Greenwashing...

I’ve always been a bit of a rebel—I question authority, I don’t take things at face value, I like to think that I live on the edge, battling the status quo. I don’t know where I picked up this attitude, maybe it has something to do with being a middle child—neither the firstborn nor the baby, struggling to earn my due—maybe it has something to do with genetics (my folks could be described as having the occasional quirk...), maybe it was just my group of childhood friends who set me on this path. One thing is for sure, though, at least over the last year or so, that sense of NOT being in the mainstream is almost certainly incorrect. Or is it?



From things like the election, in the U.S., of an (on paper) progressive president, to my own casual forays into the halls of local politics and even to the broad, casual acceptance of things that used to be my niche, my fringe philosophies; especially things like the local and organic foods movement, green energy, like solar panels and hybrid cars, railing against pollution and oil companies... Well, often, the fact is, I just don’t feel so alone out here anymore.



I seem to be surrounded by friends, big and small, friends I never expected to meet; let me elaborate: today, I saw a Coca-Cola truck with a ten foot high banner bragging that it was a hybrid-electric vehicle that was responsible for cleaning city air; last week I saw an article in which our new Wal-Mart claimed to be building its new local box store using ‘sustainable building’ practices; a new Canadian Tire, (across the street from the old one) will be LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) certified. Grocery stores claim to carry local and organic products; new restaurants advertise local foods. I’m surrounded by friends, everywhere I look, trying to help make the world a better place by going green, buying local, even cleaning the air with Coca-Cola.



Why do I smell a rat?



Last week I saw Food Inc., finally. If you haven’t seen it yet, please, really, go watch it. Now. Seriously, I’ll still be here when you get back....



OK, you’ve seen it? Good! Now, welcome back; where was I? Food, Inc. is a movie that seems to be a summary of a lot of the information I try to share with people on pretty much a daily basis (monthly, if you just read the newsletter...) It encompasses everything from the dangers and pitfalls of centralized agribusiness in the meat and commodity food industries to the intimate connection between what we eat and our (and our planet’s) health. One of the experts interviewed in the film was Gary Hirschberg, a C.E.-Yo (...his joke, not mine...), president, and one of the people instrumental in bringing Stonyfield Yogurt into millions of homes all over North America every year. Gary, it would seem, was kind of a late term hippie; the Stonyfield website describes him as ‘an environmental activist, a windmill maker, an author, and a noted entrepreneur’; a little more homework reveals that he was a member of The New Alchemy Institute, a think-tank and not-for-profit research group of sorts that experimented with green technologies and that sounds like a page out of any edition of the Whole Earth Catalogue. He evolved into one of socially responsible business’s most exhilarating (on the surface) success stories. He is a man who has taken his values to the street, and by ‘the street’ I mean Main Street, the place where you and I actually live. His brand is no longer merely the best-selling organic yogurt brand; it is the 3rd largest selling yogurt brand, period. He is no longer David, he is Goliath.



I have often repeated language of Gary Hirschberg, both consciously and unconsciously, when describing my vision for our restaurant... How it is important to reach a wider audience, how our business is our activism, how my dream includes the ability not only to help support organic farmers, but to simply, actually, support them. Stonyfield does these things; it supports hundreds of organic farmers and is responsible for tens of thousands of acres of pesticide and herbicide free farmland, an outstanding accomplishment for any company and, in my opinion, probably an excellent step towards saving the world. Hirschberg’s latest venture is encroaching even closer towards my own with a line of natural and organic fast food restaurants under the moniker ‘O’Naturals’, a franchise which he claims that he wants to ‘become McDonald’s’. He speaks of these things with the passion of an evangelist; he firmly believes in taking the socially responsible business model right into heat of the battle, the thick of the fight. He is fearless, smart, and probably, I hope, does more good than harm.



Stonyfield is a grand idea, but here’s the thing: it is an idea built (again, in my opinion,) on the same shaky ground that has created the calamitous state of food everywhere. Everything about Stonyfield, everything about big agribusiness in general, is that instead of, or, perhaps, in Stonyfield’s case, along with, being about good, better and best, it is about being big, bigger and biggest. It is the same bloated mentality that has led us to the edge of the cliff and the same mentality that will push us over.



I don’t doubt that Hirschberg means well and has done a world of good. But by this logic, Wal-Mart has also done a world of good and probably supported thousands of organic farms with a single purchase order. Hirschberg is at much less moral fault than Wal-Mart, who is in the business of organics and ‘sustainable building’ to look good and to sell more products rather than for any deep-seated activist rationale, but he, whether he likes it or not, is at the mercy of the same flawed system nonetheless.



In 2004, Stonyfield came under majority ownership of Danone Group, the folks who make Dannon yogurt, one of Stonyfield’s biggest conventional competitors. Like Ben and Jerry’s going to Unilever and Odwalla going to Coca Cola before it (to help clean city air, no doubt...), this was a big mash-up in the ‘socially responsible business’ marketplace. Under the terms of the sale, as long as Stonyfield is increasing profits, Hirschberg will remain in control; he has also obligated the company to continue a policy of donating 10% of profits to environmental causes for up 10 years after his departure. In return, he pays back all his investors, and also, incidentally, doesn’t really have to worry about cash flow around the Hirschberg home, anymore. Ever. It seems like a sweetheart deal, and the Danone group looks good with an organic jewel in its crown. And, like I said, there is no question that a big conglomerate can do more with a single purchase than a million of me will do in a lifetime of small potatoes organic purchasing. So, despite the sale, takeover, or whatever, it would seem that Hirschberg’s vision of an ecologically responsible giant agribusiness operation is still under his guidance. For now. Until it is no longer profitable, or even just no longer profitable enough. And yet, it is still flawed. Stonyfield, Danone, O’Naturals, Wal-Mart... these business are built on the same premise that got us into the mess we’re in, the philosophy of go big or go home.



Another guy in the film is Joel Salatin—now here’s a character I’d like to meet. He is a farmer who describes himself in Michael Pollan’s ‘The Omnivore’s Dilemma’ (you know the drill, go read it...



OK, welcome back...) as a ‘grass farmer’. By virtue of his success at this activity, he also manages to raise beef, vegetables, chicken and pigs on a farm in Virginia that can only be described as ‘beyond organic.’ His take, in the film, on the large scale farms of the world is clear, it won’t work. “The model,” he says, “is flawed.” What he means is that conventional and large scale agriculture ignores too many hidden costs to the environment—be it planetary or human health or even just the massive cost of inputs required to run a farm of scale. Most large chicken farmers make an average of $18,000 a year, and the cost of a single chicken house which is required for a contract with a large scale processor is about $500,000; now, think about that... This is only one example, a little homework reveals dozens more examples. The fact is that cheap food is not really cheap; it is a market, like subprime mortgages, which is designed to fail. Even Stonyfield, with all of its market share and brand loyalty will collapse when the rest of the system collapses. Cheap oil, as we’ve all seen recently, is also not so cheap when you have to start digging for it a mile below the surface of the ocean, and it is the very foundation of our so-called ‘cheap food’ economy. Corn, a commodity which the film shows to be in (if not the primary ingredient of) a vast percentage of the cheap foods we have come to take for granted, is only cheap because of massive subsidies put in place by the U.S. government. Monsanto, the world’s largest purveyor of genetically modified seeds, has managed, through bully tactics and effective lobbying, to all but shut down the time honored practice of seed saving—the only way small, localized farms will be able to survive in a world without cheap oil. “The system,” as Salatin says, “is flawed...” Understatement.



The film is amazingly informative and I highly recommend it, especially its central message about consumer responsibility. I wish a film could change the way we all behave, but that’s not really up to a film, it’s kind of up to us, isn’t it?



On the local front, we are hearing more and more about local and organic, about ‘Green and Growing’, about how these big, new, and likely unnecessary businesses (do we really need four grocery stores in a town of 8,000?) that are moving into our small town are now the ones who are going to help us save the world...



There’s a new word out there, ‘greenwashing,’ that’s used to describe this tactic—it’s the same type of advertising ploy used in recent history that made sugary breakfast cereals a ‘part of a healthy breakfast’ or like claiming that french fries and ketchup count as a serving of veggies and are somehow healthful foods. They can be healthy, in moderation, as can toxic waste (OK, in extreme moderation...) Nowadays, ‘health’, the buzz word of the last decade or so, has been replaced by ‘green’. And, with the careful application of a little green paint, suddenly everyone is green, like those healthy junk foods of yesteryear, whether they are actually green or not. Pesticide-heavy farms are good for us and good for the planet because they are ‘local’. Grocery store chains can sponsor organic events because .5 percent of their sales are of ‘organic’ products from China or South America, so they are suddenly ‘on our side’...



I thought I’d joined the mainstream, and it does make me smile to know that WalMart, apparently, wants to be like me. Gary Hirshberg had a similar epiphany which he described in an interview a few years back. He said that he had started his quest to change the world by comparing the good turnout he had received at a tradeshow to an outlandishly larger turnout received by Kraft; he had decided then and there to figure out how they had done what they had and to imitate it, but with organic foods. Large organic farms do something similar: they use ‘organically approved’ inputs like Bt in place of conventional pesticides, sewage sludge in place of chemical fertilizers, then they proceed to pile into giant combines and set out to remake the face of the earth in their own flat, unimaginative image. A few years later, Hirschberg, after following this path, found out that Kraft was seeking advice on green(wash)ing their company and realized that, in this battle he had ‘won.’ Somehow he missed the irony.



I hate to be cynical (I mean, obviously); slowly but surely, people are coming around—attitudes are changing, the fringe is becoming the mainstream. We’re still fighting the good fight, just on different fronts in a big, weird and complicated war. Hirschberg is a warrior, with good intentions leading his own crusade, and appears to be winning. He is also, thanks in no small part to his timely flying of the green flag, a multimillion- if not billionaire. And Joel Salatin, smart, humble and by no means burdened with such material wealth is on the other front, a clear and honest voice who is also winning his own share of hearts and minds. So am I just a rebel? I don’t crave poverty, but I would, as I think Salatin does, settle for moderate material success coupled with the satisfaction of a life well lived. But why am I unhappy and skeptical when I see the corporations, often the same corporations that got us into this polluted, illogical system we’re in, changing their stripes? Going down dirty and coming up green? Is it because I know, you know, we all know, that when it comes down to it, the only real ‘green’ out there for a big company, a really big company, is on the back of the U.S. dollar bill? Well, yeah. That probably is it.

