Why would we celebrate the dandelion?
This crooked little weed—
This fruit of fertile, feral seed—
This yellow and this green that speak out Spring! Spring! Spring!
For what this little flower with its splash across the lawn—
Aggravating those who seek an order to the grass and long to poison it and us by proxy—
What moxie shows this humble little plant—
It can’t be beaten back, just slowed—
It springs back each and every time it’s mowed, its seeds sown again and again, by wind!
How can one defend against such a hearty foe?
Embrace, and buss, enjoy, we must!
This lion’s tooth, so humble, and so strong—
Why celebrate this weed, this flower, this first sign of spring, this bitter green?
Why celebrate when we have lost the battle it has fought?
Why would we not?
authentic texas specialties, amazing live music, incredible selection of local, microbrewed draft beers and locally sourced and organic foods...
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Locavore
A couple of months back, Nicole and I were present at the second annual Savour Ottawa summit meeting, held (this year) in the opulent surroundings of the National Art Centre. Savour Ottawa is the hub of the wheel that is moving our National Capital Region towards having a functioning local foods network. It is a joint program of Ottawa Tourism and a non-profit group called Just Foods, and is supported and loosely connected to many other local, provincial and Canadian efforts that all aim to put a little sanity back into the way we purchase, source, and ultimately consume food. In our area, it is our biggest and best means of participating in the local foods movement. This organization attempts to do this by putting chefs in the room with farmers (...and the media...and many other concerned folks, such as grocery store owners, distributors, micro-processors and farmers’ markets...) and it seems to be working; attendance at each event has increased as has interest and membership, with a surprising number of restaurants and farmers seeming anxious to climb aboard and help move this stuck wheel out of the mud. Much of the event was a series of progress reports and information bits, delivered in an organized and thoughtful fashion. Savour Ottawa has been quite active and engaged since its inception, just three short years ago, and I’ve enjoyed attending, participating, and even sitting on the advisory committee of this effective, smart and forward thinking group. We have gained a great deal by way of this group, but by far, the best thing has been the opportunity to meet, hear, talk to, and get to know a wonderful community of like minded folks. Folks like Terry McEvoy.
‘Locavore’ is a new word; the folks at the Oxford American Dictionary added it to their lexicon and named it the word of the year for 2007. It was coined in San Francisco by someone named Jessica Prentice for the 2005 World Environment Day to describe folks who choose locally produced foods over the high mileage options we find in most stores, and in a short time, it has come to describe a movement some folks are calling the new ‘organic’. That would have been funny to our grandparents who would have called it ‘normal’. I spend a lot of my time thinking about this kind of stuff, so much so that it actually surprises me when I discover that other folks don’t necessarily do the same. That’s why it is always a pleasure to find other people who are as passionate about it as I am.
I never set out to be a local foods guy; for me, it started with a love of food combined with a sincere interest in and love of nature and the environment. It began in my teens and, I’m usually sorry to say, the earliest manifestations were a precocious political bent, usually expressed with a passionate lecture or a blind criticism of anyone whose knee didn’t jerk to the left. Needless to say, this approach didn’t win me many fans and I eventually learned to tone down the preachy-ness in favour of a more personalized expression in the form of a series of experiments with vegetarian, vegan, and finally organic eating. My career path being what it was (with few exceptions, I’ve only ever cooked for a living), and because of my other hunger for things to read and learn, it was natural for me to follow each of these personal experiments into both extreme research in the form of articles and books as well as into a variety of professional settings. This path has led me to where I am now, cooking philosophical local and organic food in a small town—reaching out and teaching folks (I hope) about some of the things I’ve learned along the way. When we opened the branch, I made a promise to myself that I would start shopping at my door, and really, honestly try to forge a local network that would supply our restaurant, of course, and support my family, but also to contribute to the community as a whole; that we would be a part of something bigger than just a business, and that we would make an honest effort to be a part of a positive world change.
Doing that meant meeting local farmers and producers, a task that is the least work-ish part of my work. It meant going to farmers’ markets, cold-calling numbers from the internet or the phone book, and occasionally, it meant pulling a dangerous u-turn to stop and buy a tub of honey at a self serve shack like Terry McEvoy’s, which was right on the side of one of the main roads out of town.
I am a local food geek, for sure, but I am not a local food armageddonist, which is to say, I no longer think that the world will end if I eat a slice of processed cheese (it might...but I doubt it); nor am I completely convinced that there is absolutely no place for giant mechanized and centralized farming operations in the matrix of the future of how we feed this planet (hey, I love Star Trek, I’d love to think that there is a scientific solution to every problem!) But, as far as the benefits of local eating go, what I have come to believe is that big economies (such as giant centralized and mechanized farms) and big corporations (such as agro-chemical, food processing plants, or giant feedlot and slaughter operations) are too easily made victim to the violent side effects of one of nature’s fundamental laws, the law of inertia, or momentum. And until humans can subvert this basic law of nature, (God help us when we do...) I can’t help but feel that we are needlessly endangering ourselves, our fellow humans, our children and our planet, and usually for all of the wrong reasons, like money, power or ‘security’; but most often, as I stated before, simply because of momentum. Big systems like our agricultural and industrial food processing ones can turn a bad idea into a devastating one in a short time (think DDT or gene modification); ideas which seem like good science in the lab can suddenly become toxic and widespread when applied to our enormous food system as a whole. Also, when things go wrong, (think Mad Cow Disease, or E. coli) they tend to go very wrong, very quickly because the system is so big that by its nature, by its momentum, it is difficult, or even impossible to slow or stop. In other words, with each new iteration of a poorly tested or poorly understood catch-all agricultural ‘solution’, or with each new manifestation (...watch the papers, what is it that is being recalled this week: Peanut Butter? Spinach? Deli Meats?) of a systemic problem, we open Pandora’s Box; and by the time we realize what we’ve done, it is too big, too bad and too late.
You see, I do believe in the science of agriculture, it’s just that my favorite farm laboratories are not climate or temperature controlled (at least not by the hand of man) or located in a Monsanto complex, they are scattered around the countryside of every rural route in the world—and they are operated by scientists who understand things about plants that can’t be taught in a clean white lab-coat or with a test tube. The scientists that I trust have dirty hands and well-worn rubber boots; they can fix a tractor with a bent stick and a length of twine—they can tell you which hill gets the best sun for basil and which shallow spot is too wet for garlic. And the science they understand isn’t from a book with pages; it is from an almanac filled with dirt, sun, time and water. These scientists Will Feed Their Family, and then, if there is something left, they will feed some other folks, too. They know that crop diversity will be the best tool to ensure a year of meals because the bugs can’t get everything, and they know that saving seeds is cheaper than buying them and the best way to be sure of what they’re going to get. They know that spraying poison on food is counterintuitive at its best and downright criminal at its worst. And they know that if something doesn’t work, for heaven’s sake, you stop doing it, you don’t keep trying it over and over again, hoping for a different result. They are small enough, smart enough and quick enough that they do not get crushed by the momentum of a bad idea.
These folks are the scientists that I trust. They acknowledge the math and philosophy of the agricultural schools but they also don’t let it interfere with the process of putting food in the pantry or the root cellar. It is a science not simply based on knowledge, but on knowledge tempered with wisdom; science of the mind, but also of the heart. These are the same scientists who carried the world on their backs from the caves right up to the industrial revolution, and when the oil runs out (and it will...), these are the scientists we will all be seeking out, hat in hand, begging them to teach us how to feed ourselves again.
I’m not going to wait.
I didn’t want to write today, I (and lots of other folks) got some bad news yesterday morning, Terry McEvoy, our honey guy, died suddenly, much too suddenly and much, much too young. Our, and many other heavy hearts, are with his family today. Terry was a honey collector and processor, a family man, a birdhouse builder and a pioneer and an activist in many community based, positive world changing groups and projects. And, without question, he was one of those scientists, those men of knowledge, of wisdom, and of heart to whom I referred.
I was remembering that Savour Ottawa summit at the NAC today, because of him. As a fellow member of the advisory committee he was asked, I believe, just to introduce or to give a quick summary of some item at the microphone at some point during the latter half of the event. There was no keynote speaker that day and accurately sensing the spirit of the moment he took it upon himself to say a few things...he noted that this was not what he had been asked to do, but that he felt that when an opportunity presented itself, such as this one had, there must be a reason, and that it was important for someone to say what needed to be said. Then he pulled out a set of notes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a bit of mischief, ‘It won’t take too long.’ It didn’t. He spoke clearly and eloquently for the next several minutes about several topics, but central to his theme was the idea that our collective need to put the idea of ‘culture’ back into ‘agriculture.’ He talked fondly of his forebears and about how crazy they would have found the idea that in our backwards food non-culture of today a farmer could have hundreds of acres and still not be able to feed his or her family. And he spoke about how great it was that we were all there in that room talking about doing something about it, but that all the talk in the world wasn’t going to fix what needed fixing and that we were all going to have roll up our sleeves and get to work if we wanted to see real change.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that his talk that day affected me deeply. On the one hand, my respect for him increased tenfold for his act of courage and will in even taking (and I do mean taking) the chance to speak. In some ways, he helped to wake up that passionate youngster in me who I had suppressed all those years ago for fear of offending; I felt like I was being given permission, even responsibility to take the chance to say what needed to be said when the chance arose, and I’ll admit, I have enjoyed and taken a few opportunities to do exactly that in the months since...much like what you’ve read in the paragraphs here today. And on the other hand, the importance of the specifics of his message have resonated with me; both as a reminder of the importance of what we who are active in the local food culture are doing and also for his call to arms, his recipe for a clear direction forward. His phrase about putting the ‘culture’ back into ‘agriculture’ is now a permanent part of my idiom, as it now is, I’m sure, for every person who heard him speak on that (or any other) day. Terry was a true and good leader. I did not know him well, certainly not nearly as well as I wanted to, and though I had looked forward to getting to know him over years to come, I find that even in 2 short days, I am already getting to know him better as I learn more and more about his incredible legacy.
