato hash

Heirloom tomato panzanella with house-made foccacia

Hanger steak, pomme frites, heirloom tomato tart

jerked grouper, planatain, tomato watermelon salad with feta, balsamic rum creme

Just to not forget that this is not a travel blog....

A Baltimore Diversion

2009-08-09T21:28:00.009-04:00

So, very impetuously, we decide to take a quick trip to Baltimore to visit Liz and Andrew. It’s a rarity that scheduling between all of our jobs and Tommy’s school work out, so carpe diem, I say. Tommy stays home to mind the dogs and not wreck the house, while Patti and I settle in for the 8 hour drive, which should be shorter, but traffic is a bitch—(damn, Fredericktown!)—and we arrive whole, minus a few sanity cells.
The kids have a boffo apartment in the historic area of Ridgley’s Delight, a long double from Camden Yard, where the Red Sox are dismantling the O’s as we unpack. Somehow the building has designed 4 for flights of stairs into a two story townhouse, according to my knee-o-meter, but hey, we’re here, so let’s drop the bags and bounce.
It’s mid-afternoon and we break into the pre-designated teams: Patti and Andrew will drive to the Art Museum, and Liz and I will walk a few short blocks to the National Aquarium, posted as the center piece of the revitalized inner-harbor. Our family is famous for this sort of efficiency. The cheers from the stadium accompany us as we walk through the charmingly gentrified neighborhood that opens up to a vibrant vista of shops, restaurants and water. Public art pieces are interspersed with pedestrian friendly concourses alive with Sunday shoppers, eaters and gawkers (we will champion all three, for sure).
I dig aquariums, and this one is Kong-scaled, brimming with functional beauty. It sits right on the harbor, flanked by a submarine on one side and a sailing ship (the last commission one in the US Navy) on the other. The building itself is a modern glass and steel affair, with a long covered walk-way over the water. The place is jammed, but runs quite fluidly, if you don’t mind stepping on a few pre-teens while you make your way up seven stories by escalator and down by ramps. As you ascend, each floor offers a different set of tanks and creatures, all logically arranged by type and area. The descent is ingeniously designed as the center of what can only be described as a race track aquarium; a huge donut that the fish can swim continuously through. The gentle ramps allow you to admire the beasts as they school, eat and propel at maddening speeds. It’s really remarkable and about 3-4 stories high, so the fish can live at a depth that most closely mirrors their natural digs. Under this tank a few floors down is another one, this time filled with all manner of sharks, menacingly circling, their dream lunches gazing on.
We now cross the covered walkway to the other building for the scheduled dolphin show. Usually I find these rather boring, but this one was well paced and the stars were seriously smart and entertaining, and I am glad we did this. At show end we move on to special jellyfish exhibit, which is really the jewel of this operation. On display are representatives from all over the world, many which I have never before seen. As dangerous as a few of the species can be, their beauty and gracefulness is beyond dispute. As they expand and contract, rise and fall and pulse, I find myself mesmerized by the show. We finish in the Australian exhibit with more land critters than wet, but very interesting nonetheless. This was a terrific afternoon, especially because of the company I was keeping.
A little time to kill now before our missing players meet us for dinner, Liz and I wander around, but generally towards that great big guitar on the reclaimed powerhouse complex. While I find the food atrocious, I love to purchase a Hard Rock Café shirt in every city I go to. I know,…whatever. Bag in hand, we enter the Barnes and Noble in the same building, a two story affair that maintains the historic character of the trappings. I have never seen one like this, and it’s really cool. Of course the product is the same, but I am a book store junkie, and there are few things I enjoy more than wandering the aisles. If you could get smarter just by walking through the books, I would have invented teleportation by now. Liz picks up a few items for Andrew and we make our way outside to wait.
They had a big time at the museum ( I want to go next trip), and reunited we all examine dinner options. The only drawback to the Inner Harbor complex is the proliferation of chain restaurants (Cheesecake Factory, Sullivan’s etc.) in lieu of local places that could provide actual atmosphere that is not manufactured according to ‘corporate’. I assume that the rents are high, but really, the city should investigate seeking genuine character in eating establishments. We settle on Potbelly’s, a local small sandwich chain right on the water. The food is unremarkable, but reasonably priced and hits the spot. Walking back home, we hit a place for dessert (just a beer for me. It’s been a good day.
The next day we walk a bit, go to the historic market, and shop some. Along the way we spy a church with an old cemetery, so of course we have to stop. Patti and I are both suckers for old graves—she likes to read them, I enjoy not being in one—and the atmosphere is usually quite peaceful. Anyway, as soon as we enter the gate, there is the grave of Edgar Allen Poe. It was damned considerate to put this where we could find it easily. I mean, we weren’t even looking for it, so what are the chances we would just happen to go down this street? I have always enjoyed Poe, as any writer that can combine wine and masonry is tops in my estimation, so this is a bonus round. Later, as we go by Camden, I get a few pics of the ball field for Shelly and Mark, as well as the statue of Babe Ruth. Salad for lunch back at the flat.
One of us has discovered that Gettysburg is only about an hour away, so that shoots straight to the top of the list.
History is cool and all that, but I’m all about the spooks! Gettysburg is reportedly the most haunted place in America, so I am anticipating our arrival at the park will be other-worldly. Instead, a rather ordinary welcome center greets us, so we opt to drive the (free) 16 mile battlefield loop. There will be plenty of scenic stops, and I have about 4 gigs in my camera ready to capture some spirits. The route takes you in and out of the park and through the town of Gettysburg, so it is a bit jerky in spots. They could have picked a more convenient spot for a battle, in my opinion, with a bit of planning, but we soldier on.
If you are at all concerned with the world-wide granite shortage, don’t worry, it’s all here. Sixteen miles and 50,000 statues that mark every event from crazed battles down to “soldier tied shoe in this spot”. It’s interesting, but over the top. However, at every interlude that invites us to get out of the car, Liz and I are both taking pictures of every field, tree line, statue and fence that we can. I am even taking shots of people ahead of me, just in case there is a ghost on their ass. I have not thoroughly examined the booty yet, but one shot does have something peculiar in it. I’ll post it sometime, when I am feeling short of ridicule.
All done with the park, we head back to Baltimore and dinner at a n Irish pub that Shelly had found and sent Liz a gift certificate to. The name of the place is Life of Reilly, and while a bit slow on service, the food and drinks are good. The neighborhood is decidedly just this side of gentrified ghetto, but we escape in good form.
Lady and Mango, as always, greet us back at the base and of course one or the other has peed on the floor. This seems to be a regular drama, as they both look guilty—perhaps they are protesting—but they are so damned cute, what can you do?
We are up early for some last bits of sightseeing before our afternoon departure. We end up at Geppi’s Entertainment Museum in the Camden train station building. It’s really fun, filled with comic books, movie posters, toys and the such from years past. There is a whole room dedicated to the Wizard of Oz with several Frank Baum first editions, so Patti is thrilled. I myself covet the Illya Kuriyakin doll from the Man from U.N.C.L.E. but settle on few Daredevil postcards for Tommy.
We finish with a rather disappointing lunch at a hotel restaurant before heading back to pack the car. During our visit Liz’s car was towed because of some ridiculous parking laws, so she will be happy to get her spot back. Hugs and kisses all around and we GPS ourselves back to Charlotte from an all-too-short but fabulous visit.