The Trip Back Home Part 3: 'Home-well'

I used to love catering; growing up in Texas, my mom used to make wedding cakes, and many a weekend found us toting elaborately decorated tiers in the trunk of the car, then out and up the church steps, setting up the cakes—maybe serving punch or miniature quiches, my brother and I racing around on the chair dollies behind the scenes, or pigging out on devilled eggs when grown-up backs were turned. Daydreaming about those days can easily make me homesick for mom’s cooking—or for the ubiquitous presence of all those piles of smoky brisket and spicy sweet sauce that stained the white paper tablecloths at so many of those events…But maybe ‘homesick’ is the wrong word… ‘Home-happy’, maybe? ‘Home-well’ is more like it. Because, thanks to my mom teaching me how to cook, I can carry all those flavours, all those memories with me, and unlike lots of folks without that magic key in their pocket, I can pull them out whenever and wherever I am and set them up, not like photos on the nightstand, but more like the actual places and times themselves, physically present; I can cook, and because I can cook, I can taste and enjoy all of those sights, sounds and flavours whenever I want. Wherever I am.

Over the years I continued to cater from time to time; in 1996, I even did an entire wedding spread out of the kitchen of my tiny apartment that actually paid for my move from Texas to California…

When I lived in San Francisco and worked for Millennium, I became the ‘go to’ catering chef because I actually enjoyed it—every new job was a new challenge, the planning, the organization, the ordering, the staffing, the math—but most importantly, the thrill, the excitement when the job came together—happy customers—good food—a job well done. Every catering was like a little restaurant start-up: we would arrive to find a new kitchen, new tools and new customers. We would set up, prep, organize, finalize the décor, check the ovens, check the stovetops—every site was a little different; if we were lucky, we’d get a visit a month or two before the event, a chance to look around and kick the tires—if we were really lucky, we would be returning to a spot we’d been to before and we’d already know if we needed to bring an extension cord, say, or a can opener. Sometimes, we’d have to bring along a lot more than that…

Once I organized and catered food for an event for 1600 people on Treasure Island in San Francisco—the facility had no kitchen and as a historical site, it was requested that the temporary catering kitchen be set up outdoors, but by this point, I had cheffed on a number of caterings and I knew that almost anything could be rented, delivered and set up for me. I happily bit at the challenge of this massive event; we arranged for stoves and ovens, sinks and even refrigeration—but neglected one thing, a roof, and, as luck would have it, halfway through one of the largest and most challenging events of my cooking life, I found myself balancing on the wet roof of a large truck weighting down a tarp to provide a modicum of shelter for a 10 person crew cooking underneath me in the middle of a freak summer rainstorm… My memory of this event? Pure bliss. Sure, we ran out of food a little too early, and yes, our floor plan for the interior of the event was a pure disaster (note to self, never have a circular bar in center of a room with no other access points). But even after all that, it was the biggest thing that I had ever done, and, all in all? Although not unqualified, it really was a success.

I also organized a similarly sized, if not as un-coordinated a meal at a PETA event in Los Angeles; My job was to go down a week early to tool around on the Universal Studios back lot and spend lots of vegan dollars in order to organize rentals, source products and do all the prep for an event that I then jetted out of town for so that Chef Eric could swoop in on the day of and meet all the big name celebs attending the event. (It was my idea; he was the headline, after all. And if he did meet Paul McCartney, he never admitted it, graciously sparing me at least that bit of disappointment…Thanks, E…)

Some smaller events were also memorable—a wedding at the Palace of Fine Arts where the wind carried off half the chairs and tables, a private dinner in a home with a porous floor in the kitchen that would be ‘completely ruined by a single drop of oil’… My first experience in a synagogue; a wedding in a chalet where every single food item, table and piece of equipment had to be carried, by hand, up a sheer 20 foot narrow stone stairwell…also fun at that event, a cook read the words ‘salad greens’ on the list and packed a case of Swiss chard so that I got to drive nearly 30 miles to a grocery store to retrieve a suitable replacement while my crew set up and stalled the hosts long enough to put off the inevitable service of the first (salad) course… Fortunately the greens I found were pre-washed.

Once, I discovered that an oven didn’t work only minutes before the course that was supposed to be heating up in it was supposed to be served. At that event, I also discovered that a propane gas line can be temporarily repaired with duct tape and a latex glove. Another time, a cake cutting was arranged in the middle of a room full of anxious children whose tiny hands kept attempting to come between the cake and my rather large and very sharp knife; needless to say, I have always arranged a second SEPARATE space to cut the cake at every wedding since (don’t worry, to my knowledge no tiny digits were lost or harmed at that event, but certainly not for lack of effort.) Over time, I learned other tricks to ensure if not a seamless event, at least a less chaotic one. I developed a habit of putting a pot of water on to boil as a first step at any event (whether I needed it or not) just to make sure that at least one burner was working and to determine exactly how fast—if all else fails, I had discovered, I can do an awful lot with one good working burner. I learned to always pack a bowl and whisk, and an extra ladle, an astounding number of sauces can be pulled together at the last minute (should one be lost on, say, a porous floor?) with the help of those utensils. I learned to think on my feet, to get a lay of the land from the moment of arrival (you never knew when knowing where the can opener or, perhaps, the gas cut-off for the building was, you know, ‘just in case…’) I learned a lot, and I had a lot of fun learning it.

In fact, I could tell these stories for hours—each catering was a miniature world, a self-contained ‘instant restaurant’ sort of like a theatrical opening or a rock show—the object for me was never perfection so much as the perception of perfection; the players always miss a line on the first night, the question is, how well can you recover? I enjoyed the spontaneity, the excitement, but more than anything, I enjoyed being the boss.

You see, Eric, my boss and Chef, didn’t tag along for these events; in fact, it was pretty clear that they did not really interest him. He was certainly able to, and in fact he did quite well when he did, he just didn’t really seem to want to… This meant that although within the four walls of the Millennium kitchen I was second in command, that on each of these outings, these field trips, I was my own man. This was a feeling that was in no way wasted on me at that point in my career. That elusive position, that role I had sought since slinging tacos at La Taqueria when I was 19, the role of leader, the guy in charge, the boss. I was finally wearing the tallest toque which I had waited so long to don.

When we started the branch, I arrived with the attitude towards catering that I had always had—that sense of joy, excitement—that giddy feeling that anything could happen but that with planning and luck, everything would come out fine—so imagine my surprise to discover, almost immediately, that the joy that catering had once brought me was now completely gone.

This was not a gradual disenchantment. In fact, it was clear from the very first event we took on—the thrill was not fading, it was gone. The strange thing was that I had no idea, at least not at first, as to why. I mean, it didn’t help that one of the first events we took on at the restaurant was a total dog—we felt that it was such an honour to be asked, so soon into our new venture, to be the exclusive caterer for a brand new festival that we didn’t hesitate to accept; then we were given a set of numbers by the organizers of the event based on presumptions alone as to how much we should prepare, numbers that were well beyond anything I had encountered at Millennium, that were well beyond even the 1600 people I had managed to almost feed in the rain on the island… but the numbers, it turned out, were a fiction, a hope, an idea. But, if you couple that circumstance with the fear of running out of food brought on by my experience at the island event, (we had even signed a contract for this event promising that we would not,) as well as my inexperience with concession versus straight catering… Well, suffice it to say, that in the end, that single event very nearly broke the back of our fledgling business. We continued to pull items purchased for it out of our freezer for the better part of the following year, and dreamed up a whole new list of ways to redirect an almost overwhelming abundance of frozen salsa, beans and corn… We borrowed more money to right the ship and we plugged on, more careful and cautious than ever.

But even that, for all that would be an entirely rational reason, even that was not why I lost the thrill. In fact, in hindsight, the real reason is clear.

I already was the boss.

Catering in San Francisco had been a chance to expand, to experiment, to test, to grow. But…OK, here’s a simple way to describe it: it’s like dating; when you are young and single, why wouldn’t you want to go out with lots of different girls? (or boys, or whatever, I don’t judge…) And why not play the field? It’s no harm to attempt a connection with, let’s say, a few different ‘types’ to discover what works and what obviously doesn’t… But once you’ve found the right one… ‘the marryin’ kind’ as we would say back home; for me at least, I can only assume it is the same for others… the idea of going through all of those ultimately failed attempts again; it just doesn’t sound like the least bit of fun.

The branch kitchen is my kitchen. I have set it up, laid it out, tested it and measured it… I know exactly what it is and what it can do. I love this kitchen; I know it is not perfect, but I know every nook and cranny well, I know how fast water can come to a boil on every burner, and I know how to do everything through five years of practice, through good times and bad, (through sickness and health?) and more so than ever over the course of even these last two weeks, in which we have installed a badly needed new floor, cleaned and reorganized and installed new and amazing lights, a two week period that has completely re-introduced me to this, what has become not only one of my favourite places to be, but honestly? Something I can only describe as, perhaps, a reliable old friend…. These days, the thought of going to work somewhere else holds almost no appeal for me at all. And in hindsight, it is also probably why Eric was so content, back at Millennium, to just stand back and let me run off and go.
I don’t much care for catering anymore. These days I’m a solid guy, loyal and true. I appreciate my pleasures and am smart enough to realize that for all the work, for all the stress it has taken at times to build up this little kitchen—that one thing is certain, more and more, every week and every month, it has always felt, and continues to feel like home. I have not only gotten to know this kitchen, it has gotten to know me.