This community has suffered a blow. Terry McEvoy, a good, good man, was ripped from us too swiftly and much too soon. But if he were here, something tells me that he’d be taking the microphone and telling us that we’ve got to roll up our sleeves, look ahead and get to work.
I didn’t want to write today, but I knew I had to.
--Chef Bruce
‘Locavore’ is a new word; the folks at the Oxford American Dictionary added it to their lexicon and named it the word of the year for 2007. It was coined in San Francisco by someone named Jessica Prentice for the 2005 World Environment Day to describe folks who choose locally produced foods over the high mileage options we find in most stores, and in a short time, it has come to describe a movement some folks are calling the new ‘organic’. That would have been funny to our grandparents who would have called it ‘normal’. I spend a lot of my time thinking about this kind of stuff, so much so that it actually surprises me when I discover that other folks don’t necessarily do the same. That’s why it is always a pleasure to find other people who are as passionate about it as I am.
I never set out to be a local foods guy; for me, it started with a love of food combined with a sincere interest in and love of nature and the environment. It began in my teens and, I’m usually sorry to say, the earliest manifestations were a precocious political bent, usually expressed with a passionate lecture or a blind criticism of anyone whose knee didn’t jerk to the left. Needless to say, this approach didn’t win me many fans and I eventually learned to tone down the preachy-ness in favour of a more personalized expression in the form of a series of experiments with vegetarian, vegan, and finally organic eating. My career path being what it was (with few exceptions, I’ve only ever cooked for a living), and because of my other hunger for things to read and learn, it was natural for me to follow each of these personal experiments into both extreme research in the form of articles and books as well as into a variety of professional settings. This path has led me to where I am now, cooking philosophical local and organic food in a small town—reaching out and teaching folks (I hope) about some of the things I’ve learned along the way. When we opened the branch, I made a promise to myself that I would start shopping at my door, and really, honestly try to forge a local network that would supply our restaurant, of course, and support my family, but also to contribute to the community as a whole; that we would be a part of something bigger than just a business, and that we would make an honest effort to be a part of a positive world change.
Doing that meant meeting local farmers and producers, a task that is the least work-ish part of my work. It meant going to farmers’ markets, cold-calling numbers from the internet or the phone book, and occasionally, it meant pulling a dangerous u-turn to stop and buy a tub of honey at a self serve shack like Terry McEvoy’s, which was right on the side of one of the main roads out of town.
I am a local food geek, for sure, but I am not a local food armageddonist, which is to say, I no longer think that the world will end if I eat a slice of processed cheese (it might...but I doubt it); nor am I completely convinced that there is absolutely no place for giant mechanized and centralized farming operations in the matrix of the future of how we feed this planet (hey, I love Star Trek, I’d love to think that there is a scientific solution to every problem!) But, as far as the benefits of local eating go, what I have come to believe is that big economies (such as giant centralized and mechanized farms) and big corporations (such as agro-chemical, food processing plants, or giant feedlot and slaughter operations) are too easily made victim to the violent side effects of one of nature’s fundamental laws, the law of inertia, or momentum. And until humans can subvert this basic law of nature, (God help us when we do...) I can’t help but feel that we are needlessly endangering ourselves, our fellow humans, our children and our planet, and usually for all of the wrong reasons, like money, power or ‘security’; but most often, as I stated before, simply because of momentum. Big systems like our agricultural and industrial food processing ones can turn a bad idea into a devastating one in a short time (think DDT or gene modification); ideas which seem like good science in the lab can suddenly become toxic and widespread when applied to our enormous food system as a whole. Also, when things go wrong, (think Mad Cow Disease, or E. coli) they tend to go very wrong, very quickly because the system is so big that by its nature, by its momentum, it is difficult, or even impossible to slow or stop. In other words, with each new iteration of a poorly tested or poorly understood catch-all agricultural ‘solution’, or with each new manifestation (...watch the papers, what is it that is being recalled this week: Peanut Butter? Spinach? Deli Meats?) of a systemic problem, we open Pandora’s Box; and by the time we realize what we’ve done, it is too big, too bad and too late.
You see, I do believe in the science of agriculture, it’s just that my favorite farm laboratories are not climate or temperature controlled (at least not by the hand of man) or located in a Monsanto complex, they are scattered around the countryside of every rural route in the world—and they are operated by scientists who understand things about plants that can’t be taught in a clean white lab-coat or with a test tube. The scientists that I trust have dirty hands and well-worn rubber boots; they can fix a tractor with a bent stick and a length of twine—they can tell you which hill gets the best sun for basil and which shallow spot is too wet for garlic. And the science they understand isn’t from a book with pages; it is from an almanac filled with dirt, sun, time and water. These scientists Will Feed Their Family, and then, if there is something left, they will feed some other folks, too. They know that crop diversity will be the best tool to ensure a year of meals because the bugs can’t get everything, and they know that saving seeds is cheaper than buying them and the best way to be sure of what they’re going to get. They know that spraying poison on food is counterintuitive at its best and downright criminal at its worst. And they know that if something doesn’t work, for heaven’s sake, you stop doing it, you don’t keep trying it over and over again, hoping for a different result. They are small enough, smart enough and quick enough that they do not get crushed by the momentum of a bad idea.
These folks are the scientists that I trust. They acknowledge the math and philosophy of the agricultural schools but they also don’t let it interfere with the process of putting food in the pantry or the root cellar. It is a science not simply based on knowledge, but on knowledge tempered with wisdom; science of the mind, but also of the heart. These are the same scientists who carried the world on their backs from the caves right up to the industrial revolution, and when the oil runs out (and it will...), these are the scientists we will all be seeking out, hat in hand, begging them to teach us how to feed ourselves again.
I’m not going to wait.
I didn’t want to write today, I (and lots of other folks) got some bad news yesterday morning, Terry McEvoy, our honey guy, died suddenly, much too suddenly and much, much too young. Our, and many other heavy hearts, are with his family today. Terry was a honey collector and processor, a family man, a birdhouse builder and a pioneer and an activist in many community based, positive world changing groups and projects. And, without question, he was one of those scientists, those men of knowledge, of wisdom, and of heart to whom I referred.
I was remembering that Savour Ottawa summit at the NAC today, because of him. As a fellow member of the advisory committee he was asked, I believe, just to introduce or to give a quick summary of some item at the microphone at some point during the latter half of the event. There was no keynote speaker that day and accurately sensing the spirit of the moment he took it upon himself to say a few things...he noted that this was not what he had been asked to do, but that he felt that when an opportunity presented itself, such as this one had, there must be a reason, and that it was important for someone to say what needed to be said. Then he pulled out a set of notes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a bit of mischief, ‘It won’t take too long.’ It didn’t. He spoke clearly and eloquently for the next several minutes about several topics, but central to his theme was the idea that our collective need to put the idea of ‘culture’ back into ‘agriculture.’ He talked fondly of his forebears and about how crazy they would have found the idea that in our backwards food non-culture of today a farmer could have hundreds of acres and still not be able to feed his or her family. And he spoke about how great it was that we were all there in that room talking about doing something about it, but that all the talk in the world wasn’t going to fix what needed fixing and that we were all going to have roll up our sleeves and get to work if we wanted to see real change.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that his talk that day affected me deeply. On the one hand, my respect for him increased tenfold for his act of courage and will in even taking (and I do mean taking) the chance to speak. In some ways, he helped to wake up that passionate youngster in me who I had suppressed all those years ago for fear of offending; I felt like I was being given permission, even responsibility to take the chance to say what needed to be said when the chance arose, and I’ll admit, I have enjoyed and taken a few opportunities to do exactly that in the months since...much like what you’ve read in the paragraphs here today. And on the other hand, the importance of the specifics of his message have resonated with me; both as a reminder of the importance of what we who are active in the local food culture are doing and also for his call to arms, his recipe for a clear direction forward. His phrase about putting the ‘culture’ back into ‘agriculture’ is now a permanent part of my idiom, as it now is, I’m sure, for every person who heard him speak on that (or any other) day. Terry was a true and good leader. I did not know him well, certainly not nearly as well as I wanted to, and though I had looked forward to getting to know him over years to come, I find that even in 2 short days, I am already getting to know him better as I learn more and more about his incredible legacy.
This community has suffered a blow. Terry McEvoy, a good, good man, was ripped from us too swiftly and much too soon. But if he were here, something tells me that he’d be taking the microphone and telling us that we’ve got to roll up our sleeves, look ahead and get to work.
I didn’t want to write today, but I knew I had to.
--Chef Bruce
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Earth Hour
Merely existing is not enough. Thank goodness—what a sad, impersonal world it would be if it were. Humans are social creatures—our need to build communities and work together for the greater good is what defines us as a species and is also the very definition of true joy. Earth Hour is a celebration of that spirit—it is a chance for people to make a statement that is at once personal, spiritual, communal and even, to some degree, political...But not a politics of left, right, green, red or blue; rather, it is a politics of politeness—It is a chance to say ‘I am willing to work for a better world.’ Even if the only act is turning off the light or the TV—turning down the heat or powering down the cell—walking instead of driving—it is a polite political act by being something small that we all do together. For one hour, we all say, ‘Yes, I want a better world, this is my contribution.’ Then, if we are lucky, at the end of that hour, as the lights come back on and the noise comes back up, we will all go forward with a new little spark—a smile, a little taste of truth. We will say, ‘You know what? That wasn’t so hard, in fact, it felt pretty good.’
the branch restaurant will celebrate Earth Hour with a candlelit, unplugged acoustic set featuring Ottawa’s Al Wood and Lindsay Pugh. You can also celebrate Earth Hour every day at the branch with our ongoing commitments to always choosing local foods, organic foods, compostable and recycled paper goods, biodegradable and non-toxic cleaning products and a general true belief in the importance of community. Thanks for being part of the change...