A Day And A Half In The Life--part 2

2009-08-09T20:53:00.013-04:00

Our Liverpool guide, Mark Roberts, is fumbling with his CD player while driving to our next stop. He is intent that the music and the location greet us simultaneously, and the effort pays off as the voice of Paul sings the refrain to “Penny Lane” just as the street comes into view. As we pull to the curb to walk around a bit for the requisite photo-op, I am struck by how ordinary it looks—this could be a corner anywhere. The bank is there, as well as the barber and of course, the roundabout (no nurse or fireman in site). If anything, it reinforces to me how brilliant the Beatles were. Penny Lane seems so fanciful and vibrant in the song, thanks to the craftsmanship of the lyrics, making it impossible for the real thing to ever live up to the image. This little area is flanked on one side by the church that Paul sang choir in, so we can see that he surely had some attachment from his youth, and that the words are real to him. Mark even points out that back in Paul’s days here, there was a law firm on Penny Lane owned by two brothers who were the solicitors. There name was Strange, hence the firm of ‘Strange and Strange”. The song, of course, refrains ‘very strange’ several times, so all we can do is speculate as to whether this was just a turn of the lyrics, or another very real reference. I make a note to ask Paul when I see him.
A short drive away Is the gate to Strawberry Field—not ‘Fields’ in the plural—and in many ways the song about this place is an answer for Paul writing about Penny Lane (always the competition). It had once been a children’s home, and John used to play in the woods here and attend concerts with Aunt Mimi. It was by all accounts a happy place for him, although the song lyrics seem mournful and confused in places and is clearly a very personal statement. All that is left now is the red gate, which is clearly labeled and attended to by some local people. To think that such a powerful icon’s physical integrity is left up to serendipity seems absurd, but there it is.
These two songs help illustrate some basic differences in Beatles fans: there are many, many people who know the songs, enjoy the music and require nothing more, which is fine. There are legions of more ardent devotees, however, many of whom lived and were aware at the height of the Beatle power, which see so much more. For myself, I can only say that the music is but one facet. The mystique, the chronicles and the events were then and always will be inseparably woven into my consciousness. Their influences on pop culture, fashion and yes, even drug use are profound. They were royalty in a tempestuous time, and millions of people, whether they care to admit it or not, were and still are somehow affected. The eye of the hurricane was their perch, and a phrase or a chord could wield considerable force. When I listen to the songs, these are the images that fill my mind, as well as what condition my own life was in at the time I first heard each tune. Analyzing the cover of Sgt. Pepper, sitting for hours listening to the White Album (frequently playing it backwards—‘turn me on, dead man!’), searching for the “Paul is dead” clues…these are as real to me as my first hit in baseball, first kiss, firs “D’ chord on my guitar, my first cigarette. It is impossible to separate 60’s popular culture from the Beatles and pointless to try.
It’s an uncharacteristic sunny day and the driving is smooth and pleasant, and frankly a relief to me after steering half way around Ireland days earlier (more on that part of the journey in a later post), and not being at all familiar with my surroundings is peculiarly pleasant. As we pull to a stop on a side street in front of a church, I know that this will be a most profound visit: the place where John and Paul met, St. Peter’s Church in the village of Wolton. Plenty on this has been written before, so I won’t reiterate, but again, it’s another place that I can’t believe I am actually standing in, and it’s all a bit surreal. There is a touching plaque on the outside of the hall marking the occasion, and we make our way through the graveyard back to the area where John and the Quarrymen played at the fete. There is a row of high bushes blocking the exact site, but Mark points out that there really isn’t anything to see there. We do pass the grave of Eleanor Rigby (although Paul has famously said to have never seen it, it is quite readily noticed). We poke around a bit absorbing the atmosphere, which is quite lovely, and then it’s back to the car for the biggest stop of the tour.
A turn onto a very residential and unassuming side street finds us gliding to a stop and exiting the car. Following Mark we enter a gated driveway leading to a large house; the Casbah club is in the basement. This is a total rush, and as I observe the famous sign on the side of the building, I realize that in this moment my thoughts on what I thought I knew, are about to run head-long into what I am about to see firsthand. For any Beatle fan, this is truly a profound place to be. As we walk further down the drive we find ourselves in the back yard as it were. It is notable that the general condition of the house and grounds are quite shabby, especially in comparison to the other homes in the area (which Mark has informed us sell in the million pound range).