I love my little kitchen, my smoker out back makes barbecue that tastes just like Granddaddy’s did—sometimes better. My range helps me make chili and cornbread that tastes like Mom’s and sometimes even a chicken spaghetti that, even without the Velveeta, almost has me tucking a paper napkin into my shirt and reaching out for Mom’s hand to say the blessing.
I have a sign, made for me by a neat guy who helped us out a lot in putting this place together, and although I don’t get to see him much anymore, I hope he knows how much we all appreciate everything he helped us do… Anyway, he made a sign for me and gave it to me on my birthday one year, I put it up, way up high on the wall in the Branch kitchen; a wooden sign, hand-cut and hand-painted; red white and blue—the word ‘Texas’ is emblazoned on it in big, bold letters. When new cooks walk into the Branch kitchen for the first time, I like to point up to it and say “See that? Once you’re in here, you’re on my turf. It’s Canada out there, but in here, you’re in Texas.” In here, you’re in my home.

Home-well.

--Chef Bruce

Starting this week, the Branch Restaurant is changing its name to the Branch Restaurant and Texas Grill.

A Trip Back Home Part 2: Fired Up and Fired…

The way I heard the story, Donny had paid for his first restaurant by selling cocaine to professors at Texas A&M in the early 80s. It was, I’m sure, just mythology, but I was 18 at the time, a bit of a wild card myself, and, far from slanderous, it made him sound like some sort of counterculture anti-hero, like a pirate, a buccaneer, an outlaw. The job was amazing. I came there from Red Lobster and from McDonalds before that, all told, less than a year of my life, but my first year in the industry (outside of my folk’s place, which had been gone for several years at that point…). Donny’s restaurant, ’La Taqueria’ (the taco factory), was the Tex-Mex joint where I ended up spending my second. It was cheap, fast and spicy and was marketed directly to 70,000-plus college students, most of whom lived within walking distance of our tiny, walk-up window with a patio and seating for maybe 30 or 40 folks inside. We sold tacos, burritos, enchiladas, fajitas… and margaritas and beer, LOTS of margaritas and beer. The guys and gals who worked at ‘La Taq’ (as we called it) were college kids as well; part-time, on their way somewhere else: to other jobs, other lives, the military (A&M is home to a massive ROTC program, locally referred to as ‘the corps’), maybe even to bigger and better kitchens… The restaurant was housed in a run-down old home; the kitchen was divided into four areas, a prep room, a walk-in refrigerator, a tortilla factory and ‘the hot line’. The line was in the foyer of the old house, a literal hallway filled with five or six large gas appliances, cranked up to full fire, and at peak service (this place was very busy) at least four cooks. In Texas. Without AC. It was a HOT line.

I never really knew Donny, the owner. He was more myth than man from where I stood. He hired me and interviewed me, and I saw him from time to time wandering from building to building in the neighbourhood... He had started his miniature empire with a burger place kitty-cornered across a parking lot from our location (The Deluxe), and when I worked for him, he was spending most of his time at ‘Café Eccell’ his new, somewhat nicer place across the street. Lots of the folks who worked with me had worked for Donny for years, moving freely among the three restaurants, and those that knew him well seemed afflicted with an earnest loyalty; they knew, unlike me at the time, that this thing he had created was a special sort of job. That a creative space that made everything from scratch, working with real ingredients, in a loose, casual atmosphere was a bit of a gift… It is, in fact, the exact kind of job I’ve been looking for, and more recently, looking to create, ever since he fired me. Not that I didn’t deserve it…

I was hired as a prep cook, and my first job was frying cornchips. I would stand over the fryer for two solid hours a morning, rotating quartered fresh corn tortillas through the grease, and frying them until they were crisp but intact…not burnt, not chewy, just… right. There was no timer for this, no premeasured quantity, just the learned art of the light but not too light touch… I would then turn the crisp chips out into buckets, salt them and bag them. Much of our business was selling fresh tortillas and tortilla chips in bulk for takeout and walk-up customers. I stood next to the flour tortilla maker, Steve, who would produce hundreds of tortillas from scratch every day out of what seemed like a bit of magic to me, especially after the year previous which I had spent removing pre-breaded and pre-measured frozen foods from plastic packaging and placing them into deep fryers for mechanically pre-determined periods of time. Steve weighed out each batch of ingredients on a triple beam scale, like the ones we used to use in science class, then mixed it in a giant 20 qt. mixer; he then cut, rolled and flattened each ball of dough with a series of practiced motions and a couple of purpose built machines, finishing each batch of a couple dozen flatbread masterpieces by flipping them in a precise ballet that involved attention, focus, an offset spatula and a flat-top grill. I seem to remember that the occasional ball of tortilla dough ‘fell’ into my fryer, found its way into a bowl filled with a little cinnamon sugar (kept around for precisely this purpose), and emerged as a perfect doughnut…Mmmm. The back room was populated with older Mexican ladies who mothered the rest of us and taught us the simple visceral pleasure of fresh guacamole on a warm handmade corn tortilla, food fit for a king. Maybe a god. I also remember that they would sometimes sequester a section of the flat-top to toast up a handful of ancho chilies before grinding them and sprinkling the resulting flakes onto fruit or their tacos at lunchtime. I learned how to work at each station in the back over the course of a few months, even that mystic art of scratch tortilla making under the patient instruction of my sensai, Steve. I could also never forget the incredible task of standing on a step-stool over a steam kettle filled with twenty gallons of bubbling pinto beans, armed with a 3 foot paint stirrer on a power-drill, whipping in handfuls of lard to produce enormous quantities of that Tex-Mex staple: refried beans. I remember what still seems like must have been a dream, the regular job of removing stems from a 25 pound sack of jalapenos before feeding them into a ‘buffalo chopper’; an action that literally required the use of an old-fashioned gas-mask like the ones you’d see on Hogan’s Heroes. I remember making guacamole, queso, chorizo, flautas, carne guisada, pollo asada, salsa, salsa ranchero, salsa verde and marinating pounds and pounds of chicken and beef skirt steak. Each new job was a rung on a ladder leading one place, and once I learned each station in the back, mastered each level in order, I moved up to the next, and then the next, and at the top? I eventually found my home, a place I have lived for most of my adult life since: that sweaty, noisy room, that blast furnace, the place where everything happens, the place where all of that prep ended up on its way out, through our hands and through a window, out to the rest of the world. The hot line. My first real hot line. Eventually, I found that space and I fell in love.

I think that I’ll have a hard time trying to explain the rationale for loving line cooking to someone who has never done it. It is not easy, but it is certainly fun. First I’ll explain what we do… OK, start by imagining that you are cooking supper. OK, now imagine cooking supper for 30 people or maybe 50 people. Now imagine that everyone, all 30 or 50 of those people, wants something either just slightly different and/or completely different from the person next to them. Now, imagine that they are all in a really big hurry. OK, now add to this, the people (3 or 4 of them) telling you what each of these people wants is young and attractive, yes, but also just slightly, how shall we put this? From down on the more ‘dramatic’ end of that long, wonderful spectrum of human personalities… and that those 3 or 4 ‘dramatists’ are also not necessarily emotionally prepared for the fact that when they tell you what each person wants that you may not be able, THIS INSTANT, to give each of those people exactly what they want. OK, are you starting to picture it? Now imagine that the entire event is happening in a room that would blister the skin off a bell pepper. Yeah, that’s kind of what we do. Every day. Like I said, it is not necessarily easy. But, believe it or not, it is also fun. The fun, as you can probably imagine, is not in the work, it is in the successful execution and, perhaps more accurately, it is in the buzz. There is a state that a line cook, in an ideal setting, achieves; an adrenaline high that comes on in the busy times on a well-stocked and organized line that is a feeling that is satisfying like few other experiences… I have never been a sports guy, but I imagine that ‘the zone’ described by athletes, or the ‘runner’s high’ might compare. I’ve had similar experiences jumping off rope swings or cliffs at swimming holes, racing around a sharp corner on a motorcycle, or even eating habanero chillies, and I suppose a skydiver would probably know what I mean, but I’ll probably never know that for sure (I crave adrenaline, but hey, you gotta draw the line somewhere!). Heck, maybe everyone has these moments in their work, the moment where everything is awake, alive, when you reach for something the moment it arrives, when everything is right where you put it, when everything is exactly how it is supposed to be. That is what line cooking is like when you are busy and well prepared, it is living in the moment, a pure moment; it is like living in a dream.

I’ve already mentioned Steve, my mentor and teacher who made the tortillas. He actually called me ‘grasshopper,’ a joke that was way funnier in 1989 as he taught me how to place the dough balls into the cutter, how to test the dough’s readiness by poking or with a couple of quick slaps, feeling for the give and listening for the sound of what he described as a ‘nice, firm ass’. He was also my ride to work fairly often, and my boss, sort of, along with pretty much everyone else who had worked there for longer than a year or so. But ‘the guy’, the kitchen manager, the chef (but don’t call him that, at least not back then) was a short, strong, eagle-eyed, motorcycle riding, ex-ROTC officer named Gil. This guy was one for whom the term ‘alpha male’ was invented. If no one had ever said he was the boss, most of us would have just assumed he was anyway. Gil, when I knew him, or as he explained it to me, anyway, was at low point personally. He was not in school when I met him, nor any longer in the ROTC. What he told me was that his entire life before La Taq had been on a clear path towards being a pilot; it had been his only dream, but after so many years spent in single minded pursuit of this goal, he had been blindsided by academic ineligibility. He told me in confidence that he had sometimes sacrificed his academic efforts by focusing on the harder work of mentoring the younger cadets, by throwing himself into his duties as an officer, and having known him, even ‘served under him’ as it were, I could certainly be comfortable taking him at his word. But for whatever reason, the loss of his dream had broken him down; he was drinking a lot—but we all were (it was college after all!), but he was also AWOL and officially, on the run. The way I remember it (probably a bit glorified and exaggerated), he never used his name on paperwork, he deflected strangers with obfuscation and misinformation, and he even avoided driving his unregistered motorcycle on the main roads. In the kitchen at La Taq, however, he was the confident leader he had been so rigorously trained to be, he was running the show, but outside of that world, he was a ghost. To me, he was an extension of Donny, the owner, a cipher, a man of mystery, an outlaw who, in Gil’s case, was actually even ‘on the lam’…
I don’t know if it was prescience, good delegation skills, laziness or what, but one day Gil handed me pricelists from three different purveyors and a highlighter—sat me down at a patio table and told me to go through them and find the best price for each product on the three lists. A managerial job, the kind of job I didn’t have again for years. It made me feel important, necessary. One day I was chopping tomatoes, striving for a perfect cut, he leaned in, said ‘go faster, don’t worry about perfect, that’s how they’ll know these were cut by hand instead of some machine,’ a piece of advice I have repeated a hundred times over the years and that honestly informed my entire philosophy of rustic versus fine cuisine. Every completed batch of salsa, guacamole, queso, corn tortillas, or whatever was a cause for celebration in the kitchen at La Taq; we all tasted everything, nothing went out without a passing grade—a ritual I have earnestly tried to enforce at every kitchen since. Lessons I learned from Gil still guide my hand to this day, he was a hero for me, it kills me to think that he was just a 25 or 26 year old kitchen manager at a fast food Tex-Mex joint, and yet he’s still one the very few guys whose leadership I strive to emulate some 22 years later as the owner of my own, much, much more complicated restaurant.