--Chef Bruce
the branch restaurant will celebrate Earth Hour with a candlelit, unplugged acoustic set featuring Ottawa’s Al Wood and Lindsay Pugh. You can also celebrate Earth Hour every day at the branch with our ongoing commitments to always choosing local foods, organic foods, compostable and recycled paper goods, biodegradable and non-toxic cleaning products and a general true belief in the importance of community. Thanks for being part of the change...
--Chef Bruce
Saturday, March 7, 2009
To everything, there is a season...
Back in 2001, Chef Eric (Tucker, from Millennium in San Francisco) and I went to a big food event in the Civic Center plaza; for an hour or so, we wandered around various booths in our chef coats, trying to look important enough to get free stuff. One of our stops was a booth for Ten Speed Press, the publishers of The Millennium Cookbook, Eric’s first book (and later, The Artful Vegan); the folks were friendly and loaded Eric down with cookbooks, ‘Here, you take this one, this guy is good’ he said, handing me a copy of Gordon Ramsay’s A Chef for all Seasons. I devour cookbooks, and was pleased to have this hardcover and artfully designed one to add to my collection. Later, I was also pleased to discover that the format followed a unique pattern, arranging recipes by season instead of by courses. The photography was stunning, the recipes engaging, straightforward, and fairly modern, but, as I recall, it was his near political advocacy for ‘in season’ and local food selection that was the most enticing feature.
Later I heard a story about the character of this chef that took some of the shine off of the jewel, the now famous account of him physically removing food critic A. A. Gill from one of his London restaurants. As a chef, and someone who has lived in fear and awe of critics (the civilian oversight of our profession) for the better part of my career, the symbolism of such an act was powerful. It certainly didn’t mesh with the clean lines and austere presentations that were shown in his book. More stories followed. The temper, the larger than life ego, the passion; the very public character we have all come to know. Ramsay apparently started out as a professional football (or soccer, as we call it here...) player. It would seem that he brought that rough and tumble competitive spirit with him to his new profession; his breakout television series (which I haven’t seen) chronicles his quest to achieve the world cup of fine dining awards, three Michelin stars. Later series have put him in the role of the bully coach, tightening the screws on the underperforming players in an attempt to get a winning game out of them. And finally, in one of his most recent roles, the unfettered hooligan, the armchair quarterback, given control of the entire game. He is, what we in the profession call, ‘a screamer.’
Kitchens are very high stress environments, sometimes, (such as in the case of severe food allergies or in the poor stewardship of chemicals or the potentially poisonous effects of mishandled meats or rotten foods) we are actually holding life and death in our hands. Now, to be fair, we are not doctors, firemen or paramedics, or as one critic put it recently, we are not saving the world (not all of us, anyway). We are not required to earn diplomas to serve our wares, yet the facts remain: if we fail to be careful, sanitary stewards of our duties, we may do harm, even severe harm. That thought terrifies me every time I see a brigade of untrained high school children manning the line at any chain restaurant, even a doughnut shop. When I hear the tales of dangerous and deadly mistakes that occur as a result of our blind acceptance of such a system, I am only surprised that it is only as infrequent a story as it is.
I worked for a screamer once. I’m sure we’ve all had awful bosses at one time or another, if pop culture and the movies are to be believed; a tough boss or drill sergeant (or coach) is not only acceptable, it is of vital and critical importance in our process of becoming good people. But every once in a while, that line is crossed from being tough to being abusive. Kitchens, as I stated, can be very high stress environments, and the farther you move up the food chain, the higher the stress. The screamer I worked for ran a very high end restaurant kitchen. Her tirades were famous within our four walls and unknown outside them. Her ability to berate was legendary—and the terror she invoked in every person within earshot was unmatched. But the fact is, she wasn’t that good. She demanded and commanded respect though her bellicosity, but even the dishwashers knew she was overcompensating. She was good enough; she rigidly maintained the status quo in the kitchen while the executive chef who trained her (and trained her to scream) poked his head in once a week before touring the dining room and taking credit for her (and our) work. But the screaming was a device. In her mind, she was keeping us all on the straight and narrow; she probably even saw herself as a friend and mentor, but she was often guilty of the failings for which she attacked us. To be fair, most of us were ambitious, egotistical shits who had taken the job at this exclusive, well reviewed restaurant to pad our resumes and (hopefully) get a leg up to a better job. We all had nothing to gain from serving anything but the best product we could assemble and it showed. Basic food-handling philosophy, such as the ‘first in, first out’ rule were the ‘first out’ the window as we scrambled over the tired old product to tear into today’s delivery in order to get an edge over our competitor...oops, I mean our co-worker’s presentation. Expensive, rich, and heart-clogging ingredients were crammed onto every plate as a substitute for creative, thoughtful or even skillfully devised ones. In fact, technique was very low on the roster of priorities in that space, edged out by the greater good of guaranteed results. Creativity was suspect, forward thinking was discouraged, and waste was a price paid for elegance. She brought nothing of value to that kitchen other than a semblance of order; she knew this, we knew this, and her terror of anyone else finding out required her to keep the world at arms length. So she screamed.
Whether it is the fact of our duty to handle food safely, or even just to keep a handle on our jobs (or our Zagat ratings, or our Michelin stars...), kitchens can be very stressful places; but even the most jaded restaurant lifer would agree that in few other professions would such bad behaviour as is seen in this one ever be tolerated. Now, in that ever present interest of full disclosure, I have, on (hopefully rare) occasion, fallen prey to the beast within and screamed my way out of a situation I couldn’t earn my way out of. I feel no pride in this. In fact, that dark side is my profession’s (and my own) most disgusting feature. When I scream, I remember that other chef, her tirades, her iron grip, but ultimately, I remember that she was screaming to compensate for her own shortcomings. I repeat, I take no pride in my temper, and no joy; but I do take some comfort in the fact that in my worst moments, I am always careful to not be personal...no such claim could be made about the onscreen antics of chef Ramsay. And when my head cools after such a rough night or shift, my first priority is to seek out anyone who may have gotten in the path of my invective and to clear the air, to breathe deeply, apologize and remove the weight of all that stress. My screaming boss never took these steps, and if Ramsay does, it is certainly excluded from the final cut of his shows, to all of our detriment. And in a perfect world, we never would have been cornered into such a response in the first place.
You see, I have also had the distinct honour of working for seven years with a guy who in all of those high stress, top of the profession, intense moments, never (to my memory) lost his temper or personally berated a member of his staff. Eric Tucker was a hell of a chef and I try my best to pass on the lessons of his even keeled temperament to every crew I’ve worked with since, admittedly, some days more successfully than others...but such is the nature of the beast.
Gordon Ramsay has had a wonderful season. His books top the charts, his numerous restaurants rate quite well, his television series have had a good run. He is even taking over a cooking school. A few years ago there was another successful television star who was raking in the rave reviews, a guy named Dave Chappelle. At the top of his game, his brand of race-based stereotype skewering humour had propelled him to the sort of ‘do no wrong’ kind of popularity that is not unlike Ramsay’s current run at the goal. Then one day he stopped. He is quoted as saying he felt that some of his sketches were ‘socially irresponsible’ that he felt like a prostitute, that people were laughing at him, not with him. As a chef who takes no joy in the dark side of our profession, and as someone who sees and appreciates the deep spirit Ramsay’s written work has evoked; a love for the season, of local foods, and most recently, of a return to the ritual of family dining and togetherness...I can only hope that someday soon, he too will have his own ‘Dave Chappelle moment’ and realize that for all of his good intentions, he is glorifying the worst of who we, the brother/sisterhood of chefs, can hope to be...
Mario Batali, a fine chef who seems quite capable of keeping a cool head has recently banned Ramsay from all his restaurants in response to personal attacks made by Ramsay regarding him in the press, in response, he said, to criticism Mario made about his food. Ironically, when chef Ramsay evicted that critic in the famous story that introduced me to his less than thoughtful nature all those years ago it was, as he said, because criticism of his food was one thing but personal attacks were not acceptable. Batali has turned the mirror to Ramsay, and given him the treatment he has offered others, nothing more and nothing less. It’s time for the rest of us to do the same.
Later I heard a story about the character of this chef that took some of the shine off of the jewel, the now famous account of him physically removing food critic A. A. Gill from one of his London restaurants. As a chef, and someone who has lived in fear and awe of critics (the civilian oversight of our profession) for the better part of my career, the symbolism of such an act was powerful. It certainly didn’t mesh with the clean lines and austere presentations that were shown in his book. More stories followed. The temper, the larger than life ego, the passion; the very public character we have all come to know. Ramsay apparently started out as a professional football (or soccer, as we call it here...) player. It would seem that he brought that rough and tumble competitive spirit with him to his new profession; his breakout television series (which I haven’t seen) chronicles his quest to achieve the world cup of fine dining awards, three Michelin stars. Later series have put him in the role of the bully coach, tightening the screws on the underperforming players in an attempt to get a winning game out of them. And finally, in one of his most recent roles, the unfettered hooligan, the armchair quarterback, given control of the entire game. He is, what we in the profession call, ‘a screamer.’
Kitchens are very high stress environments, sometimes, (such as in the case of severe food allergies or in the poor stewardship of chemicals or the potentially poisonous effects of mishandled meats or rotten foods) we are actually holding life and death in our hands. Now, to be fair, we are not doctors, firemen or paramedics, or as one critic put it recently, we are not saving the world (not all of us, anyway). We are not required to earn diplomas to serve our wares, yet the facts remain: if we fail to be careful, sanitary stewards of our duties, we may do harm, even severe harm. That thought terrifies me every time I see a brigade of untrained high school children manning the line at any chain restaurant, even a doughnut shop. When I hear the tales of dangerous and deadly mistakes that occur as a result of our blind acceptance of such a system, I am only surprised that it is only as infrequent a story as it is.