We are aware that we will be entering the club for a viewing, but instead of Mark Roberts, someone else will be showing us around—we are soon introduced to Rory Best. Yes, kids, this is Rory Best, brother of Pete Best, the drummer that was sacked in favor of Ringo on the eve of the band’s explosive success. I have just shaken the hand of someone who was not only there, but was intimately involved with the Beatles. My friend Greg opined that in this instant I changed my six degrees of separation down to two. I love this thought.
Rory is a slight man, quite trim in his leather coat and looking very fit for his age. He is an absolute charmer, with kind, if somewhat sad, eyes. I can only imagine what it must be like for the Best family knowing how close they came to the brass ring only to have it yanked away. But if there is any animosity, it doesn’t show as he begins to narrate.
Mona Best, mother to Pete and Rory, is well known as the proprietor of the Club and of course as one of the initial supporters of the Beatles. In fact, the Quarrymen played the club before leaving for Hamburg and returning as the fab four. Rory explains that the family still owns the home, although they no longer live there and long ago it was split up into apartments. The basement, though, is untouched and reeks of the photographs I have seen.
It’s a large house, close to mansion size I would say, with a large basement to match. But when I consider that the Casbah Club reportedly held up to 1000 people during shows, it seems impossibly small. Low ceiling small rooms and hallways disjoint together and never form any one larger space, so it is very difficult to envision a crowd in the space. Oh, and those low ceilings…they still are finished with the paintings that the young Beatles did on them while helping Mona get the club open. John’s Aztec look in one room gives way to the famous ‘rainbow’ finish of Paul’s. The bar area displays the multiple stars look, with the legendary “silver” Beatle silhouette painted by Cynthia from a picture of John. Wow.
As we wander, listening intently to Rory as he sets the stories for us, there is much to observe: on one wall are the framed biographies that each Beatle wrote about themselves; over there is the corner where John convinced Stu to take his art award money and buy a bass; the famous ‘spider’ stage (Pete painted the web), and the very first stage they played, which is just the end of a small hallway no bigger than a closet. Amazing.
The tales that Rory tells are anti-climatic in a sense, having heard most of it before. The difference, of course, is that know I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth. We ask questions, which colorizes the experience, giving validation to the stories. While driver Mark has waited outside, Mark and I buy some Black Labels from Rory and wander around the club, sipping and reflecting. The stage is accessible, and I stand on the center, hoping to feel the juice, player to player. Whatever I feel I cannot describe…but it’s enough. Enough to gain substance to the myth, enough to validate my own Beatles experience. No, no magic in these places, but that doesn’t matter because it is all very personal and everything exists differently to everyone. Mark and I are huge Beatles fans going way back, Patti and Shelley not so much. Two distinct groups that experience the same thing with drastically different appreciations. It’s not a good and bad thing, it’s a levels thing. We can all understand to some extent the historical significance of the places we have seen. For the ardent followers, it is much more intense, especially if they lived the times, and breathed the events…the music. I can understand the things that are significant to Patti in her life, but I can never appreciate them in the same way that she does—it’s a different connection. It’s enough for me that whatever it is, that it’s important to her. And so it is with the Beatles and me. She may not, share my rabid enthusiasm, but she understands it, I believe, and allows my dalliance.
As we bid Rory and The Casbah Club goodbye, there is another small group waiting outside to begin their pilgrimage, and I am silently excited for them, my being a seasoned patron now. They will see the same things as me, maybe buy the same t-shirt and beer, but their experience will be unique. And that will be enough for them.
Mark Roberts has been an able and entertaining guide and is now woven into the fabric of my Beatles consciousness as he ends our journey as promised at the Lime Street Station, where we will meet our train to London. We are tired and hungry (confronting a lifelong pursuit can be exhausting) as we settle into surprisingly good sandwiches at a tiny shop, the last stop on the Liverpool excursion. Is it my imagination, or does my ham and cheese baguette resemble a Yellow Submarine….