La Taqueria was a fun job, there were dozens of stories I heard while working there, a few of which I lived through myself, about cooks sleeping on the patio to avoid being late for a shift, about wild and crazy parties after work involving every member of the staff and stretching into the next day’s shift. Water fights that became coordinated attacks. It was a crazy place, it was fun, and it was, as I said, very, very busy, and in my mind, in my memory, it was not in spite of these antics, it was because of them. Those smiles on our faces were what those lines of people really kept coming back for, our good food, sure, it would not have worked without that, but it was our collective, infectious positivity that was what really kept us winning. And at the center of it was Gil, even as a tragic clown, he was still the clown at the center of it all that seemed to enforce that culture of smile.
I threw all in. I wanted to be like Gil; hell, I wanted to be like Donny! I wanted to settle into the space they’d created and make it my new, permanent home. I bought a motorcycle that year. I graduated from high school and moved out of my parent’s house. I had decided to ‘take a year’ before figuring out what to do about college. La Taqueria, for me, at that time, was enough. I mean, I also had the band... We were playing shows and I was enjoying it, we were starting to get a name, some of the La Taq crew had even started to come out to our gigs. I was having fun, lots of fun in fact, and, of course, I was partying a lot, (college!), but in my case, well, it showed. I was often late to work. Like many of my co-workers, my bosses even, my breaks were too long, and too, well, relaxed. Things were getting all around lax at La Taq, and I guess Donny didn’t feel like he could punish his fiercely loyal long time crew. But me he barely knew, at less than a year of employment, I was still ‘the new guy.’ That’s how slow the turnover was at La Taq. And then one day, I got called over to the office, I was handed a printout of my hours from the last few months with nary a single ‘on time’ arrival. I couldn’t argue with the proof. I found it strange that none of my managers or co-workers had not been summoned over as well; hell, my ‘manager’ had been my ride to work for much of this time… But it didn’t matter, I knew what it was really about. And I knew that he was right.

I have to admit that I was furious. Not because I didn’t deserve it. My ‘anything goes’ attitude towards the job might have been my misunderstanding of the over-casual culture but in retrospect, it wasn’t what was making the food good or what was helping Donny pay the bills… No, I knew that the reason it was me, specifically me, was for very good cause, for a moment a few days prior when Donny had been present as a buddy and I clocked back in from a slightly longer than usual ‘smoke’ break. When the redness in my eyes and the smell on my shirt told him where I’d really been. I knew he knew, (he was a pirate after all) and there was not one damn thing I could do about it. I was furious that I was fired, all right, furious at myself.
I loved that job, I still imagine it to be, no doubt glossed over by the filter of youth and time, easily one of, if not the best job I have ever had. And the fact is that I blew it.

For twenty some-odd years since that day, I have followed that passion that was sparked on that hot, sweaty line, chasing the adrenaline buzz of a busy lunch rush like the ones I learned to love there with a junkie’s fervour. I have even wrecked my body to some degree, trying to keep working at a line-cooking station that most guys my age have left behind years before. I have spent 2 decades trying to live up to an example set by Gil, the tragic clown, the young rebel, the outlaw, when, if I am honest, I should have been trying to live up to the one set by his boss.

Don made a tough call that day. I did some math when I started writing this and figured out that he was roughly the age I am now when I worked for him. Funny how that works isn’t it? Funny that it took me 20 years to realize that when he let me go, he was doing me a giant favour. I’m not saying that I grew up overnight, but I definitely never made a habit of taking my job for granted again. And though I don’t think I ever quite replicated the joyful energy that I felt working there, I think that has more to do with never getting to be 18 again than with anything that he or I did wrong. I did, at least, get to work there, and that is something that I will never, ever forget. Even through the lens of age, I don’t know how he did it. The loyalty he nurtured, the environment he fostered, even the tough calls he made, at least in my case, he was definitely right. And as to that rumour I heard? I don’t really think he was a cocaine dealer, maybe a little weed or something, (he definitely knew what it smelled like) but you gotta admit, it does make a good story.

The army caught up with Gil, as they do; he eventually did his tour and from what I hear, after that he went on to chef school and then on to run his own restaurant somewhere in Indiana. Steve, my teacher and friend, now teaches 5th graders… how cool is that? His patience and skills at teaching me the art of tortilla make me sure that he is exactly where he belongs. And Donny? He ran restaurants on that same corner in College Station corner for the next 15 years before cashing out and retiring… and I’m sure that lots of folks will never forget the worlds of joy, community, and taste that he helped to create. I should be so lucky and smart as to accomplish the same.

I mentioned last month that the story was ‘to be continued,’ and the story this month is the second part of a three part story addressing that ongoing set of changes. You see, La Taqueria was more than just the place where I fell in love with line-cooking and it was more than just the first and only time I ever got fired. It was also the place where I fell in love with artful, made from scratch, Tex-Mex cuisine. And it was not just the first and one of the best cooking jobs I ever had, it was also the place where I learned that making the tough call, the ‘not so fun’ call was not always the wrong one. The branch is on the verge, as you may have guessed, of making a couple of those tough calls, as well as some of the fun ones. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for part three to find out just exactly what those calls will be…

Chef Bruce

A Trip Back Home, Part one

I have mentioned in the past that my first serious cooking jobs were in the world of Italian cuisine — in retrospect, they were my second, really. My first serious cooking jobs were in the family kitchen: peeling onions, measuring out cumin or browning meat for the chili, basting granddaddy’s brisket with his rich, tomato-y bbq sauce, heating up tortillas or cubing avocadoes for the fajitas... Italy may have been my first professional home, but I’ll always come back to Texas. I learned Italian cooking, American-ized Italian cooking, anyway - at a couple of different places: Ferrari’s, a ‘meh’ place that was long past its prime, and Cenare, a great place, busy and exciting, that I’ve written about in the past... But I went on to learn a great deal more in subsequent years—at one point, sitting with Sante Losio, an Italian wine merchant who had helped to organize Millennium’s first (only?) White Truffle Dinner, I was told ‘Bruce, You must go to Italy, it is your home’.

I did, too. I visited for a month or so in 2003, and he was right... and wrong. He was right because Italian cuisine is very natural for me; my love of local, fresh and handpicked foods, care, attention to detail with traditional preparations, knowing the farmer, knowing the field... the hedonism, the sincerity... the wild mushrooms, the local cheese; even the chaos of the markets (which made it clear that my wife Nicole would probably never call Italy home) was something that was daunting at first, but then, quickly became second nature, even a kind of giddy fun... He was right, it felt very natural to me, wine with lunch and afternoon naps are just so civilized--but he was wrong too. Italians drink espresso in the morning. Espresso is fine, but seriously, don’t you just want a cup of good ol’ North American drip every once in a while? And don’t say ‘Americano,’ that watery concoction just doesn’t pack enough punch. I’m not arguing in favour of or against pasta; lord knows I love pasta, but doesn’t a potato deserve a place at the table on occasion? And how about a bowl of chili? It’s not that I don’t love Italian cuisine—I do, I really, really do—it’s just that, well, I’m Texan. I like grits more than polenta (trick question, they are pretty much the same thing)...I like okra more than eggplant (but I do love eggplant, I just like okra more...bad example...) I like tamales more than ravioli (there we go!), I like brisket more than osso bucco... It was how I was programmed, from even before I was programmed, and it is how I will always be.

Years ago, in Austin, I worked for a brief stretch in a mediocre Italian restaurant... I came there right after moving to Austin and was hired as a lead cook, essentially a ‘chef de cuisine’, right out of the gate. The sauces were boring to me, I was coming from a fast paced ‘a la minute’ kitchen; but at this place, everything was canned, pre-made, cheap, underwhelming. The owner, I’ll call him Adham, was hardworking and honest, doing his best, and (this will become relevant)... Lebanese. I tried to understand what he was doing; there were dozens and dozens of mediocre Italian restaurants in Austin, but few, if any, Lebanese ones, either mediocre or amazing. While his Italian food was just OK (if not worse), he would prepare schwarma and falafel at home and bring it in for us to snack on and it was amazing; the flavours of his home-cooking were wild, exciting, outlandish. But the sauces we were instructed to serve the customers? Tomato. Cream. Alfredo. The one exception was his diavolo—a typically spicy sauce from southern Italy; in his version, it was amped up with an almost...how can I describe it? Lebanese? Yeah, that’s it...flair. I kept asking him, ‘Why Italian? Why not serve Lebanese?’ He never really answered, but I know he was afraid; no one else served Lebanese, he was just trying to play it safe.