I worked for a screamer once. I’m sure we’ve all had awful bosses at one time or another, if pop culture and the movies are to be believed; a tough boss or drill sergeant (or coach) is not only acceptable, it is of vital and critical importance in our process of becoming good people. But every once in a while, that line is crossed from being tough to being abusive. Kitchens, as I stated, can be very high stress environments, and the farther you move up the food chain, the higher the stress. The screamer I worked for ran a very high end restaurant kitchen. Her tirades were famous within our four walls and unknown outside them. Her ability to berate was legendary—and the terror she invoked in every person within earshot was unmatched. But the fact is, she wasn’t that good. She demanded and commanded respect though her bellicosity, but even the dishwashers knew she was overcompensating. She was good enough; she rigidly maintained the status quo in the kitchen while the executive chef who trained her (and trained her to scream) poked his head in once a week before touring the dining room and taking credit for her (and our) work. But the screaming was a device. In her mind, she was keeping us all on the straight and narrow; she probably even saw herself as a friend and mentor, but she was often guilty of the failings for which she attacked us. To be fair, most of us were ambitious, egotistical shits who had taken the job at this exclusive, well reviewed restaurant to pad our resumes and (hopefully) get a leg up to a better job. We all had nothing to gain from serving anything but the best product we could assemble and it showed. Basic food-handling philosophy, such as the ‘first in, first out’ rule were the ‘first out’ the window as we scrambled over the tired old product to tear into today’s delivery in order to get an edge over our competitor...oops, I mean our co-worker’s presentation. Expensive, rich, and heart-clogging ingredients were crammed onto every plate as a substitute for creative, thoughtful or even skillfully devised ones. In fact, technique was very low on the roster of priorities in that space, edged out by the greater good of guaranteed results. Creativity was suspect, forward thinking was discouraged, and waste was a price paid for elegance. She brought nothing of value to that kitchen other than a semblance of order; she knew this, we knew this, and her terror of anyone else finding out required her to keep the world at arms length. So she screamed.
Whether it is the fact of our duty to handle food safely, or even just to keep a handle on our jobs (or our Zagat ratings, or our Michelin stars...), kitchens can be very stressful places; but even the most jaded restaurant lifer would agree that in few other professions would such bad behaviour as is seen in this one ever be tolerated. Now, in that ever present interest of full disclosure, I have, on (hopefully rare) occasion, fallen prey to the beast within and screamed my way out of a situation I couldn’t earn my way out of. I feel no pride in this. In fact, that dark side is my profession’s (and my own) most disgusting feature. When I scream, I remember that other chef, her tirades, her iron grip, but ultimately, I remember that she was screaming to compensate for her own shortcomings. I repeat, I take no pride in my temper, and no joy; but I do take some comfort in the fact that in my worst moments, I am always careful to not be personal...no such claim could be made about the onscreen antics of chef Ramsay. And when my head cools after such a rough night or shift, my first priority is to seek out anyone who may have gotten in the path of my invective and to clear the air, to breathe deeply, apologize and remove the weight of all that stress. My screaming boss never took these steps, and if Ramsay does, it is certainly excluded from the final cut of his shows, to all of our detriment. And in a perfect world, we never would have been cornered into such a response in the first place.
You see, I have also had the distinct honour of working for seven years with a guy who in all of those high stress, top of the profession, intense moments, never (to my memory) lost his temper or personally berated a member of his staff. Eric Tucker was a hell of a chef and I try my best to pass on the lessons of his even keeled temperament to every crew I’ve worked with since, admittedly, some days more successfully than others...but such is the nature of the beast.
Gordon Ramsay has had a wonderful season. His books top the charts, his numerous restaurants rate quite well, his television series have had a good run. He is even taking over a cooking school. A few years ago there was another successful television star who was raking in the rave reviews, a guy named Dave Chappelle. At the top of his game, his brand of race-based stereotype skewering humour had propelled him to the sort of ‘do no wrong’ kind of popularity that is not unlike Ramsay’s current run at the goal. Then one day he stopped. He is quoted as saying he felt that some of his sketches were ‘socially irresponsible’ that he felt like a prostitute, that people were laughing at him, not with him. As a chef who takes no joy in the dark side of our profession, and as someone who sees and appreciates the deep spirit Ramsay’s written work has evoked; a love for the season, of local foods, and most recently, of a return to the ritual of family dining and togetherness...I can only hope that someday soon, he too will have his own ‘Dave Chappelle moment’ and realize that for all of his good intentions, he is glorifying the worst of who we, the brother/sisterhood of chefs, can hope to be...
Mario Batali, a fine chef who seems quite capable of keeping a cool head has recently banned Ramsay from all his restaurants in response to personal attacks made by Ramsay regarding him in the press, in response, he said, to criticism Mario made about his food. Ironically, when chef Ramsay evicted that critic in the famous story that introduced me to his less than thoughtful nature all those years ago it was, as he said, because criticism of his food was one thing but personal attacks were not acceptable. Batali has turned the mirror to Ramsay, and given him the treatment he has offered others, nothing more and nothing less. It’s time for the rest of us to do the same.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
all in a day recipe contest submission...
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how)
The question as asked by Adrian, queries:
‘What should Canada eat?’
But the answer...varies...
The riddle is fair, but not easy to solve,
In a simple reply that absolves us of its far-reaching implications.
Thus, my inclination is to answer in verse.
(rather than being terse.)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how)
I can’t tell you what Canada should eat, nor can you.
Canada is too big and too wide to eat one food...and too diverse,
Or worse, cursed with a farmer’s worst enemy in the form of a season—
Local farmers are your family & friends; and in hard times,
They need to see our loyalty increasing—
Not outsourced, and increasingly divorced from reason.
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how)
I can’t tell you what Canada should eat, in the general, anyway,
I can only tell you what Canada should eat...today...
And right here. And right now.
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
The meal is unimportant, the recipe can shift—
Look around you, down your road, maybe get a lift to the market.
In summer, mine’s across the street—
In the winter it’s in the city at Bank and Heron.
If you go this Sunday, say hi to Ross and Karl & David,
Maybe even Linda, Chris or even Sharon (if you should meet one...)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
The meal, well let’s see what we’ve got...
Meat and potatoes would be ok...Tim’s beef...or Dan’s...
Potatoes from Berhanu.
Some greens from Terre á Terre, and a carrot—
(or a pair, if you dare it...)
Apple cider vinaigrette on the greens, with vinegar from local cider,
From Hall’s or make your own from Jasper’s apples or Mountain’s...
Mustard from Janet, and honey from Terry
(come spring, we’ll make it with Aubin’s fresh strawberries)
Brilliant purple radish sprouts from Shelley
Crispy bacon from Aartje’s pork belly—
(Oh, crispy pork, oh crispy pork, we’ll see you again...
perhaps tomorrow with my toast and Linda’s jelly)
And bread. A loaf of comfort, baked by Rob.
With flour from Bob.
And butter, just a little knob, from Andy.
Richard’s cheese, of course, the Tomme...
Sliced thin and served with more of Terry’s honey,
Or an Upper Canada cranberry chutney.
An apple crisp for dessert—served warm,
Apples from Berhanu, again, or from Mary.
With oats and seeds from Bob, maple syrup from Tim and Colleen.
I’ll churn the ice cream—with Cora’s eggs and Harmony’s cream,
(at least until the milk board let’s me buy it up the street)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
I can’t tell you what Canada will eat. It’s too big a chore,
But as to what it should eat...
Start at your door.
--Bruce Enloe
The question as asked by Adrian, queries:
‘What should Canada eat?’
But the answer...varies...
The riddle is fair, but not easy to solve,
In a simple reply that absolves us of its far-reaching implications.
Thus, my inclination is to answer in verse.
(rather than being terse.)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how)
I can’t tell you what Canada should eat, nor can you.
Canada is too big and too wide to eat one food...and too diverse,
Or worse, cursed with a farmer’s worst enemy in the form of a season—
Local farmers are your family & friends; and in hard times,
They need to see our loyalty increasing—
Not outsourced, and increasingly divorced from reason.
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how)
I can’t tell you what Canada should eat, in the general, anyway,
I can only tell you what Canada should eat...today...
And right here. And right now.
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
The meal is unimportant, the recipe can shift—
Look around you, down your road, maybe get a lift to the market.
In summer, mine’s across the street—
In the winter it’s in the city at Bank and Heron.
If you go this Sunday, say hi to Ross and Karl & David,
Maybe even Linda, Chris or even Sharon (if you should meet one...)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
The meal, well let’s see what we’ve got...
Meat and potatoes would be ok...Tim’s beef...or Dan’s...
Potatoes from Berhanu.
Some greens from Terre á Terre, and a carrot—
(or a pair, if you dare it...)
Apple cider vinaigrette on the greens, with vinegar from local cider,
From Hall’s or make your own from Jasper’s apples or Mountain’s...
Mustard from Janet, and honey from Terry
(come spring, we’ll make it with Aubin’s fresh strawberries)
Brilliant purple radish sprouts from Shelley
Crispy bacon from Aartje’s pork belly—
(Oh, crispy pork, oh crispy pork, we’ll see you again...
perhaps tomorrow with my toast and Linda’s jelly)
And bread. A loaf of comfort, baked by Rob.
With flour from Bob.
And butter, just a little knob, from Andy.
Richard’s cheese, of course, the Tomme...
Sliced thin and served with more of Terry’s honey,
Or an Upper Canada cranberry chutney.