A Day and a Half in the Life

2009-07-28T20:43:00.035-04:00

There is a light mist in the air as we exit the James Street Station leading our luggage down a few blocks to the hotel. It’s the middle of July, but the temperature feels deliciously cool to my Carolina skin, as the sky is pregnant with moisture but no humidity—which strikes me as inconsistent with a seaport city. The buildings along the route are a mixed bag of old and new—although the new are designed to look and feel comfortable to their elder neighbors. Old and new succinctly describes this pilgrimage as we enter the marble lobby of The Hard Days Night Hotel. We are in Liverpool, England and we are here with the singular purpose of tracing the roots of The Beatles.

My emotions are subdued, as I am careful not to relinquish to excitement lest I find that these are just places, with no magical properties that conjure the electricity of what once was. I have known it before, and have been let down; standing under the Arc de Triumph in Paris with no sense of the powerful armies that have traversed on through its pillars; touching ‘the Gates of Hell’ with no feeling of the anguish of Rodin; and not a trace of Howard Hughes in the home he built in Red Rocks Canyon outside of Las Vegas. All beautiful in their own right, but all just places, nothing more. More than anything, I want this experience to be different, and on a level I fear that the fantasy will come crashing down when met with the reality. What tangible place, I reasoned, could compete with the dream?

The hotel faces John Street, a major thoroughfare in this ancient town, and is flanked by the legendary Mathew Street, home of the Cavern Club and Mecca to Beatles fans. It was here that they played 274 times, honing their skills and sweating their chops while on the crucible to worldwide fame. Once they became a global phenomenon, they would never again know the relative intimacy of playing a small hall, with the crowd pressing the stage in waves of pleasure without a police line in front of them. It has been speculated that after the Cavern Club, they were already racing to the end, while quite literally changing music and pop culture in general in their wake. At the maw of Mathew Street, I consider these thoughts as we venture into the alley.

The city of Liverpool has quite rightly embraced its Beatle past and the tiny street is alive with statues, plaques and signage that all convey the message to the fans. I am sure that the area is cleaner, safer and glossier than it was when the action was peaking in the late ‘50’ and early ‘60’s, but it still feels right. There has been obvious care taken to not “Disney” the place, and even at an early hour there is a lively mix of raucous drinkers, roving hen parties and awe struck tourists blending to make the sum more than the parts. As we stroll along, I struggle to soak in the atmosphere quietly thankful to whatever fates have allowed me a privilege I never thought I would experience.

In 1973 the original Cavern Club was filled in, as it was not stable enough to hold a planned nine story building on its roof. Before the demolition, the club was disassembled brick by brick and reestablished a few doors away to the exact drawings of the original. It is a perfect restoration in every way, and has the beat of the original I am sure—it is authentic “dingy”, not Hollywood style. The stage is just as humble as the pictures I have seen with the legendary multi-colored wall in the back. This evening there is a wonderful performer on acoustic guitar playing Beatles tunes, of course, and drawing the crowd right in. When we entered for the price of one pound, roughly $1.50 American—crazy cheap, in my opinion-- and followed the spiral stairwell down, we found ourselves spilled into a hustle of action. We wandered a bit among the catacomb of brick arches and wooden tables, fining our way to the bar, where pints were in order. It goes without saying that I purchased the requisite t-shirt and some guitar picks from the souvenir area, and not the last trinkets I would buy on this excursion. Probably I exceeded the budget somewhat, but my account manger--also known as my wife, Patti-- would turn a blind eye this time to expenses; I just know she knows how significant this experience is to me. We take our ales and our purchase near the stage where a 4-top table has just become available. It’s getting better all the time, although my choice of a Longbow to drink is not quite to my fancy. It’s a cider beer, and I can attest that it has a bit of a kick that sneaks up near the bottom of the glass, which means I basically traded some taste for buzz, so it’s a zero-sum game.

The entertainer is now in full swing and the crowd is lapping it up. He performs an amazing rendition of ‘A Day In The Lfe’—remember this is all on acoustic guitar—and moves into ‘You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away’ followed by ‘yesterday’ sang by a member of the audience. A few tunes later, an Asian fellow with a big camera who has been enjoying the show with abandon alights the stage and sings ‘Michelle” combining French and English with Asian accentuation. He was brilliant and obviously in heaven as he drew a rapturous applause.

Returning in time to the street, we meander the neighborhood, admiring the sights. Mark takes my picture aside the famous John Lennon Statue and we stroll on in to the Beatles store, where more treasures are to be purchased and secreted away. I always have a hard time with this, trying to determine what is meaningful to buy and what is tacky. I settle on a double Decker bus festooned with Abbey Road album pictures for 13 pounds, content that it is memorable and tacky—perfect!

We have 9:30 reservations for dinner at Blakes, which is the restaurant at the hotel, so we head on to our rooms to freshen up. The Hard Days Night Hotel sounds like it might be a caricature, but nothing could be further from the truth. This is a 4-star venture with outstanding service and very high quality appointments. Yes, the Beatles are everywhere, with sculptures, signage, paintings and the such, but all is done tastefully and with panache and the impression is not too over the top. Each room has an original work of art (we had a painting of baby John) and feature excellent bedding, furniture and all marble baths in chocolate tones and accent colors. All expected amenities are in evidence, as well as complimentary Internet service, although the keyboard was impossible to use. We still managed to send off a few e-mails, however, before the restaurant calls to let us know they can get us in a half hour early.

