The Day that Elvis Died

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

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

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

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….