An apple crisp for dessert—served warm,
Apples from Berhanu, again, or from Mary.
With oats and seeds from Bob, maple syrup from Tim and Colleen.
I’ll churn the ice cream—with Cora’s eggs and Harmony’s cream,
(at least until the milk board let’s me buy it up the street)
(eat local, be vocal...here’s how...)
I can’t tell you what Canada will eat. It’s too big a chore,
But as to what it should eat...
Start at your door.
--Bruce Enloe
Sunday, February 8, 2009
the slip on the branch...
When we left San Francisco, we had finished writing, but were still waiting to publish, the second Millennium cookbook, The Artful Vegan, on which I had worked very hard and am proud to have received a co-authorship credit. It’s amounted to less than a thousand bucks in my pocket over the course of the several years since we published it, which is hardly a career maker, but I enjoyed the work, and it is cool to google my name and see that I am, technically, a published author. On the jacket cover of that book, I am quoted as saying that we... ‘left the Bay Area in 2003 to travel, with plans of opening an organic foods restaurant in Ontario, Canada.’ It was a dream on paper, sent floating down a stream.
That year we arrived in Canada in June, nearly broke, looking for rest and a bit of work to replenish the coffers for our European leg, for which we had already planned and bought tickets. I wasn’t legal to work in Canada at that time and wasn’t looking forward to sitting on the couch for the couple of months until we were ready to leave while Nicole picked up shifts at one of her old jobs in Ottawa. My birthday in early July was an excuse to get out of the house and visit a local restaurant which our hosts had recommended, Amanda’s Slip. ‘Just be patient,’ they said, ‘the food takes a while, but it’s worth it.’
As we sat down, we drank in the atmosphere. At first glance, the weird hybrid space was part coffee shop, part opium den, and part living room, circa 1975. Or 1935. Or some time in the renaissance. It’s tough to say. On the wainscoting above the well trodden, pale wooden floors, the decorators expressed their love for the waters of the Rideau’s branch with bold trowel effects and gobs of paint ranging from light spring trickle to deep ocean blue, and while other primary colors like bright red appeared in splashes on the door and occasional window frame, the bulk of the room was an ivory, or a smoky white, which had lost its gloss and now served as a polite backdrop for the mismatched pieces of art littered about the tall walls in various states of frame, fabric or papier mache. At the front of the room lurched an old piano with an exposed soundboard which had undergone the same broad strokes of blue and red paint; a shelf unit by the door was groaning under the weight of a community’s thousand wildly divergent flyers; while another by the bar was bursting with a year’s worth of the daily news. Scattered about the room and surrounded by creaky, but comfortable looking antique ladder back chairs, were a collection of round tables that were hand stamped with a textured effect before being painted, and were now beginning to wear in a way that gave them a timeless quality. The tables were topped with wine bottles decorated by a waterfall of wax, crested with tall candles, which were lit this evening in the dim room, to magnificent effect. After a few moments, we began to realize that the long, tall and narrow queenly manor of a room was crowned by a shy masterpiece. A hundred plus year old pressed tin ceiling was lovingly preserved, with only a bit of smoke outlining her delicious curves on the patch over the well used copper topped bar. Cardboard stars hung on string from various points in an effort to draw the eyes up to drink in her beauty. Small plates of an Asian pattern added to the air of mystique and the forks and knives were heavy and long. The bar was cluttered with a treasure trove of mismatched caffeination paraphernalia and the beer taps were of local brews without familiar names. Even the liquor bottles, though some were familiar, shared space with the arcane and unusual. The room echoed and rang with music that seeped out from behind the bar before creeping from Tom Waits to amateurish folk; it was unrecognizable and often weird. Overall the effect was of rebellion; refusal to conform, no concession to the mainstream taste, no attempt to pander. The menu, which arrived with the warm and instantly personable waitress, was a long sheet written in all capitals by a scrawling hand, unabashed in its misspellings and scratched out lines. ‘Amanda’s Slip’, read the oval graphic on the top left of the menu which was rubber stamped in its two tones of blood red and navy blue complete with its iconic riverboat from whose dock this bistro had borrowed its name.
I remember the words ‘house made’ being used more than once; I remember that there were several salads and that several items were described as being ‘Of the Day’ and ‘Market Priced.’ There was a ubiquitous garden salad, a pizza, and a steak of some sort, a mixed grill and a curry; a vegetarian item, an antipasto plate. I remember that the chicken was described as local and grain fed. After delivering the menu, our waitress had the unenviable job of reciting a paragraph of interesting descriptions in order to decode those ‘of the day’ items.
I was enchanted. This ‘little restaurant that could’ seemed instantly like home. I said to Nicole, ‘This is it, this is exactly the kind of place I want to open some day.’ My sister-in-law was right, the service was really slow. In fact, we waited over an hour between our salads and our entrees, and we were, to my memory, the only ones in the place... But even so, the food was, as promised, worth the wait. After dinner, we met A.J. for the first time while he was having a smoke in the alley as we walked back to our car. A.J. stands about six five and is proportional in breadth of shoulder and chest. He is known to wear a variety of interesting mustaches, berets, and occasional ponytails; in his customary chef coat and shorts and with his broad smile under searching eyes, he is at once flamboyant and memorable, yet easily approachable in a way that speaks to his obvious love of fun. Folks who dined or enjoyed an evening of music at ‘the Slip’ inevitably remember this lively character, his lurching, improbable, and joyful dancing, his bear-hugs and generous spirit, so much so that two years into our own venture here, we are still often asked about his whereabouts and activities.
On meeting him, I confessed to my trade and my status and offered him a free set of hands for the duration of my visit. Within the week, I was a happy addition to his kitchen and quite enjoying the freedom and fun and adventure that this exotic little bistro had to offer. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I enjoyed it even more than I should have, but that’s another story. The point is, Amanda’s Slip was a great fit for me. I was coming off 10 years of vegetarian cooking and A.J. was an expert at handling meat. I was a competent self starter who needed little training, and A.J. was tired and needed a break. I was versed in various ethnic and classic techniques, as was AJ, and able to communicate not only about the nuts and bolts of his cuisine, but about the philosophy behind it. A.J. was thoughtful, even spiritual in his reverence for local foods and businesses and building community, and I was in complete alignment (if a bit more geeky about the organic thing) for all of these things. For those reasons and more, I was and am deeply affected by my time with him in that tiny kitchen. When the time came for us to go off to Europe, he pulled out all the stops; he roasted a whole pork shoulder that Nicole and I still talk about, he closed the restaurant to the public, set a long table down the middle of the room for us, our family and our friends we had made in those few short months and gave us a night we will always remember. Or will always remember forgetting, or something like that. I am especially mindful that it was the last night I saw Wayne Grimm, a fixture at ‘the Slip’ and a character rivaling A.J. in his memorability. Before we came back to live in Canada, Wayne died, after a long, strange, and amazing life, and was found, not by his family or by his neighbor, but by his chef. That’s the kind of community that A.J. built; in Wayne’s memory, and to honor that community, his picture still hangs by his favorite seat at the bar.
Nicole and I left for Europe in the fall, then moved on to Texas, to work and to save and to decide where we would settle, and often, we would talk about that little restaurant in Kemptville, with the fun people and the best parties.
Amanda’s Slip had an anniversary in the summer, July, and threw a big blowout every year with bands beginning in the afternoon, piles of food, a truckload of oysters, and all the chairs and tables pushed out of the way for a giant dance floor. We attended our first, which was A.J.’s 4th, the summer that I worked with him. When we returned to Canada, it was just in time for his sixth year, and we timed our arrival in Ottawa to coincide with the unforgettable event. A.J. was characteristically thrilled by our return and greeted us each in turn with one of his signature back stretching bear-hugs. I was not surprised to find out that he was anxious to have Nicole and I come back to work as soon as possible...his mom even helped us find a house, a rental right on the Rideau, with a dock and access to a patch of forest teeming with wild mushrooms and fiddleheads. I felt like we had won the lottery.
Work at ‘the Slip’ had its rewards; the community of friends and artists and musicians which populated its cheery space was always a source of entertainment and stories. But it had its share of difficulties as well. A.J. was a charismatic character, but over time became increasingly harder to work with; I say this not to denigrate him, I love him dearly, but I prefer him as a friend than as a co-worker or boss. I think we both agree that I was also ready, in more ways than one, to have my own kitchen, and shake off the bonds of attempting, night after night, to put forth a version of someone else’s (no matter how philosophically compatible) vision. I left after New Year’s Eve. Nicole, at the time was supporting us both and moved on as well, to work in a busier restaurant in the next town. While I was still waiting for legal work status, I did stints in a couple of other local restaurants, helping friends I had made through Amanda’s Slip and Nicole’s new job when they needed an extra set of hands, but mostly, I stayed home and worked out some ideas, food-wise, music-wise, and in my heart, searching for what I hoped was my calling.
That year we learned that our landlord had decided to sell the idyllic cottage that had become our home. Sad that we would have to move, we were pushed, by friends and family, to see if we could purchase the cottage ourselves. I honestly thought the whole idea was a joke; I was an unemployed, semi-legal new immigrant supported by a waitress, and I was buying a house? Seriously? What bank would look twice at that? Well, (thank you ‘Sub-Prime’ lending...) guess what? We actually found a mortgage. I was stunned. We both were. For about a month, as the gears of the financial apparatus around us began to move, it looked very much like we were going to buy, even in our precarious financial status, a home. But then, at the last minute, our seller wavered. We were sad, as we had come to quite like our riverside home, but we still felt amazed and empowered in knowing that we were apparently more financially flexible than we had previously thought.