Blakes is named for Peter Blake, designer of the Sgt. Pepper album cover, and the décor subtly references this iconic work. Again, the designer shows restraint with some well thought paintings placed throughout and a centerpiece montage of all of the characters that are present on the cover. This place is about the food and service and both are outstanding. I enjoyed a first course of duck sausage with white truffle and foie gras, a main course of lamb trio with chops, shoulder and sweetbread and a dessert of mint truffle profiteroles with warm chocolate sauce. A Barossa Valley Estate E Minor Shiraz, 2005, was my wine selection with the savories, and it married quite well. All were outstanding in taste and presentation, properly temped and served at a perfect pace. A late evening stroll followed and later in bed we were serenaded by a few choruses of ‘Ticket To Ride’ wafting up from the street below courtesy of 20-30 late revelers. Anticipation of tomorrow’s tour colored my exhausted psyche.

The morning brings a fabulous breakfast at Blakes seasoned with discussion of the main event for the day, a private chauffeured tour of Beatles Liverpool sites. I had made the arrangements through Ian Crabtree months earlier and the situation was perfect: we would check out of the hotel and be picked up for the tour at 11:00am and be dropped off at Lime Street Station at 3:00pm to pick find our train to London. The car arrives a few minutes late but not appreciably so, and our guide, Mark Roberts of Beatles Tours of Liverpool, settles us in for the journey. He is an affable fellow with a sense of humor and well-paced commentary, and of course very Liverpudllian in manner and accent. I have scored the front seat while Patti, Shelley and Mark gain the back with our luggage in tow.

The first two points of interest are decidedly un-Beatle-like: The Liverpool Cathedral, a massive gothic Anglican church--in fact the largest in the United Kingdom, and the candy-striped building of the White Star Line Office of Titanic fame. I recall that Liverpool was the starting point of that ill-fated cruise.

From here we make our way past the Albert Dock and on to the school that Paul and George attended, as well as the art institute where John went with Cynthia and Stu. The buildings are right next to each other, a fact that seems somehow odd to me in the sense that the scale of the city never really entered my conscious. In fact, the whole of the tour strikes me with how close in proximity the locations are in relation to each other, bringing the Beatle lore to a human scale. Next is the apartment that Brian Epstein kept for his ‘trysts’ that he later lent to John and Cynthia to protect the only married Beatle from publicity that might not sit well with his female fans. Along the way we are treated with the sight of a piece of public art commissioned to celebrate all of the immigrants in Liverpool. Its title is ‘A Case Study’ quite appropriate, in my opinion.

The childhood home of Ringo is the next stop, a decidedly depressing area that is soon to be demolished ( Ringo’s home will be disassembled and re-set in a museum). Guide Mark is chagrined by this idea, not seeing the significance of the move, preferring to leave things where they are. We drive a few streets and he points out an empty field where legend has it Adolph Hitler once stayed in a home with his brother Alois before World War 1(none of this is confirmed). We proceed next to Arnold Grove, the childhood home of George. It’s just a wisp of an alley really, and not much of an improvement of Ringo’s home, although all of the flats are occupied.

Paul’s home is a substantial improvement, situated on a pleasant street of well-kept homes and neatly kept gardens. Although of plain construction, it has a comfortable feel to it. Like John’s home, it is owned now by the National Trust, making it a historic place that will be kept as it is for posterity—tours inside must be arranged through the trust.

Now it’s on to John’s home, by far the nicest of the four. A gated yard in front frames a picture perfect home that all Beatles fans have seen many times. After pictures, Mark and I pluck a few seed pods from a bush just inside the wall. Perhaps we will be able to grow some Lennon magic when we get home.

Next up Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields….. plus the legendary Casbah Club!

arts and crafts

2008-07-30T21:01:00.000-04:00

The culinary arts. This phrase is oft repeated and typically taken at face value. But, really, is it art? Painting is art, of course, as well as creative writing, architecture, and music... But cooking? I think not. There are creative aspects of the discipline to be sure. But the far more accurate description would be a craft. Cooking is a craft. I know that a lot of “foodie” types will bluster at this, and even a few well meaning, if not self-deluded chefs as well. But the result of physical skills that are consistently measurable and comparable from one chef or restaurant to the next is in fact, a craft.

Now I have an artistic nature, so perhaps I am at odds with myself here. I paint in oils, play classical guitar and enjoy reading as well as writing. These are clearly artistic pursuits for the most part and certainly the sensitivity I employ to these must inevitably bleed over into my work. And it does, because I can certainly admire the beauty of foods in their natural states as well as after they have been manipulated and arranged on plates. I can fuss over the different shapes and colors that will most pleasing to the eye, as well as to the taste. But the skills required being able to do this I have learned by many years of repetitive behavior; honing these tasks so that they become second nature, and not just a single statement. Perhaps my artistic side helps me realize the end results favorably—perhaps. I know a great many highly skilled chefs that are true technicians of culinary skill who have absolutely no inclination to the arts at all.

A recipe is a craft. If we put it on the menu, the expectation is that it will be made the same way over and over. Art is a little different in that you are typically taking some raw materials and bringing them together in some unique fashion. Nice, but if the salad dressing changes every time it is ordered I can tell you the pronouncement will not be ‘but it’s art!’ For me the trick is making that artistic statement within a craft discipline and I hope I am succeeding more often than not.

French Paradox?