I didn’t last long at this place (come to think of it, neither did he...). There weren’t very many customers, and there were even less happy ones, but while I was there, in a nearby neighbourhood, a Lebanese restaurant did open—one that is still there today, some 20 or so years later. As the first of its kind in that area, it was immediately lauded, folks came from all over the city to enjoy it, and to this day I can’t help but wonder, what if Adham had just had the guts to do something that seems so simple in hindsight; to quit trying to be something that he wasn’t and, instead, to cook what he knew? Would that success have been his?

When I wrote the first branch menu, I brought all of my experience to the table. Sure, I knew fajitas and steak, but I also knew stir-fries and spaghetti. I wrote the menu from my years of line-cooking and cheffing experience, from my travels, from my reading... I wrote it with the intention to provoke, to share the food experiences that had shaped me... I carefully considered the best meals of my life and sought out how to interpret them with local ingredients. In short, I set out to cook what I knew. But over these last five years, something else has happened: it seems that the menu, with the help of my local friends, customers, and family, has taken on a life of its own.

I, as you may have noticed when I am outside of the kitchen, aspire to, at times, well...write. As such, I have often found myself seeking and reading words, advice, and wisdom from other writers. There is an anecdote I have heard from more than one novelist describing the act of writing a novel as something along the lines of ‘creating the characters and then letting them act, setting the stage, and then waiting to see what happens...’ This menu, once designed to appeal to a global palate, has obviously, over time, become its own actor. At first, by year two or three, about half of the menu had escaped my original design of its own accord and gone down to Texas. By the time of this writing? As much as three quarters has found its way south to my mesquite and bluebonnet covered home. Sometimes, much like the authors I am quoting, I don’t even feel like the author anymore, just another character on the stage that I helped to set. It is both exhilarating and terrifying...

The real thing we are talking about here, of course, is courage. Adham, my Lebanese friend, feared the rejection of his home-cooked specialties and went with what he deemed to be a ‘safe’ alternative. I have also faced those fears, even as I created a menu that I knew was provocative and hardly seemed safe at all, in the end, I realize now, I have been playing safe by sticking to meals that I knew, from my experience, would sell pretty well, would make people happy, would be easy for me to make, and would be, by those criteria, safe... Not to say that I have not ever ventured out of my comfort zone...But I have rejected any push to ‘pigeonhole’ myself, to get ‘locked into’ one type of food...but unlike my Lebanese friend, not out of fear, but out of, well, hubris.

My weakness, it seems, is not fear, but rather vanity.

In the end, Adham and I face the same demon, rejection. I fear rejection, not from my customers who by sales numbers alone have made their preferences clear, but from another more inscrutable audience; critics, compatriots...my cheffing peers...I fear rejection not for the food itself but for leaving the world of constant provocation, for letting go of that part of myself that co-authored the cookbook, that part of myself that knows that my hand can prepare a perfect hollandaise, that my mind can invent a new combination of flavours that will excite and incite, that, given the capital and the opportunity, I could foam, gel, sous-vide and flash freeze my way into any critic’s heart. Adham feared the much more tangible rejection of a business failing. I fear failure only if it is not on my own terms...

Adham’s business failed. His fear held him back and he had courage, but he had the wrong kind of courage and it killed his business. I, too, have shown a kind of courage in my convictions, a willingness to take chances, to experiment, to explore; but now, after these last few months, I have realized that it is high time for me to muster up another kind of courage. The kind of courage, and here things are going to get a little heavy, but bear with me, the kind of courage that it takes for a baseball player to hang up his glove... The courage that it takes for a player to do the right thing for his team, to stand back, to stop trying to be the star and to become the coach. I have a great crew; they are talented, capable, and nothing makes me more proud than the fact that I have helped to shape them. What they need is not to be on the same team as a star, but a job that will support them and their families; they need a restaurant that is not the success of a man, but the success of a team; a team that will go on and win championships with me as a coach, and, later, a team that will win when they become the coaches themselves.

Now that is an awful lot of sports metaphors coming from someone who may, every couple of years, catch the Superbowl, but rarely much else...(one of my ‘teams’, the crew at ASTI, used to tease me for my lack of sports knowledge by telling me stories about how a player had spiked the javelin in the end-zone, slam-dunked the field-goal and gotten a home-run...) I am getting used to the idea, that of all the meals I have prepared, the most successful moments of my cooking career were not the yuba and white truffle bresaole at Millennium’s White Truffle Dinner...or even the Tongue& Cheek entrée at last New Year’s Eve dinner at the branch...they weren’t even publishing a cookbook, cooking dinner for Alice Waters, being reviewed by Anne DesBrisay or Michael Bauer, being quoted in national magazines or even appearing, briefly, on the Food Network or any of a number of local TV morning shows...my finest moments were when Libby Goldstein called me to ask whether or not she should take the job at Chez Panisse, when CJ made it through his first full shift at ASTI without a screw-up, when Heather ran out of ketchup last weekend and knew how to make it on the fly...When Wesley ‘killed it’ on Sunday’s buffet...My biggest successes have not been what I have done, they have been what I have been able to teach other people to do...What I have helped them discover within themselves...

Courage is not writing the perfect menu, it is writing a good menu and then letting it become what it needs to be. A restaurant does not need a chef with a stack of gold medals and accolades; it needs hungry customers who are willing to buy what it sells. Success in business, I have come to realize, is not measured by how much I help myself; it is measured by how many others I am able to help.

When I wrote the first menu for the branch, I wrote the menu that I wanted to cook. I came from Texas and went far and wide, learning as I went. But I started in Texas, my first meals were there, and what I learned from cooking Texas food informed and informs everything else I have done. But when I wrote that first menu, I wrote it for me...Italian has always been prominent, of course, as has Thai food, Jamaican, Californian, French, modern, vegetarian, even ‘nose-to-tail’. I wrote a menu that was designed to challenge others but that was mainly, if I’m honest, designed to keep myself entertained. That’s a great way to get attention, but it’s not a great or an easy way to succeed...But as I have written it, and even more importantly, as it has evolved and started to write itself, it has taught me something profound... It has taught me that I need to go back to the start...

To Be Continued...

A complicated crisis.

Recently a flurry of comments responded to the Ottawa Citizen’s Food Section editor Ron Eade’s blog about the sudden closure of Benitz’s Bistro, a chef-driven Ottawa restaurant manned by Chef Derek Benitz and his wife. I met Derek only once, at a Savour Ottawa food event—and I recognized him immediately: he had the same wild, harried look I see sometimes in my own eyes, usually right as the latest bus is barreling down the ramp towards me. I do not profess to know him and I do not write this as any sort of defense; this is just my emotional reaction to the piece as presented in the Ottawa Citizen’s ‘Omnivore’s Ottawa’ blog…But, like I mentioned, it was a Savour Ottawa event where I met him, and that means that he was on my team, a local foods guy, a guy with values, someone else who is out there trying to change the system. Turns out, we are alike in more ways than one…the fact is that I gasped as I read the article, airing out the Benitz family’s dirty laundry—knowing that my own story would read, depending on how it was written, with just as much seemingly salacious detail...the unpaid bills, the personal failures, trials and errors that seemed to err more than try...Whatever catastrophe finally pushed Derek and his business past the point of no return, I haven’t got a clue, but I do know this; ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I....’

I don’t know if my business will still be here next week. At the time of this writing there are any of a dozen different serious crises that could destroy the last four years of blood, sweat, and tears that have made the branch restaurant what it has become. Another slow week and we’ll miss one of two payments, either to HST, who will freeze our account, seize whatever they can get and prevent us from paying any other bills, or to our mortgage company...who, probably, wouldn’t do anything right away, but they could, and that would set a very bad domino at the front of a long line of other bad dominos into a forward falling motion--you know, like that HST I mentioned, or PST, source deductions...payroll, our liquor license renewal, or any of a number of other creditors including our families, our friends...purveyors, artists; all of whom expect and often need for us to pay them.... Or the walk-in refrigerator could stop working, or the stove.... The health unit could decide our grace period for putting in a new kitchen floor was over. Or I could get run over by a bus. We don’t see too many buses in Kemptville these days, but, you know, it could happen. Everyone always throws that ‘run over by a bus’ line into the string of worst case scenarios; I wonder how that started? I know why it’s there; it’s a placeholder, a reminder—‘it could be worse!’, ‘You’ve got your health!’, or more to the point...’quit complaining! Life is short, get on with it!’

My dad was an entrepreneur; that’s where I got the bug. Even before he opened ‘Samuel’s’, his namesake restaurant, the place where I fell in love with this, with my industry, (and, perhaps more importantly, his last business...) he had a string of other ventures, including, you guessed it, a bus station. That idea, getting run over by a bus, resonates in a strange way to me—Some folks, when they hear that, probably picture a bus from the outside, from a distance—I was so young and at such an exploratory age when we had the bus station that sometimes it feels like I was born on one. Like a bus is in my DNA. I don’t just picture it...I hear it rumble, belch, and hiss, I smell diesel, the sooty smoke, I remember standing next to the wheels when they were so tall that I couldn’t touch the tops. I remember crawling through the luggage compartments, unlatching the whole back end to reveal the gigantic motor; I remember the antiseptic smell of the on-board washroom, the fabric and vinyl seats, the ashtrays in the armrests at the back, the bus driver with his giant movie-screen-sized windshield. But mostly, I remember my Dad, the boss of the bus; conducting a symphony of bus; choreographing a ballet of bus. Yeah, I could get run over by a bus; in some ways, I already did.

In 2006, it occurred to me for the first time that I might actually be able to open my own business. I got run over by a bus when the first dozen attempts at financing fell through, then in October of that year I got hit by another bus when we actually opened our doors. I got run over by another one on our first busy night, during the blackout, again when the Hydro company threatened to shut us off because of a stack of mis-mailed bills, when I had to fire someone for the first time, when a cook unplugged the meat fridge overnight, when the health inspector showed up during a busy lunch, when we over-prepared for an Ottawa festival by a factor of ten and got stuck holding the bag.... When I got my first complaint, when I got my first review which implied (mistakenly) that I served grapefruit! (...it was grape chutney, Anne; the grapes were from our own vine out back!) Honestly? I’ve been hit by, knocked down with, run over by, and sent to the back of the bus in some way or another every week since we opened.