Soon after the house deal fell through, we heard that Amanda’s Slip was for sale. My first reaction was no...no way...the challenges were too great, it was too much work...it was too hard a legacy to shake off or to try to follow...it was too weird, scary, whatever. But then, over the course of a couple of weeks, a new idea began to take shape. I realized, slowly, how easy the work at ‘the Slip’ had been for me; I was confident that I could handle the kitchen myself, which had always been a criteria I had set in my hope for a restaurant I would own. I realized that as crazy as the idea of getting financing for our house had been, we had still managed to find a loan. I knew, deep down, that Nicole and I could not only run a small restaurant, but run it well, and that finally, finally, I could do things my way. And I remembered that first night in Amanda’s Slip, when I said ‘this is exactly the kind of restaurant I want to own someday.’ And then, there it was. No matter how I looked at it, it suddenly made perfect sense.
Nicole and I talked, argued, disagreed, and then finally agreed and rolled up our sleeves. I decided that I was going to make this happen, no matter the cost.
For some reason, the mortgage folks we had assembled for the home purchase were not nearly as excited about a 130 year old stone building with a restaurant on the ground floor, a leaky basement and an apartment above, but we were determined. When one person couldn’t help us, we moved on to the next.
Around this time, A.J. was planning Amanda’s Slip’s 7th anniversary party; Nicole and I wouldn’t have missed it, and A.J. welcomed us as though we had never left. We all knew that I was pooling resources to make this purchase, and that as of yet, had not met with success. What I didn’t know was that I was not alone.
After we left A.J.’s employ earlier that year, he had hired a waiter of outstanding caliber. A smart, personable, experienced, and even-keeled guy named Brent Kelaher, who had left behind a career in restaurant management for what he thought was the stability of a corporate job with Bell. By now, we all know how that story goes, even more so now than back then, but suffice it to say that he was lucky to have a trade to fall back on; a trade for which his aptitude was matched only by his passion. He was even more affected by A.J.’s decision to sell, as it would be hitting him closer to home, and had also begun to wonder if this situation was, in fact, an opportunity.
I was first introduced to Brent after a morning of harvesting wild garlic from a neighbor’s back 40; I knew A.J. would appreciate the gift, so I wandered in the kitchen door, wild treasures in hand, bearded, in my grubby boots, flannel and jeans. A.J. had told Brent about the chef who had worked with him the previous year, and there I was, emerging from the woods with nature’s bounty, like a character in a novel. When we were reintroduced at the anniversary party, it was an introduction of intent: ‘This guy also wants to buy the restaurant. You know what, you two should talk.’ Brent and I hit it off from the start. His obvious passion was a mirror of my own and after a brief but serious conversation, we came to realize that our shared vision could actually succeed. I think we also realized right away that our credit pooled together would be more formidable than his and Jenn’s or Nicole’s and mine alone. In July, it will have been three years since that meeting, and I have never had cause to doubt my instincts from that first conversation.
It took a couple of months from there, but with more than a little help from all of our family and friends, we have managed to do what I had hoped, dreamed, and set out to do when I wrote that fanciful bio for the book jacket back in 2003. Very few people get the chance to live their dream and we wake up every day, thankful that we are among the lucky ones. That dream on paper went floating down a stream in California, but found its way to a riverboat’s slip in Kemptville on a branch of the Rideau River, or, the branch, as we call it here.
That year we arrived in Canada in June, nearly broke, looking for rest and a bit of work to replenish the coffers for our European leg, for which we had already planned and bought tickets. I wasn’t legal to work in Canada at that time and wasn’t looking forward to sitting on the couch for the couple of months until we were ready to leave while Nicole picked up shifts at one of her old jobs in Ottawa. My birthday in early July was an excuse to get out of the house and visit a local restaurant which our hosts had recommended, Amanda’s Slip. ‘Just be patient,’ they said, ‘the food takes a while, but it’s worth it.’
As we sat down, we drank in the atmosphere. At first glance, the weird hybrid space was part coffee shop, part opium den, and part living room, circa 1975. Or 1935. Or some time in the renaissance. It’s tough to say. On the wainscoting above the well trodden, pale wooden floors, the decorators expressed their love for the waters of the Rideau’s branch with bold trowel effects and gobs of paint ranging from light spring trickle to deep ocean blue, and while other primary colors like bright red appeared in splashes on the door and occasional window frame, the bulk of the room was an ivory, or a smoky white, which had lost its gloss and now served as a polite backdrop for the mismatched pieces of art littered about the tall walls in various states of frame, fabric or papier mache. At the front of the room lurched an old piano with an exposed soundboard which had undergone the same broad strokes of blue and red paint; a shelf unit by the door was groaning under the weight of a community’s thousand wildly divergent flyers; while another by the bar was bursting with a year’s worth of the daily news. Scattered about the room and surrounded by creaky, but comfortable looking antique ladder back chairs, were a collection of round tables that were hand stamped with a textured effect before being painted, and were now beginning to wear in a way that gave them a timeless quality. The tables were topped with wine bottles decorated by a waterfall of wax, crested with tall candles, which were lit this evening in the dim room, to magnificent effect. After a few moments, we began to realize that the long, tall and narrow queenly manor of a room was crowned by a shy masterpiece. A hundred plus year old pressed tin ceiling was lovingly preserved, with only a bit of smoke outlining her delicious curves on the patch over the well used copper topped bar. Cardboard stars hung on string from various points in an effort to draw the eyes up to drink in her beauty. Small plates of an Asian pattern added to the air of mystique and the forks and knives were heavy and long. The bar was cluttered with a treasure trove of mismatched caffeination paraphernalia and the beer taps were of local brews without familiar names. Even the liquor bottles, though some were familiar, shared space with the arcane and unusual. The room echoed and rang with music that seeped out from behind the bar before creeping from Tom Waits to amateurish folk; it was unrecognizable and often weird. Overall the effect was of rebellion; refusal to conform, no concession to the mainstream taste, no attempt to pander. The menu, which arrived with the warm and instantly personable waitress, was a long sheet written in all capitals by a scrawling hand, unabashed in its misspellings and scratched out lines. ‘Amanda’s Slip’, read the oval graphic on the top left of the menu which was rubber stamped in its two tones of blood red and navy blue complete with its iconic riverboat from whose dock this bistro had borrowed its name.
I remember the words ‘house made’ being used more than once; I remember that there were several salads and that several items were described as being ‘Of the Day’ and ‘Market Priced.’ There was a ubiquitous garden salad, a pizza, and a steak of some sort, a mixed grill and a curry; a vegetarian item, an antipasto plate. I remember that the chicken was described as local and grain fed. After delivering the menu, our waitress had the unenviable job of reciting a paragraph of interesting descriptions in order to decode those ‘of the day’ items.
I was enchanted. This ‘little restaurant that could’ seemed instantly like home. I said to Nicole, ‘This is it, this is exactly the kind of place I want to open some day.’ My sister-in-law was right, the service was really slow. In fact, we waited over an hour between our salads and our entrees, and we were, to my memory, the only ones in the place... But even so, the food was, as promised, worth the wait. After dinner, we met A.J. for the first time while he was having a smoke in the alley as we walked back to our car. A.J. stands about six five and is proportional in breadth of shoulder and chest. He is known to wear a variety of interesting mustaches, berets, and occasional ponytails; in his customary chef coat and shorts and with his broad smile under searching eyes, he is at once flamboyant and memorable, yet easily approachable in a way that speaks to his obvious love of fun. Folks who dined or enjoyed an evening of music at ‘the Slip’ inevitably remember this lively character, his lurching, improbable, and joyful dancing, his bear-hugs and generous spirit, so much so that two years into our own venture here, we are still often asked about his whereabouts and activities.
On meeting him, I confessed to my trade and my status and offered him a free set of hands for the duration of my visit. Within the week, I was a happy addition to his kitchen and quite enjoying the freedom and fun and adventure that this exotic little bistro had to offer. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I enjoyed it even more than I should have, but that’s another story. The point is, Amanda’s Slip was a great fit for me. I was coming off 10 years of vegetarian cooking and A.J. was an expert at handling meat. I was a competent self starter who needed little training, and A.J. was tired and needed a break. I was versed in various ethnic and classic techniques, as was AJ, and able to communicate not only about the nuts and bolts of his cuisine, but about the philosophy behind it. A.J. was thoughtful, even spiritual in his reverence for local foods and businesses and building community, and I was in complete alignment (if a bit more geeky about the organic thing) for all of these things. For those reasons and more, I was and am deeply affected by my time with him in that tiny kitchen. When the time came for us to go off to Europe, he pulled out all the stops; he roasted a whole pork shoulder that Nicole and I still talk about, he closed the restaurant to the public, set a long table down the middle of the room for us, our family and our friends we had made in those few short months and gave us a night we will always remember. Or will always remember forgetting, or something like that. I am especially mindful that it was the last night I saw Wayne Grimm, a fixture at ‘the Slip’ and a character rivaling A.J. in his memorability. Before we came back to live in Canada, Wayne died, after a long, strange, and amazing life, and was found, not by his family or by his neighbor, but by his chef. That’s the kind of community that A.J. built; in Wayne’s memory, and to honor that community, his picture still hangs by his favorite seat at the bar.
Nicole and I left for Europe in the fall, then moved on to Texas, to work and to save and to decide where we would settle, and often, we would talk about that little restaurant in Kemptville, with the fun people and the best parties.
Amanda’s Slip had an anniversary in the summer, July, and threw a big blowout every year with bands beginning in the afternoon, piles of food, a truckload of oysters, and all the chairs and tables pushed out of the way for a giant dance floor. We attended our first, which was A.J.’s 4th, the summer that I worked with him. When we returned to Canada, it was just in time for his sixth year, and we timed our arrival in Ottawa to coincide with the unforgettable event. A.J. was characteristically thrilled by our return and greeted us each in turn with one of his signature back stretching bear-hugs. I was not surprised to find out that he was anxious to have Nicole and I come back to work as soon as possible...his mom even helped us find a house, a rental right on the Rideau, with a dock and access to a patch of forest teeming with wild mushrooms and fiddleheads. I felt like we had won the lottery.