2008-05-17T21:02:00.000-04:00

We have all heard of this: the alleged good health in a group of people that typically eat a diet high in fats and carbohydrates. But recent studies have shown that the phenomenon should be more correctly labeled the Mediterranean paradox.
The research is known as the seven-country study, and started out to find out why people on the isles of Crete and Sardinia were living longer and with little heart disease despite a high fat diet. What was discovered was that a major part of their diet included the drinking of red wine.
A closer examination of the red wines produced in this area found that they were richer in Procyanidins than many other similar wines from other areas. This same traits were discovered in the wines of southwest France, where the population enjoys overall good health. So the paradox has little to do with France itself, as heart disease and other diet related illnesses have proved to be regional. In fact Alsace, where the majority of the wines are white, has the highest rate of heart trouble in the country.
Procyanidins are part of the larger chemical group known as polyphenols, which are powerful antioxidants. If you are a red wine drinker you will also recognize another polyphenols -- tannin—that dryish, astringent taste omnipresent in these wines. Now white wines have these same compositions, but while red wines are the fermented juice of the grapes with skin and seed intact, white wine is the juice only. So the longer the time of the fermentation with the seeds, the more extraction of these polyphenols that you have, and thus higher levels of polyphenols.
So my recommendation is to sit back with your favorite Bordeaux (proyanidins), a creamy rougefort cheese (penicillin) and a loaf of French bread (yeast) for a most delicious medicine cabinet!

growing up

2008-05-03T15:27:00.003-04:00

I’ve been talking with some very old friends lately, guys I lost touch with 30+ years ago, and it really got me to thinking about my personal chronology in a general way. Like when I have driven past the house I grew up in, which doesn’t happen much anymore because I moved far away many years ago, but when I am back up that way, it’s irresistible to go by at least once. It always strikes me as to how small it seems. I know that everyone says that, you know that when you are little everything is bigger, etc. but this house IS really small. I could fit 3-4 of them in my current address. And that’s not being a smart-ass or elitist, just offering the facts.

To say I came from humble beginnings is a little generous. We weren’t destitute—there was always food, toys for Christmas and all that, but it wasn’t until I reached high school that I realized how much more other people had. And they all seemed to wear it well; I guess being born to comfort, leads to comfort. But still, going to a private boy’s prep school that cost my family and me dearly, and to spend the better part of the day around what I considered the privileged, which earned and spent rather freely, certainly had its affect. While they were going to ski trips and the prom, I was busting my ass working in kitchens and stealing art supplies. I never really belonged in their world, nor they in mine.

And so it goes on. Through hard work, perseverance, a little luck and a lot of love, I clawed my way up and out. But never too far out. The fact is that over the years I have had to spend much of my time around the very type of people I eyed with such contempt in my formative years, but I still retain the simple old me from ago. I’m not wearing a badge of humility here—noble in the plight of the have-nots—nope, I am quite happy that I can sleep soundly and secure. I may look back with rose-colored glasses from time to time, but now is good. Still, I don’t ever expect to vie for the cover of GQ; I feel much better in t-shirt and jeans as opposed to suit and tie, thank you very much. Besides, facades bore me and hanging around with the suits slapping hands and lying to each other is a criminal waste of time and energy. Me? I never want to forget how to struggle. Because you know what? Struggle is good. It is rewarding in its self, and nothing of value has ever been obtained without it. Having to make an effort to attain is exercise for the character and should be required living for everyone for as long as it takes for them to appreciate the exchange.

A lifetime has been lived since last I talked to my dear old friends. And like the beat up old sweater that my Grandmother gave me 40 years ago that I still wear and cherish, it feels good on my skin again. We have all grown, sired offspring and built our little fiefdoms, but it is sooo good to renew the emotions. Damnit, I love these guys! And it’s nourishing to know that we all made it. Many, many others did not, and while I mourn them all, I celebrate the survivors.

So I raise a glass of good consciousness, fraternity and truth to renewed friendships.

how sweet it is

2008-02-29T15:17:00.000-05:00

‘The sweet smell of success’, ‘a sweet deal’, ‘ sweeten’ the pot’ and so on. How many familiar phrases such as these do we use to define the good things in our lives? What is it about sugar, in all of its forms, that makes us want to associate in this way? Everyone has heard of a ‘sweet-tooth’ and of course we know that this is a figure of speech, but still the lovely images persists. Then again, ‘the bitter end’, ‘a bitter pill’, ‘bitter winter chill’… quite a different impression, typically harsh or sad, and yet the pair—sweet and bitter—form a partnership that define the way we eat.

The clues lie in our basic physiology, more specifically our brains’ requirement for nutrition and our body’s need for protection. On an instinctual level we have two strong biases: one positive and one negative. The negative is generally represented as the taste of bitter, which perhaps is a defensive measure against some of the toxins that plants can produce. Many times pregnant women will become particularly sensitive to bitter tastes, say in broccoli, which may be nature’s way of protecting the fetus. So we can simplistically see bitter as a protective alarm for our body.

Sweet, on the other hand, is our positive taste impulse. We can even sense it in anticipation of dessert or a piece of fruit. It sates us in bread and even meat we consume. We almost long for it, and with good reason; humans are big-brained omnivores, and big brains require lots of glucose.