But every time, I have gotten back up. We did find financing, we survived opening, busy nights and blackouts, we passed health inspections (with flying colours, in case you’re worried...) and have paid our bills, paid our bills, and paid our bills; sometimes late, sometimes on installments, and sometimes with little more than promises and hopes. But when push has come to shove, for four and a half years, we have rolled up our sleeves, gotten back up and we have done what had to be done.

And more. We started a thriving Farmers’ Market; we host three or four charity events every year. We provide an income and stability to our employees and their families. We manage the upkeep of a piece of local history, our 160 year old stone and timber building in the heart of downtown. There is nothing farther away from staring at the grill of that oncoming Greyhound than reading our customer comment cards that say: ‘excellent, excellent, excellent, amazing, 10 out of 10, best meal ever!’ Or, ‘we love it here!’
And we have managed this entire project in line with our values. I set out to open an organic and local foods restaurant, a business that did minimal impact to an environment that is even more stressed out than me—And, four and a half years later, we still buy local and organic as much as or more than the day we opened—more than almost anyone you know—Our meats do not come from factories, our vegetables taste fresh from the field because they are, and our pantry is stocked, floor to ceiling with certified organic foods. We still use natural, biodegradable cleaners, recycled and compostable paper goods, and we don’t even have a dumpster because most of our waste is either recycled or composted...In addition to those local, small farmed and natural meats, we include lots of healthy, vegetarian and vegan options, we use mostly whole grains and we even control portions of salt and fats, easy to do when you prepare almost everything from scratch—and you don’t even have to ask us about MSG or trans-fat because there is none here. We don’t have to add veggies to our kid’s meals, they already have them.

For now. Today, we are here; tomorrow, I may get run over by a bus.

Which brings me back to Ron Eade’s blog and Benitz’s bistro. The comments on the blog were what really got to me. They ranged in scope from impassioned defense to cruel accusation, and, in all truth, having nothing more than a passing recollection of the chef in question, I cannot say where the blame should lie. But here is what I imagine: Derek had another slow week. Fewer customers came in than the week before, fewer regulars returned, fewer new people saw the sign or the ads. A bill was put off, because there wasn’t quite as much money as he thought there would be. He worked harder, he made the food better, he tried a new approach, but, whatever it was, it didn’t take. He had another slow week, he put off another bill. A piece of equipment broke, it slowed service, it made his work harder, but there was no money to fix it, so he plugged on, worked around it. The slower service turned a few people who were on the line about his restaurant around—they told a friend or two, and Derek had another slow week. Each of these things became a domino in a row, the bills, the broken equipment, the slower service, and as each one of those dominos lined up, he tried new things, he crossed his fingers and he hoped. He stuck to his guns, he worked on the delivery, on cutting costs, on keeping people happy...But one day, he put off one bill too many, or maybe something else broke that he couldn’t repair. One day the bus ran him down and he couldn’t get back up.

Was this a personal failure? Should he have fought on against all odds? Sure. I have this conversation with myself every week, and if I didn’t keep saying ‘Yes! Fight on! Find a way!’ then this adventure would have ended in defeat long before this day...But does that make him a villain? No. Fraudulent? Again, no. Our culture is littered with stories of winning against all odds, of pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps, of turning lemons into lemonade....To have quit any sooner than was absolutely necessary would have been his, and would also be my end. As long as there is a chance that this company can turn itself around, I will keep trying. As long as people keep turning up, keep encouraging us to succeed, keep thanking us for doing what we do, I will keep on fighting, I will keep on trying.
My Dad showed me how to put those buses in line. He taught me how to be not just a business owner, but a good one, a fair one—but in the end, a restaurant took him down. Restaurants are bigger than buses, and meaner; just ask Derek Benitz, or, I’m sure 99 out of 100 restaurant owners you could meet. Margins are slim, diners are fickle, trends and tastes change with the wind and season. And how many newspapers have a ‘Haircut Reviews’ section waiting to pounce on the first barber who tapers unevenly or fails to provide a perfect bob? Restaurants are hard work; they are demanding, intense and unforgiving.

My restaurant may not be here next week. It probably will, and every instinct has told me not to tell this story, this truth, to let you see behind the veil.... But I get tired when I see good guys like Derek lose the fight, like my brother, like my dad. I don’t want to be one of those guys or gals. I made it past the first hurdle; I didn’t fail, like 23% do, in my first year, and I’d like to not be one of the 60% that fail in the first five....The fact is that I love this place. I love the work, I love the response, I love the people, I love being able to effect change by the simple fact of existing and I love that I don’t have to be like McDonald’s, The Keg, or the Olive Garden to do it. I love that I can depend on local farmers and not buy from big, industrial suppliers like the others. But if I’ve learned anything, if stories like Derek’s have taught me anything, it’s that I’m not going to succeed by laying down in the ditch, waiting for the trouble to pass, I’ve got to get out in front of that bus and make the driver stop and let me on.
So here goes. Tomorrow, I really could get run over by a bus, so it’s time for me to quit complaining and to get on with it. So what, pray tell, am I trying to say? How about this: if you value your local and local foods restaurants, visit them. Frequent them. This is not an easy business; fun, yes, but not easy. Come to the branch; buy something this week or next. If you can’t come, send a friend; if you can come, bring a friend. We want to succeed. We want nothing more than to offer you a little home away from home; a friendly, smiling face, and a great meal grown and raised by the good people all around you. If you value that in us, if you value that in any restaurant, then support us. Support all of us; give us a chance to get on the bus. Honestly? Give us a chance to drive the bus.
And that is what I really want to say.

Chef

Story Time:

One of the things I was looking for when I moved out to California was a mentor. I haven’t mentioned that to too many folks before now, but I did, honestly, have that exact thought. I had cooked with lots of other folks before that point, but, well, I had just never been all that impressed. I guess it was a mix of my ego, the confidence of youth, and, perhaps, bad luck...But I had never found anyone who was ‘so much better’ than me that I felt like I needed to listen all that closely to what they had to say. I have stated in other of these ‘newsletter stories’ that I was a bookworm, and that trick had allowed me the keyhole through which I could view a world of more exotic, more intellectual approaches to my chosen trade. But, to date, I had never met anyone who embodied the ideals and skills that I was seeking to absorb. I needed a chef, a real chef to bring me over that hill, to take me under their wing, to nurture my obvious talent... Instead, I met Eric Tucker. (Insert winky-face emoticon here)

I should not discount the fact that I learned much of what I know from other cooks and even chefs—John and Steve at Romeo’s, a kitschy Austin Italian joint, come to mind. John, who taught me to blacken chicken, had learned how to do it directly from Paul Prudhomme, the inventor of the technique; and Steve, who showed me the ropes on our wood fired pizza oven was a quiet, patient tutor whose first job was as an executive chef overseeing the menus of the multiple restaurants in the Comida Deluxe (Austin savvy folks will know it as the Chuy’s...) restaurant group. The consulting chefs who helped open the Brazos Brewing Company taught me how to make a hollandaise and Jason at Cenare gave me my first pair of checks and taught me how to sauté. Habib at Mother’s taught me patience and perfection as well as how to make a perfect hamburger bun (believe it or not, it involves jumping up and down...) There have been a number of generous teachers over the years who have each helped to teach me how to cook, but only one made me a chef.

When I went to San Francisco, I went to become a chef. I had some names in my pocket, not many, mostly from a (pre-internet) book of vegetarian restaurants for travelers that I had picked up at a discount book store. It was a little out of date, but accurate enough for me to know that If I wanted to work in high end vegetarian cuisine I had about three choices in the US: New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. My first thought had been, of course, cooking school, of which I could find only one that fit my (at that time) meat free agenda, The Natural Gourmet Cooking School in Manhattan. Exactly one weird, exhausting road trip later (it involves an ex-girlfriend, a night of debauchery in Washington D.C. on July the fourth, an awkward stay on the floor of an apartment on the Lower East Side, witnessing the death of a pedestrian in traffic and, finally, a conference at a school smaller than my parents house that involved graduates discussing jobs they had gotten that paid less than my current wage...) I decided that I was either not interested in cooking school, was too late for it, or, maybe, that I just wasn’t ready for New York.

San Francisco had more pages in the book than New York anyway. It had the Greens Restaurant, an institution whose cookbook stood as one of the most important textbooks in my self designed curriculum, and it contained a brief passage about a little place in San Rafael (just across the bridge from downtown) that sounded like my perfect choice: Milly’s Restaurant, a gourmet vegan destination... I was, at the time of planning that next step, a vegan, and as such, was obviously enamoured with the idea of finding myself settled into a cozy little gourmet vegan spot in the wealthy neighbourhood of downtown San Rafael...

I had also heard about Millennium from my boss at Mother’s Café in Austin; he knew a former employee who had moved out to San Francisco and found a sweet job waiting tables at a chic veggie place right downtown. Millennium wasn’t in my book, however, so I set the thought aside. I arrived in San Francisco by bus early one morning and checked into a youth hostel that became my home for the next 6 months(!) I quickly discovered that the cash in my pocket did not translate well from Texas dollars in to San Franciscan, and began schlepping my handmade single page, friendly, interesting (I hoped) resume to whoever would receive it. The Greens took a copy, but never called. Several other places did, but my big disappointment came after an hour long bus-ride into San Rafael, an ill fated trip that would have been quickly avoided by a high speed internet connection today—Milly’s was gone. The one that was my first choice, my great hope... just plain gone. No sign to mark its passing. I ended up at Herbivore, a brand new restaurant in the Mission district—Vegan, yes, which was nice, but mentor-less and too casual for what I had hoped to find. I was managing other cooks and writing recipes for this new job within weeks and found myself, yet again, unimpressed with what was on offer to be learned. Then, one day, wandering around my neighbourhood, I found Millennium by chance. Its sign made no mention of its vegetarian credentials, only my nagging memory of the name from my former boss’ mention drew the thought to mind—it was a scant three blocks from the youth hostel where my rucksack had found a semi-permanent home all while I had spent 3 or 4 months slogging vegan fast food two neighbourhoods away.