Work at ‘the Slip’ had its rewards; the community of friends and artists and musicians which populated its cheery space was always a source of entertainment and stories. But it had its share of difficulties as well. A.J. was a charismatic character, but over time became increasingly harder to work with; I say this not to denigrate him, I love him dearly, but I prefer him as a friend than as a co-worker or boss. I think we both agree that I was also ready, in more ways than one, to have my own kitchen, and shake off the bonds of attempting, night after night, to put forth a version of someone else’s (no matter how philosophically compatible) vision. I left after New Year’s Eve. Nicole, at the time was supporting us both and moved on as well, to work in a busier restaurant in the next town. While I was still waiting for legal work status, I did stints in a couple of other local restaurants, helping friends I had made through Amanda’s Slip and Nicole’s new job when they needed an extra set of hands, but mostly, I stayed home and worked out some ideas, food-wise, music-wise, and in my heart, searching for what I hoped was my calling.
That year we learned that our landlord had decided to sell the idyllic cottage that had become our home. Sad that we would have to move, we were pushed, by friends and family, to see if we could purchase the cottage ourselves. I honestly thought the whole idea was a joke; I was an unemployed, semi-legal new immigrant supported by a waitress, and I was buying a house? Seriously? What bank would look twice at that? Well, (thank you ‘Sub-Prime’ lending...) guess what? We actually found a mortgage. I was stunned. We both were. For about a month, as the gears of the financial apparatus around us began to move, it looked very much like we were going to buy, even in our precarious financial status, a home. But then, at the last minute, our seller wavered. We were sad, as we had come to quite like our riverside home, but we still felt amazed and empowered in knowing that we were apparently more financially flexible than we had previously thought.
Soon after the house deal fell through, we heard that Amanda’s Slip was for sale. My first reaction was no...no way...the challenges were too great, it was too much work...it was too hard a legacy to shake off or to try to follow...it was too weird, scary, whatever. But then, over the course of a couple of weeks, a new idea began to take shape. I realized, slowly, how easy the work at ‘the Slip’ had been for me; I was confident that I could handle the kitchen myself, which had always been a criteria I had set in my hope for a restaurant I would own. I realized that as crazy as the idea of getting financing for our house had been, we had still managed to find a loan. I knew, deep down, that Nicole and I could not only run a small restaurant, but run it well, and that finally, finally, I could do things my way. And I remembered that first night in Amanda’s Slip, when I said ‘this is exactly the kind of restaurant I want to own someday.’ And then, there it was. No matter how I looked at it, it suddenly made perfect sense.
Nicole and I talked, argued, disagreed, and then finally agreed and rolled up our sleeves. I decided that I was going to make this happen, no matter the cost.
For some reason, the mortgage folks we had assembled for the home purchase were not nearly as excited about a 130 year old stone building with a restaurant on the ground floor, a leaky basement and an apartment above, but we were determined. When one person couldn’t help us, we moved on to the next.
Around this time, A.J. was planning Amanda’s Slip’s 7th anniversary party; Nicole and I wouldn’t have missed it, and A.J. welcomed us as though we had never left. We all knew that I was pooling resources to make this purchase, and that as of yet, had not met with success. What I didn’t know was that I was not alone.
After we left A.J.’s employ earlier that year, he had hired a waiter of outstanding caliber. A smart, personable, experienced, and even-keeled guy named Brent Kelaher, who had left behind a career in restaurant management for what he thought was the stability of a corporate job with Bell. By now, we all know how that story goes, even more so now than back then, but suffice it to say that he was lucky to have a trade to fall back on; a trade for which his aptitude was matched only by his passion. He was even more affected by A.J.’s decision to sell, as it would be hitting him closer to home, and had also begun to wonder if this situation was, in fact, an opportunity.
I was first introduced to Brent after a morning of harvesting wild garlic from a neighbor’s back 40; I knew A.J. would appreciate the gift, so I wandered in the kitchen door, wild treasures in hand, bearded, in my grubby boots, flannel and jeans. A.J. had told Brent about the chef who had worked with him the previous year, and there I was, emerging from the woods with nature’s bounty, like a character in a novel. When we were reintroduced at the anniversary party, it was an introduction of intent: ‘This guy also wants to buy the restaurant. You know what, you two should talk.’ Brent and I hit it off from the start. His obvious passion was a mirror of my own and after a brief but serious conversation, we came to realize that our shared vision could actually succeed. I think we also realized right away that our credit pooled together would be more formidable than his and Jenn’s or Nicole’s and mine alone. In July, it will have been three years since that meeting, and I have never had cause to doubt my instincts from that first conversation.
It took a couple of months from there, but with more than a little help from all of our family and friends, we have managed to do what I had hoped, dreamed, and set out to do when I wrote that fanciful bio for the book jacket back in 2003. Very few people get the chance to live their dream and we wake up every day, thankful that we are among the lucky ones. That dream on paper went floating down a stream in California, but found its way to a riverboat’s slip in Kemptville on a branch of the Rideau River, or, the branch, as we call it here.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Go Ask Alice...
I didn’t hear about Alice Waters until after I got to San Francisco. It was a little embarrassing at the time, but in retrospect, it seems appropriate. I wasn’t supposed to be dating, but anyway, there I was, talking with a girl I’d met...well...in a bar, and telling her about my crazy decision to move out to San Francisco (on a bus, with just a rucksack) to become a chef. She seemed impressed, and then said in that knowing mix of world weariness and mild condescension which is unique to big city folk, ‘Oh, you must have moved out here because of Alice.’ I didn’t know it yet, but she was right. My urge was to say ‘Of course’ for fear that a mere legal aide might realize she knew more about this mysterious and apparently important figure than an actual (if a bit naïve) aspiring chef, but (thank goodness) I was honest, and as a result she ended up loaning me a copy of the Chez Panisse Café cookbook.
By the time I actually met Alice Waters, briefly, a few years later, I was finally and well aware of her influence and symbolic sainthood as the de facto founder of ‘California Cuisine.’ I had also thought long and hard about what I would say when I finally met her. My opportunity came after having the honour of serving her a ‘Farmer’s Market’ dinner (five courses, each centered on the product of a single farm) with Eric and the rest of the Millennium crew. She and Cecelia Chiang (whom Alice has described as ‘the Julia Child of Chinese cuisine’) had attended the event as the guest of Millennium’s apparently well connected and always lovable owners (in addition to being the best possible advertising for the vegan diet), Anne and Larry Wheat. After the meal, Eric and I were ushered out to hold court at the table, but before I had a chance to dazzle her with my charm (or pester her with my shameless hero worship, whichever you prefer), she leaned in close with a conspiratorial smile and said ‘Slow Food. It started in Italy, we’re bringing it to California, look it up, read about it.’ I had finally met the inspirational queen of West Coast Cuisine, and she had high jacked my chance to praise her with a teaching moment.
To read about Alice Waters is probably not unlike reading about a Joan of Arc or a Mother Theresa. Her ability to stay ‘On Message’ in the numerous articles and books written by and about her is impressive. From the reader’s perspective, she seems to live the life of a food puritan, always knowing the provenance of every pear, the story of every stonefruit, the very chicken which begat the egg. She sets an example in her every action, or so it would seem. I am fascinated by the disconnect I seem to feel when examining such people; it’s almost as if it would be sacrilege to report on a shortcoming, because they are so important symbolically to the communities for whom they speak.
My first ambition was to be a preacher. I was raised in the Baptist church and I had an excellent pastor, Dr. Dick Maples: a wonderful teacher, a genuinely nice man and a good shepherd. The good Doctor’s charisma was buttressed by his knowledge and wit; some of the best comedy timing I’ve ever learned was in the Sunday morning sermons he delivered. Dr. Maples was also the man I went to in my teen years when I realized I was losing my faith. He was patient and did not judge me. He answered the questions with the best of his theology, pointing out the most positive parts of his faith, and often even changed the subject to the politics of the day, about which we were both pleased to discover that we shared many views. He didn’t push me or browbeat me; he just focused on the positive and tried to be a good example.
Chez Panisse was founded on the principle, inspired by a trip which Waters had taken in France, of serving only fresh, seasonal, local food, and nothing else. The menu was a fixed price, the staff was well paid, the space was crafted by artisans, and the food was prepared by hand. These days, we’ve all heard of such restaurants, or restaurants that have aspired to such goals, but at the time, it was a revolution. The once humble converted home in Berkeley still serves its fixed price dinner nightly in the downstairs dining room with its open kitchen and has even expanded to include an upstairs Café with a more diverse menu, and another stand up Cafe (Café Fanny) a few blocks away; all of which have stayed true to a vision of local, seasonal and organic foods.
But Alice’s Restaurant started as an idea not just to reinvent the restaurant industry (which it has), but to change the way people think about food, or about their relationship with food, with each other, and in actuality, with the planet itself. In fact, it is safe to say that if you have heard of organic food, Chez Panisse is a likely reason. It was not ground zero (but it was close) for the organic movement, environmentalism, or the fair trade movement or even for the sense of community awareness that typified the West Coast youth politics of the heady decade from which it sprang. But it was an institution that brought those philosophies together under one roof with an ambition rarely seen outside of a church, a nonprofit group, or a political party. As such, it did become ground zero for a retooling of the industry for which I have felt my calling: the art and lore of breaking bread, of life through food, of giving and sharing at the hearth and at the table.
