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….

A Day and a Half in the Life

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

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?

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

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

‘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

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.