But there it was, ‘Millennium Organic Cuisine’, a sign I later found out had been a compromise borne out of a fear that even in downtown San Francisco, no-one would darken the door of a vegan restaurant unless lured in by less jarring words. The apologetic tone ended at the sign. Once inside, Margaret Mead’s famous quote adorned the mirror in the lobby “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” I ventured in, just for a look at first...and was amazed and hooked, even before I tasted my first bite. I knew as I read the menu that not only had I found my mecca at last, I had found my mentor. It was enough, all apologies omitted, words written by a chef for foodies, not compromised language for the unenlightened. It described a host of wild and exotic foods, ethnic preparations, traditional techniques that should not have been found on a vegan menu... Odd, eclectic, exciting stuff. In short, Eric Tucker’s food. Within the week I returned for a taste and decided then and there that Millennium was why I had moved to San Francisco and that I would not rest until I had a job. My resume was filed, my follow up calls made. I became a nuisance until, out of pity, I was sure, Eric finally called me in to help with a catering job. It was the foot in the door that I needed and for the next two or three weeks I would drop by or call and see if anything else had come up. It did, it turns out, within just weeks of that first visit; a lead line cook left, a perfect position for me, and it also turned out that I was not under-qualified (as I had feared) but, in fact, over... Most of the cooks in the Millennium kitchen came there through, of course, the externship program of the very same Natural Gourmet Cooking School in New York City that I had decided for many reasons not to attend—entry level positions are easy to fill if you have a long list of people who are willing to work for college credit... As the food was unconventional, in house training was almost essential to fill lower level positions; as such, most of those jobs were filled by most of these green and eager folks just moving up the food chain. My timing, it would seem, with a long resume filled with line cooking experience was kind of providential; an experienced line cook was not what most of these cooking school graduates were in any way qualified to replace.

Luck had repaid me it seems, in more ways than one: Millennium was, it turned out, a sister to Milly’s in San Rafael. Eric had moved to the Bay Area from New York after a stint at the Natural Gourmet to work for Milly’s; like me, he had come to that school with experience but, unlike me, he had decided that it was worth it and stayed to attend. On graduating and moving to San Rafael, he had quickly moved up through the ranks at Milly’s, apparently taking over the kitchen within a year or so. When the folks behind Milly’s decided to move into the city, Eric’s position as head chef of the new venture became a condition to the investors. Millennium went forward and Milly’s, along with its founders, eventually fell to the side, and the investors, Anne and Larry Wheat, took the reins instead. Basically, I had finally found what I had come out hoping to find.

At Millennium, I finally felt challenged. There was never an easy ride; every cook came to the table with ideas, every cook was qualified and competent and trained and every menu was an exercise in pushing a boundary. At the centre of this firestorm of creativity sat Eric Tucker, quiet, unassuming, childish at times, even prone to wild mood swings, but unquestionably the unmoving centre of it all.

Eric did not teach me to cook. Most of that I knew before I walked through the front door. He did not teach me how to boil a noodle or how to smoke a block of tofu, although, on occasion, he may have guided my technique or made a suggestion. Eric taught me how to taste. How to take all those techniques and ideas and to put them together in a bowl and to taste them. His method of teaching was ’no.’ Or, more often, ‘not quite.’ Like a good bandleader from my days in rock & roll, he would bring in his own ‘songs’ or recipes and teach them to us as needed, and then he would take our ideas and help us craft them. I remember bringing in an idea for a cactus gumbo, it needed another element, ‘a roux?’ I suggested...’how about toasted cormeal instead?’ he countered. Minutes later I had my best recipe to date with the aid of his one simple idea. He had that knack for taking a good idea and pushing it to the next level. Eric taught us to cook by never accepting something as being just ‘good enough.’ At times he drove me crazy; his repeated refusal to even attempt some of my ideas felt like censorship, but, in retrospect, it wasn’t my name on the menu. And, to be fair, I was getting more ideas past him (or more songs on the record, if you will) than any of my co-workers were. So much so, that within the year I made sous chef.

‘Chef’ is a funny word. I think of it like ‘poet’: it’s something that you cannot call yourself. Chef, technically, just means chief, or boss, in this instance, the boss of a professional kitchen. At one point, I, like most people, thought it was a name that was applied to someone who is a really good cook—I now know that although cooking is important, maybe even the most important part of a chef’s job, it is only the tip of the iceberg. A good chef must be an efficient manager of goods, ordering, receiving, organizing an inventory; a good chef must be a hard worker, setting an example for his or her crew; a good chef must be a good listener and a good teacher, Eric knew and, I’m sure, knows some critical piece of data about every person in his employ, a favourite song, a joke that always gets a smile, which word makes them cringe... A good chef must inspire people to try new things, to expand their horizons. Lots of people are chefs these days, ‘personal chefs’, ‘bbq chefs’, ‘top chefs’, ‘T.V. chefs’, and, I guess, by my rule of that title being one that only others can bestow on you, that they have as much right to that word as anyone else. But when you are like me, unschooled, never having gone through a formal apprenticeship, that word means much, much more. Eric, when he promoted me, gave me that title for the first time. In my mind, he literally made me a chef. For that I am forever grateful.

Eric is not perfect. He, if he’s reading this, is cringing; he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do well with praise. So, to balance, I’ll admit that he wasn’t always the best communicator (neither am I); kitchens are high stress places and we all drop the ball. He is the best cook I’ve ever worked with, but even he will admit to a baroque streak, a tendency to keep adding elements until the plate is within moments of being completely overwhelmed. He and I used to laugh with manic glee as we rushed to assemble these monstrous incredible structures of flavour, texture and form in time for dinner service. Eric is imperfect alright. And fun. There are a thousand stories of colourful histories we concocted to dupe the newer and/or more gullible members of the staff in order to keep ourselves entertained. But never (...well, almost never,) out of cruelty.

He’s also...too far away, and Nicole and I miss dropping in on him. There is not one time I can recall that he couldn’t make me laugh if he really wanted to. And these days, for reasons I’ll omit, there are days when I wish I could find some way to be there for him as well.

Eric had a successful run with Millennium’s first cookbook; so much so that they asked him to write another. Eric honoured me and showed his true colours by inviting me to not only help with the new book, but to also share a full writer’s credit, something he was in no way obligated to do. Eric not only gave me my dream of being a chef, he gave me my dream of being a published author as well.

In 1995, living in Austin, I still wanted to be a rock star, maybe a writer. At New Year’s I decided that I was tired of fighting for too small a niche in too competitive of a scene; I knew I loved cooking and that if I applied myself, I could make a go of it. A year and a half later, I was the sous chef at one of the top rated vegetarian restaurants in North America. Don’t ever let anyone tell you there is something that you cannot do.

Eric Tucker is not the world’s biggest celebrity chef. He is well known within a community, but I can assure you he is among the best. His palate is flawless, his instincts are perfect and by at least one measure, he is someone whose influence will last long past his already substantial career. a few years back, I was able to travel to Philadelphia to help Eric cook a dinner for that city’s prestigious ‘Book and the Cook’ cookbook festival...On hand, besides myself were 3 other folks who had worked with Eric and gone on to become chefs in our own kitchens...I can track at least a half dozen other folks, just from my ‘class’ who have gone on to lead kitchens, become personal chefs, open catering companies, or even to help revolutionize the industry with ‘dinner club’ style moveable restaurants. Sean Baker, a sous chef from the year after I left went on to open ‘Gather’ in Berkeley and in 2010 was named Esquire Magazine’s ‘Chef of the Year.’ And even here in Ottawa, miles away from the left coast, another of Eric’s protégé’s, Caroline Ishii of Zen Kitchen, has been garnering a number of rave reviews...Eric doesn’t just make great food, he makes great cooks...

Eric Tucker came from New Jersey; he went out to San Francisco in 1992, a few years before I got there, and within a year and half he was the chef at the restaurant where he had come to train. This year, the restaurant that he helped to start and still holds on course with his steady hand is 17 years old. I know now that in restaurant years that is the equivalent of about one million. I went out to San Francisco to find a mentor, instead I found a chef, my chef, and I found a friend. Thanks, Eric.

A City of the Violet Crown

Something about the quality of the sunlight in the spring always takes me back to Austin. In 1894, O. Henry, a poet and an Austinite, referenced what some have said was this quality of light, calling his home ‘the city of the violet crown.’ Most people think he was referring to the summer sunlight’s bright, almost violet glow; but some have speculated that he called it that as a satirization, a reference to the fact that Austinites of that day, in their desire to be a center of culture, described their budding city as the ‘Athens of the South’. Athens, Greece, as you may you may know, has long been considered the center and the origin of world culture, even the birthplace of civilization. It is also said to have a violet crown for the incredibly mundane reason of the presence of a great deal of mauve tinted marble on the Acropolis hill. But I swear, whether or not it was just hubris, honest desire, or even just willful stubbornness (...a decidedly Texan trait, I might add...) but when I think of Austin, I do think of Athens, of culture, and for whatever reason, I do recall, with startling clarity, an almost mystical purple glow hovering above it exactly like a violet crown.

Austin is a beautiful city, situated on the Balcones fault line; it has three lakes within the city limits as well as the sprawling grandeur of the Texas hill country that starts at about Lamar Avenue and rolls westward like the waves of a sandy limestone ocean all the way out to the west Texas desert. It is a green city, in both the literal and more recent definitions of the term, forethought and planning have kept it so. Laws were passed to protect trees in the old neighbourhoods, meaning that parking lots are often gerrymandered through thickets of post oak; huge tracts of land were protected and made into the broad green belt that encircles and holds up the downtown as well as forming the numerous and pleasant parks that connect throughout the city to create a second, silent Austin for pedestrians and cyclists who almost never have to fight city traffic for a bike lane. It is a city full of youth: a major University fills a large, central bit of downtown real estate, in addition to a number of smaller colleges, and, thanks in part to this, the businesses have developed a quirky, fun and creative subculture all their own, catering to that vibrant spirit. Austin’s official motto is ‘The Live Music Capital of the World’ and its unofficial one is ‘Keep Austin Weird’, a nod to that well defined culture that distinguishes the downtown core. It is also a wealthy city; the state capital is seated here, always a good source of cash flow for those lucky enough to be so geographically and politically inclined; and its youth culture and reputation for fun and quirky cool has also attracted a big, cheesy slice of the high tech business pizza pie. Though it is not perfect, (traffic congestion has always been a challenge) it is still one of the most livable cities in the world, attracting a broad spectrum of talented, creative people who come from everywhere to help keep its unique spirit alive.