Alice Waters is rarely described as a great businesswoman (it took seven years for the little idea to turn a profit, and even then it was under someone else’s hand) or even as a great chef, a title she herself has eschewed. In fact, she was once famously criticized by a prominent French chef who said, ‘That’s not cooking, it’s shopping,’ a quote I have heard her repeat as high praise. Even the night I met her, she was late for the dinner and even answered her cell phone during the meal, an irony not lost on us as Chez Panisse was also famous for being one of the first restaurants to require diners to turn off their cell phones. She is not a saint, as she has often been described, but a human, with all of the flaws which that condition entails. But in the same way Dr. Maples deftly steered the subject away from the Spanish Inquisition or the fate of Ghandi’s soul in our discussions, I rarely dwell on Alice’s shortcomings when I think about her importance as a symbol.
By living her principles and pursuing her dreams to the best of her ability, Alice has helped to create a movement that has gone from California Dreaming to the fastest growing sector of the food industry in North America, and is quietly but assuredly changing the world in the process. But even in recent interviews she has not once rested on her laurels. Her new projects include a foundation, a prison garden program and an idea inspired by driving by a public elementary school in her neighborhood called the Edible Schoolyard Project, which seeks to share her principles with a whole new generation of eaters through hands on involvement in the production of their own school lunches. If that won’t change the world as we know it, then I don’t know what will. Alice is not a perfect person, but she is a perfect inspiration.
Slow Food, a movement started in Italy in 1986 to protest the building of a McDonald’s at the base of the Spanish Steps in Rome, has grown to become an international advocate for traditional foodways and recipes, biodiversity through heirloom seeds and livestock varieties, organic and small production agriculture, even wine and cheese-making; or, in more general terms, an advocate for the preservation of the pleasure of taking our time and appreciating life, food, and the act of sharing. Instead of dividing its membership into producers and consumers, it uses the terms producers and co-producers, thus implicating all of us in the process of change. As she predicted when I met her, Alice Waters did bring Slow Food to the US; in fact, just this year she helped to coordinate the largest celebration of American food in history; her ‘Slow Food Nation’ event boasted an attendance of 50,000 people in downtown San Francisco around a victory garden in the Civic Center Plaza.
I had a chance to dine at the Café during my San Francisco years. It was a treat, so simple that at first glance it seemed almost unimportant; but under scrutiny revealed many truths: care, attention to detail, sincerity, honesty, belief in the product and its importance. A chicken dinner became a little prayer on a plate. Ultimately, I did not become a preacher, but I did follow my heart. I did listen to that still and quiet voice inside me that said, ‘go forth and do good works.’ I often ponder the nature of what it means to be good. I think, in my heart, it is to think in terms of the community over one’s self. It is to do what is best before what is easy. I never did become a preacher, just as most boys never become astronauts or firemen, but I did find my faith, and through the organic movement and our restaurant, my voice. As for Alice Waters, I mentioned that I had thought long and hard about what I would say when I finally met her. I would have said thank you.
On the inside flap of the Chez Panisse Café cookbook, Alice is quoted as saying: ‘[We had] an ideal: to create a community of friends, lovers, and relatives that spans generations and is in tune with the seasons, the land, and human appetites.’ That ‘delicious revolution’ sounds pretty good to me.
By the time I actually met Alice Waters, briefly, a few years later, I was finally and well aware of her influence and symbolic sainthood as the de facto founder of ‘California Cuisine.’ I had also thought long and hard about what I would say when I finally met her. My opportunity came after having the honour of serving her a ‘Farmer’s Market’ dinner (five courses, each centered on the product of a single farm) with Eric and the rest of the Millennium crew. She and Cecelia Chiang (whom Alice has described as ‘the Julia Child of Chinese cuisine’) had attended the event as the guest of Millennium’s apparently well connected and always lovable owners (in addition to being the best possible advertising for the vegan diet), Anne and Larry Wheat. After the meal, Eric and I were ushered out to hold court at the table, but before I had a chance to dazzle her with my charm (or pester her with my shameless hero worship, whichever you prefer), she leaned in close with a conspiratorial smile and said ‘Slow Food. It started in Italy, we’re bringing it to California, look it up, read about it.’ I had finally met the inspirational queen of West Coast Cuisine, and she had high jacked my chance to praise her with a teaching moment.
To read about Alice Waters is probably not unlike reading about a Joan of Arc or a Mother Theresa. Her ability to stay ‘On Message’ in the numerous articles and books written by and about her is impressive. From the reader’s perspective, she seems to live the life of a food puritan, always knowing the provenance of every pear, the story of every stonefruit, the very chicken which begat the egg. She sets an example in her every action, or so it would seem. I am fascinated by the disconnect I seem to feel when examining such people; it’s almost as if it would be sacrilege to report on a shortcoming, because they are so important symbolically to the communities for whom they speak.
My first ambition was to be a preacher. I was raised in the Baptist church and I had an excellent pastor, Dr. Dick Maples: a wonderful teacher, a genuinely nice man and a good shepherd. The good Doctor’s charisma was buttressed by his knowledge and wit; some of the best comedy timing I’ve ever learned was in the Sunday morning sermons he delivered. Dr. Maples was also the man I went to in my teen years when I realized I was losing my faith. He was patient and did not judge me. He answered the questions with the best of his theology, pointing out the most positive parts of his faith, and often even changed the subject to the politics of the day, about which we were both pleased to discover that we shared many views. He didn’t push me or browbeat me; he just focused on the positive and tried to be a good example.
Chez Panisse was founded on the principle, inspired by a trip which Waters had taken in France, of serving only fresh, seasonal, local food, and nothing else. The menu was a fixed price, the staff was well paid, the space was crafted by artisans, and the food was prepared by hand. These days, we’ve all heard of such restaurants, or restaurants that have aspired to such goals, but at the time, it was a revolution. The once humble converted home in Berkeley still serves its fixed price dinner nightly in the downstairs dining room with its open kitchen and has even expanded to include an upstairs Café with a more diverse menu, and another stand up Cafe (Café Fanny) a few blocks away; all of which have stayed true to a vision of local, seasonal and organic foods.
But Alice’s Restaurant started as an idea not just to reinvent the restaurant industry (which it has), but to change the way people think about food, or about their relationship with food, with each other, and in actuality, with the planet itself. In fact, it is safe to say that if you have heard of organic food, Chez Panisse is a likely reason. It was not ground zero (but it was close) for the organic movement, environmentalism, or the fair trade movement or even for the sense of community awareness that typified the West Coast youth politics of the heady decade from which it sprang. But it was an institution that brought those philosophies together under one roof with an ambition rarely seen outside of a church, a nonprofit group, or a political party. As such, it did become ground zero for a retooling of the industry for which I have felt my calling: the art and lore of breaking bread, of life through food, of giving and sharing at the hearth and at the table.
Alice Waters is rarely described as a great businesswoman (it took seven years for the little idea to turn a profit, and even then it was under someone else’s hand) or even as a great chef, a title she herself has eschewed. In fact, she was once famously criticized by a prominent French chef who said, ‘That’s not cooking, it’s shopping,’ a quote I have heard her repeat as high praise. Even the night I met her, she was late for the dinner and even answered her cell phone during the meal, an irony not lost on us as Chez Panisse was also famous for being one of the first restaurants to require diners to turn off their cell phones. She is not a saint, as she has often been described, but a human, with all of the flaws which that condition entails. But in the same way Dr. Maples deftly steered the subject away from the Spanish Inquisition or the fate of Ghandi’s soul in our discussions, I rarely dwell on Alice’s shortcomings when I think about her importance as a symbol.
By living her principles and pursuing her dreams to the best of her ability, Alice has helped to create a movement that has gone from California Dreaming to the fastest growing sector of the food industry in North America, and is quietly but assuredly changing the world in the process. But even in recent interviews she has not once rested on her laurels. Her new projects include a foundation, a prison garden program and an idea inspired by driving by a public elementary school in her neighborhood called the Edible Schoolyard Project, which seeks to share her principles with a whole new generation of eaters through hands on involvement in the production of their own school lunches. If that won’t change the world as we know it, then I don’t know what will. Alice is not a perfect person, but she is a perfect inspiration.
Slow Food, a movement started in Italy in 1986 to protest the building of a McDonald’s at the base of the Spanish Steps in Rome, has grown to become an international advocate for traditional foodways and recipes, biodiversity through heirloom seeds and livestock varieties, organic and small production agriculture, even wine and cheese-making; or, in more general terms, an advocate for the preservation of the pleasure of taking our time and appreciating life, food, and the act of sharing. Instead of dividing its membership into producers and consumers, it uses the terms producers and co-producers, thus implicating all of us in the process of change. As she predicted when I met her, Alice Waters did bring Slow Food to the US; in fact, just this year she helped to coordinate the largest celebration of American food in history; her ‘Slow Food Nation’ event boasted an attendance of 50,000 people in downtown San Francisco around a victory garden in the Civic Center Plaza.
I had a chance to dine at the Café during my San Francisco years. It was a treat, so simple that at first glance it seemed almost unimportant; but under scrutiny revealed many truths: care, attention to detail, sincerity, honesty, belief in the product and its importance. A chicken dinner became a little prayer on a plate. Ultimately, I did not become a preacher, but I did follow my heart. I did listen to that still and quiet voice inside me that said, ‘go forth and do good works.’ I often ponder the nature of what it means to be good. I think, in my heart, it is to think in terms of the community over one’s self. It is to do what is best before what is easy. I never did become a preacher, just as most boys never become astronauts or firemen, but I did find my faith, and through the organic movement and our restaurant, my voice. As for Alice Waters, I mentioned that I had thought long and hard about what I would say when I finally met her. I would have said thank you.
On the inside flap of the Chez Panisse Café cookbook, Alice is quoted as saying: ‘[We had] an ideal: to create a community of friends, lovers, and relatives that spans generations and is in tune with the seasons, the land, and human appetites.’ That ‘delicious revolution’ sounds pretty good to me.
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