What the heck is a "rubber boots buffet?"

From the time I was about 13, I was spending my summers mowing lawns in Texas, it’s a sweaty job, and dirty. We would wake up early, and put on our work boots. My father would accompany me, and perhaps my brother or a cousin on these jobs, and would use the opportunity to teach us the importance of hard work, as well as its rewards. Often, when looking at a finished yard he would sigh, contented, and smile, saying, “Nothing feels as good as a job well done.”

I also remember that for lunch we would often go to drive-through windows or walkup barbecue stands, as our attire (not to mention our odour) did not exactly merit table service. But there is one lunch that I’ll never forget. We were just finishing a one-off job in a part of town in which we didn’t usually work, it was about lunchtime, and my dad suddenly remembered that we were close to a soul kitchen. For those who only know that term from Jim Morrison, a soul kitchen is a sort of underground restaurant, usually in a black community, where food is served family style, plentiful and cheap. This was my first experience with such a place. As I recall, the food service area was the front porch and front room of a ramshackle house, the tables were Sears picnic, the beverage was iced tea, and the food was all you can eat, first come, first served. The other diners were construction workers, linemen, oilmen and farmers, and all of us were sweaty and dirty and wearing our boots. The food was fried chicken, biscuits, greens, mashed potatoes; it was buttery, rich and served right to the middle of the table, where we all sat together and passed the gravy just like Sunday lunch.

A few years on, I passed on the career in yard work to become a cook, eventually a chef in California. I also, on occasion, found myself working outdoors again, for one reason or another, often with the farmers who would supply the kitchen where I worked. I came to have a world of respect for these farmers; few if any occupations are more difficult or more important. And you know, I couldn’t help but notice that they were always wearing those familiar work boots.

When my wife and I traveled to Europe, we decided to try a program called WWOOF (Willing Workers On Organic Farms) as a means of seeing first hand how organic farming works and to experience the countryside. We spent about a week each on farms in Gascony, Tuscany and Piedmont, trading our labor for room and board. It was in the mountains in France where we heard a story about a local restaurant; it was apparently well regarded, served haute cuisine and held a place of regard in the Michelin guide. On Sundays, however, the chef would volunteer his time to cook family style comfort food for just the locals and the farm workers who supplied his restaurant during the week.

Last year, in Canada, I was loaned a book by Timothy Taylor, called Stanley Park, (set in Vancouver) in which he relates a similar story. His main character, a chef, speaks of his desire to bring this “rubber boots” food to his clientele. His choice of the words rubber boots instantly connected my memories of the soul kitchen in Texas, of the hard working farmers in California and of the rich soil clinging to our boots on the farms in Italy and France.

When we were planning for our restaurant, Sundays just seemed obvious, we would have family style comfort food; all you can eat, an open stage for musicians and others and we would accept no reservations. Our “Rubber Boots” Sunday is a way of saying thanks to all of the hard working friends, locals and especially the farmers who have made this restaurant possible.