I probably first saw Austin as a kid with my folks on a road trip to visit my aunt and uncle. I seem to remember the Capitol building and its unobstructed views and the exit for the LBJ library. I also remember the way that the upper and lower levels of the I-35 interstate highway split into four separate roads that run in parallels; two over and two under, through much of downtown. Driving on the lower levels is a bit like driving through a scene from a 70s sci-fi film, especially at night, where, in the eerie glow of the streetlights you feel like you’re shooting forward into some kind of giant yellow columned and starlit covered corridor. We didn’t have any highways like that back in Bryan.

The first time I really saw Austin was in high school, when a friend and I pulled the classic ‘I’ll say I’m staying at your house, you say you’re staying at mine’ ruse and, unlike in the movies, actually got away with it (...‘til now, I guess, sorry Mom...) We drove, ecstatic and slightly intoxicated by our courage, through the cool fall night to attend a Halloween party at the home of a friend who graduated the year before and had moved to Austin to live—as if someone could actually do that! I’ll never forget that night in Austin, the first of many and varied trips over the next few years to visit friends and to experience culture in that beautiful city that was just an hour and half drive east from where I lived. It seemed like so far to drive at that age, and so, so much closer now in my memory. Austin, to us, was where you went if you were a kid like me; you know, ‘different.’ I didn’t play sports, I played music. I didn’t wear boots and I didn’t rope steers, instead, I grew my hair long and, you know, got accused of being queer. I wrote poems; I liked books, not trucks. I ate vegetables; I did not ‘fit in.’ For us, for the weird kids, Austin was our light at the end of the long miserable tunnel that was the life of an oddball teenage Texan. It was our prize. The Austin of my youth felt like an entire city that was built for me, for my people; I felt that even just walking down the street I could and probably would have random encounters with strangers that would feel more meaningful than all of the polite, but ultimately frustrating, high school conversations that I’d ever had. I know it’s just nostalgia, but...

I didn’t move to Austin right away; several of my friends did, it took me a bit longer. I had a few things I had to work through first, and that’s another story. It took me a couple of years, but then one day a friend, a former bandmate, came over from Austin to visit me in Bryan. I was living alone, recently divorced (you know, the other story,) very sad and feeling very isolated. I’ll never forget the way he asked me ‘Why the f*$# are you still here? Why don’t you move to Austin? That’s where the rest of us are!’ It all came back, all the visits, the road-trips, that Halloween party, the sunny afternoons in Zilker park, the original Whole Foods market, Mother’s Café (an actual vegetarian restaurant!) Suddenly, for the first time in my, at that time, short adult life I felt like I might, just possibly, have a home...or at least a chance at one.

I spent much of the next four years in Austin, cooking by day, trying my best to survive in the competitive, glorious, and joyfully noisy music scene at night. When my car broke down, I was amazed to discover what people who grow up in cities know by instinct, that a bus pass and a bike are as good as a car for almost any need, even in the car culture ground zero of Texas. After a couple of jobs trying to build on my experience in Italian cuisine, I realized that I didn’t have to—I could cook what I actually ate (vegetarian at the time...) and even make a living at it. I lived on the flight path (...you would have had to be there...), played in a band, and even found and lost love a few more times, as youth will have us do. Like many who live in Austin, I saw so much great live music that I became stony in the face of quality that would send shivers up my spine today. I ate well in a wonderful food city: tacos and BBQ, Vietnamese and Thai, my first tastes of sushi, of Pho, of habañero chilies, of good coffee, of homebrewed and of craft beer, of finer wines, even of anything organic, were all tasted there. I became a film buff: I discovered, with the expert tutelage of the good folks at a shop fittingly called ‘I Love Video’, how to mine the depths of a director’s or an actor’s career. I became a music nerd in earnest, with the help of the folks at Sound Exchange and Waterloo Records. I learned how to dress myself, carving out a fashion sense aided and abetted by the thrift stores, secondhand shops, and the excellent examples of my many well dressed friends. In short, I became myself; I became the Bruce we all know today.

I moved away from Austin in the mid-nineties and spent a few years in San Francisco. I even travelled to Europe and, of course, Canada... Over time I found a great deal of what I started looking for all those years ago in Austin, and then, I got a chance to do something very interesting. I got a chance to move back. Nicole and I landed in Austin for a year and a half before we finally settled back here in Canada. It was and still is weird, wonderful and welcoming. It is still a place where art and culture create a magnet that pulls on the hearts of a thousand small town misfits. It is still, for me, a place that I will always feel at least a little bit at home. I got a chance to go back, and when I did, I think part of me hoped to recapture some bit of that magic, that sunshine, that taste of youth that had so sweetly seasoned my memories of Austin. But instead, I had a job. A life, you know, a bunch of things to do....

You see, for all of my spit-shine and polish on those early years in Austin, they were not the best days of my life. To be fair, the fact that they were not my best days was never Austin’s fault. Austin is a wonderful city, a beautiful city. But living for days on end in a state of hangover followed by drunk followed by hangover, with the metallic taste of bourbon, cheap cigarettes and Lone Star beer lingering like acid reflux in my sinuses; living in hovels or sleeping on couches, occasionally having to pick up extra shifts at work just for a chance at a staff meal; finding love, sure, but losing it again and again and wanting it so badly, aching for it for so long...I feel like those days, when I’m honest with myself, that even while I was being shaped and molded, that even while I tried so hard to live a full and storied life, I was almost always discontent, searching, hoping and looking for something...They were heady days, sure, ‘days of wine and roses,’ they were good days, fun days, but there were plenty of bad days too and no, when I’m honest, knowing what I know now, they were not the best days of my life.

The best days started with Nicole, the eloquent answer to that deep and anxious question posed so starkly by my heart, ‘will I ever find true love?’ The best days continued when I met Abigail, our daughter and, strangely enough, the same answer to the same question. Those Austin days were exciting, fun at times and certainly full, but these Kemptville days are surely the best.

But that is my story, not Austin’s. There was and still is something there, something important. Something tangible, something so sweet, and not just what was baked into that nostalgic batter; there is something to be found in what lies beyond and through that giant yellow columned and starlight covered corridor. As I have grown older, I’ve come to realize that the Austin that I go to on these bright spring days is no longer to be found on a map at the junction of Interstate 35 and Highway 290; it is, instead, a place in my heart, a place in my mind, a place in my spirit. It is the place where my dreams came alive and where my hopes took flight; a place where that misfit kid, where that young and lonely divorcee could go...a place to hope for, a place to belong. When the sun shines in the spring and for whatever reason, I see in its light that violet crown I feel, even if just for a fleeting moment, that sense of hope, of belonging, of peace, and that, that’s my Austin.

I’ve also been lucky enough to discover that my Austin fits in my suitcase. Austin did not become the place that it is by accident. Lots of people over lots of time built the culture that has become the magnet. People who needed a place to go, to be together, to feel included, all moved closer and closer together until something happened, something clicked, and then, after it did, they fought like hell to keep it. I guess, in a way, that is the story of any town, but it is not the story of every culture—just the good ones, just the ones worth keeping. I’ve taken a little bit of Austin with me everywhere I’ve ever gone. I’ve even, I hope, brought some of it with me here. In a way, the branch is my Austin now: smoky barbecue, enchiladas, live music—even a chance to sit outside in the sun, in the spring, on the patio. We’ve brought, I hope, a little bit of that Balcones beauty to our little town in other ways, helping with arts and culture wherever we can, be it by helping to start the Farmers’ Market, by hosting arts shows, historical society meetings, movies, charity events, or even, at times, by sitting on committees or in meetings with other folks, like-minded and otherwise, and by trying to remind them that there is more to a gathering of people in a municipality than just a momentum of years; that there is an important lesson in the hard work of creating the kind of place, the kind of culture that makes people want to not only come here, but to stay; that makes them want to come back year after year, that makes them want to call it home. Kemptville is on the precipice of a lot of growth, a lot of change, and we all have a great opportunity, and maybe it’s not as simple for us as saying: ‘Keep Kemptville Weird’ (...although, there is something to be said for that idea...). But maybe, as we grow, like those folks back in Austin who had the foresight and audacity to call their city a new Athens, maybe it’s time for us to seriously consider the kind of culture we want to create, the kind of community we want to have. We can have another Barrhaven if we want to—and we may if we aren’t careful: no downtown to stroll through, giant houses on small lots, chain restaurants and stores... Or, if we are bold, we can build on the kind of community that is already growing, that is already here; the small quirky businesses, the green space, the trails, the wealth of arts, of local foods...we can choose to support each other and we can work together and build the kind of oasis, the kind of magnet that will make us sustainable, strong, interesting and the kind of place that I think most us would like to call not just a bedroom community, but a living room and maybe even a kitchen community as well. We can, if we want, make Kemptville into our Athens, our Austin; not the physical one, but more like the one in my suitcase. Our sunshine daydream. A place to hope for. A home.

When I think of that mystical glow, that violet crown that hangs above the Austin of my memory, of my heart, I can’t help but think that the reason it exists is not just a simple flaw in my recollection or even some weird spectral phenomenon explained by a trick of the light. It is there because of people like you and me, people who needed it. It is there because we crowned her, because we decided that it should be. That crown exists, that violet crown. It is real over Austin, and it is real outside my window over Kemptville today. And it is there because we put it there.