On average our brain represents 2% of our total body weight, but consumes a whopping 18% of our energy intake—and here is the kicker: that fuel must be in the form of a carbohydrate (sorry, low-carb dieters!), hence the glucose.

So when you go in blissful anticipation for that piece of cake, remember to tell everyone that what you are really doing is feeding your brain! Now if it was only that easy… well wouldn’t that be sweet?

cooking q's

2008-01-19T13:47:00.000-05:00

In an interesting conversation with a member recently, I was asked how I could possibly know how to cook so many different styles of cuisines. This was in reference to one of our specialty nights, where we feature authentic representations of different countries. It was interesting because the member just assumed that we simply bought prepared items and served them. He was astonished to find that we actually prepare from scratch.

To tell you the truth, it never occurred to me that anyone would take this perspective. From my side of the ball, I know that we prepare about 95% of everything on our menus. We butcher the meat and fish, make the stocks for soup and sauce, mix, proof and bake the French rolls and pizza shells, cut all the vegetables…everything from scratch. It’s the only way I know how to run a kitchen and I would not do it any other way. Of course, this can lead to some variations. An eggplant picked and cooked in August will taste different than one prepared in December to exactly the same recipe because of seasonality—that sort of thing. If that sounds odd, just think of wine: the exact same grapes on the same vines in the same place produce different tastes from year to year because of soil, wind and other conditions. And of course we all know how much better corn is later in the summer as opposed to early. That is one of the reasons we change the menu so often. Only commercially prepared foods have the same taste and consistency at all times, and that would never do.

As to the aforementioned multiple cuisine issue: cooking, as a profession is no different than other disciplines. A mechanic, for instance, typically can repair most anything on a car, whether it is brakes, drive train, fuel system, etc. And who would be comfortable going to a dentist who did not know all of the facets of dental care? Like anything else, cuisine, any cuisine, can be learned if you understand the basic tenants of cooking. My job as a professional chef affords me the luxury of exploring the world when it comes to food, and that, to borrow a famous title, is the joy of cooking.

Got Wheat?

2007-12-06T20:31:00.000-05:00

There are very few subjects that cross my desk that are more misunderstood than the relative nutritional value of wheat. The problem lies in the fuzzy information that is generally offered to the public, though the facts are readily available to anyone who cares to do a little research.

Now, I am not here to attack this humble little servant to our food culture. I like wheat bread as much as the next person. But I like it for its flavor and not for any erroneous claims to heath benefits that may be offered. You see, the typical wheat bread available on the market is made with wheat flour. That’s just another way of saying white flour. It is the whole wheat, with the high-fiber, nutrient rich bran attached, which brings the goods to the table. But what if the label says ‘made with whole wheat’? Well, the labeling laws says that if as little as 2% of the total flour weight is whole wheat, then it is okay to put it on the label. As with everything, read the fine print! But you are wondering about the color, right? You just cannot get that brownish tan hue with white flour, can you? The only trick here is that just enough whole-wheat flour is added to color the dough. That’s all.

Now if the label says made with 100% whole wheat, then you are in the clear. In fact, look for breads that provide 2 grams of fiber per slice to be sure you are getting bread made with the whole bran and all the intrinsic positives this brings. But here is the stunner: wheat is not the nutritional dynamo that you might think it is. The fact is a slice of cheese has much more protein, potassium, riboflavin, vitamin D and other vitamins than a slice of whole wheat bread. Bread is a foundation for a diet—but it is the fruit, vegetable and proteins you consume that provide the real value.

Hey, but as long as we are in the neighborhood, what about that regular old white flour that is a staple in every kitchen? First things first: white flour is not all that evil. While it is true that the bleaching process removes many vitamins from the wheat, in the 1940s the Food and Drug Administration mandated that every all-purpose flour be "enriched," so small amounts of iron, niacin, thiamin and riboflavin are added, as well as folic acid, a member of the vitamin B complex. Flour that is bleached naturally ( with oxygen) as it ages is labeled "unbleached," and you will notice that it is a little grayer looking than the chemically (chlorine) treated flour that is labeled "bleached." Bleached flour has less protein than unbleached, but is nutritionally the same, and not that far behind whole-wheat. Bleached is best for pie crusts, cookies, quick breads, pancakes and waffles. Use unbleached flour for yeast breads, Danish pastry, puff pastry, strudel, Yorkshire pudding, éclairs, cream puffs and popovers.

garlic and ginger

2007-12-05T20:31:00.000-05:00

Did you know that January is ‘National dried plum breakfast’ month? Makes you wonder who comes up with this stuff, doesn’t it? Anyway, now that the fruits and vegetables of the summer and late fall harvests are a faded memory, it’s a perfect time to celebrate the winter crop. And how rich it is! The varied squashes, a riot of beets and crucifers such as cabbage and Brussels sprouts, sun chokes—the list goes on and on of seasonal tastes and we will feature them all at the club in one form or another. But there are two flavors that I always tend to think of when the mercury is dipping that you might find surprising—garlic and ginger.

I know that most people do not associate these tastes with the seasons, and tend to think of them more along the lines of their uses in particular cuisines. But let’s look at it a little closer. Garlic, for example, is well known for its healing properties. We hear about it discussed with regard to impact on heart disease, cancer and even lowering cholesterol. But on a more common level, garlic is amazingly effective in fighting viruses such as the ever-problematic common cold, the other unwanted visitor many of us receive in January (along with Holiday bills!).

Ginger has the heat in it to feel quite warm when going down, and is soothing to sore throats and upset tummies. And bonus—ginger is an anti-inflammatory, useful for those aching joints. Probably why many a Grandma prescribes a little ginger tea or ale when you don’t feel so well.

How great that two wonderful seasoning components not only taste sublime but are also so useful to your general well being, can be incorporated into so many dishes. Just remember a few guidelines: with garlic, the finer you chop it, the stronger it is. So if you looking for a mild garlic flavor, leave the cloves larger. In fact, take a whole head, cut the top off and smear with olive oil and a sprinkle of kosher salt; wrap in foil and roast until soft. When you remove it from the oven, hold it by the bottom and squeeze the roasted garlic right out of the leaves. It will be heavenly sweet and smeared on a little French bread, nothing short of sensational. A great tip for peeling ginger—use a plain old soup or teaspoon. This is the most effective way to get in and out of all those little bumps. The edge of the spoon will peel the skin right off. Cut the amount of ginger you need, and store the rest of what is peeled in some brandy or sherry for another day.

It's that time of year, again

2007-11-26T18:31:00.000-05:00

Enjoy... http://youtube.com/watch?v=b8-pCbQnSC4

people,people

2007-11-26T15:11:00.000-05:00

The slide show is compose of a few pics taken in the span of about 5 minutes just to get things going. I will be adding more soon.

the menu

2007-11-26T14:17:00.000-05:00

It can start with a smell; a memory, a glance, or a flag waving in the graying sky of dusk. It can be a happy accident or a fleeting melancholy moment, a slip of the tongue, a sepia-toned photo. The creative seed can be born of any of this happenstance and an infinite number more. But one thing is certain for me, it is seldom planned.

I never know what will trigger the need to begin the creative process, or I should say revive it from its dormancy. It’s always there, but the typical day has enough cereal filler in it to suck DaVinci dry. Contrary to what the general public might perceive, most chefs do not spend all their time dreaming up the next Beef Wellington or ham and cheese sandwich. No, after being a purchasing agent, medic, counselor, accountant, referee, dispatcher, teacher, diplomat, salesman, entertainer, warrior and general contractor he/she might get a little cooking done, and in a burst of lucid thought, apply a little water to that aforementioned seed. But it is these little moments that bring the joy.

Sitting down and trying to force out a menu is really difficult for me. I can stare at a piece of paper or computer screen for interminable lengths of time with nary an enthusiasm to apply. Sure, I can slap out a card of the usual suspects, just like the menu engineering books tell you to do, but that does not bring the juice and I just know my lack of commitment will be evident. It’s no good under these circumstances and counter-productive at best. Usually this is the best time to find something that is automatic to do; requiring the least amount of mental effort. Peeling potatoes works, as well as washing dishes. Anything that eases the obligation of providing more than the bases of solutions will serve the purpose. Soon enough I will find my muse, or I should say it will find me, and the motivation to create will reach ramming-speed.

How precious this time is! I can almost feel my brain stem throbbing as the anxious thoughts make there way to paper. It’s flowing now like a dam-burst and my hand cannot write quick enough to maintain the pace. I dig this groove and soon enough I am at it, Henckel in hand, preparing to attack some defenseless food that had the misfortune of lazing in my cooler. Flush with anticipation the cooking begins, the adjusting of tastes, the solicitation of opinions, the glorious finish. On it goes, the clock wisely divorcing itself from my conscious eye, for nothing so vulgar as the passage of time can interfere with this union of thought and skill. Knife, mind and pen are as one, and this trio will conceive a new life.

This is not work. This is euphoria and freedom laid out on a stainless steel counter. That I get paid for this is a delicious irony, although I suspect most of my wages are more than well earned on the banal tasks I alluded to earlier. And as to the whole point of the exercise-- the client, diner, guest? How little do they know that their happiness with the end results is just a bi-product of the circumstance. Of course, they are the reason I produce in the first place. Where would I, or any of us be without a receptive audience? But it doesn’t start with some grand scheme to further the joy of mankind or to attempt to reinvent cuisine. It’s not about a political statement or the overall human condition. It’s all quite ordinary, in fact, and nothing more magnanimous than serving the creative process --and it’s all I ever want it to be.

Who talked me in to this?

2007-11-24T18:51:00.000-05:00

So it begins. It's not like I don't have enough to do, so why not a blog? I am at the outset dubious as to the quality (and interest) anyone will find here, but what the hell. A career path cut through the not-really-all-that-glamorous world of the culinary arts may yield a nugget or two, perhaps jaded, about, food, art, business or life in general. Maybe not.

I am presently bummed at sending out the last plate of heirloom tomatoes for the season. My stash exhausted, it's time to change the menu to a decidedly root direction. Turnips, baby carrots--sugar right off the brix scale--beets and spuds in various forms will dominate the veggie scene on the card--and they will be delish--but it still hurts to give up the very last vestige of summer.

Oh, but soon the first of the winter truffles will arrive and in addition my collection of squash recipes is at the ready to carry me all the way to spring training (the Indians will win it all this year!)! so things are not so bleak after all.

Okay, well this is beginning to feel forced--I'm just not on for writting tonight--so let's call it a game. Later...