Day After Christmas Blues

It is 7:10 AM the day after Christmas. I am concurrently connected to facebook - right now I have 1 friend online out of over one thousand. Everyone I know is asleep, recovering from a long festive day that is typically defined with overeating and excessive alcohol, though the airport is bustling with travelers that are off to who knows where. Christmas was fantastic. We had a perfectly cooked beef tenderloin with a Potato-Leek Gratin, a warm Beet and Mission Fig Salad with caramelized Goat Cheese, a and a tradatitional Squash Casserole. It was a meal defined with some of the old times favorites, but was complimented with some new, rustic winter dishes that seem to work so well this time of year. They did. I think it was the best meal I have had in my father's dining room. He pulled the tenderloin out of the oven at the optimal time, let it rest, then began carving, as I broiled the top of the various casseroles to caramelize and crust the cheese on top. It was all wonderful. We enjoyed it, as we always do, though no more than the company. It was our first Christmas with my brother's wife, Liza, and it was the first Christmas that my baby niece, Elle, really started to understand the way Christmas works. Holidays to me, are always about preserving rich family tradition, while at the same time playing off of those traditions and taking changes into the future. I already miss my family, and the holiday season, and it isn't even over yet. CCH

Off To Atlanta

So, I am off to Atlanta after a long and frustrating couple of days at work. I am tired after having just gotten out of work - I always take this 630 am flight..... It works out perfectly when you get out of work at 2 am..... there is just enough time to head home, do a load of laundry, soak in the bath and pack the bag destined for the south..... It is cold there and that is how it should be. I can't wait to see and smile with my family.... See my buddy john, where we will play a round of golf and make a toast to our poorly played round with a couple of stout cigars.... I am going to try and post something in the midst of the holiday madness.... Y'all have a great Christmas - We shall talk soon......CH

A Christmas Story

It’s funny how inspiration comes from the strangest places and often in the strangest of times. My latest came while driving downtown in the cold December pouring rain. While looking at the beautiful buildings of Downtown Norfolk and thinking about my trip to Atlanta next week. I got to thinking about Christmas and what this time of year means to me.

Nineteen ninety five was the fourth Christmas in a row that my mother was bald – and it wasn’t by choice. We were what from the outside appeared to be the idyllic American family, though behind the scenes, like any other family we were, to an extent, dysfunctional, having our own set of problems. My parents worked so hard to keep our family happy and together but with four kids, two full time jobs, and private school tuitions, stress slowly took a strain on their relationship. So, during this same Christmas my parents had marital problems, but were doing their best to keep things together for us, for the kids, in what none of us knew at the time, but all but expected to be my Mom’s last Christmas.

After the Christmas Eve service at the beautiful St. Phillip's Cathedral, my dad weaved through the Christmas lights of Atlanta as the excitement and energy of Christmas resonated from our Suburban. We returned home to our already-dressed table which was decorated in coastal paraphernalia - fishing nets, oversized clam shells, and bowls that were inked with crustaceans. It was time for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. My mother’s side of the family for as long as I know religiously steamed lobster every year, and to me this tradition has a greater importance than the holiday itself. It is a meal I annually cherish, look forward to, will never get sick of, and I vow to carry on for as long as Christmas exists.
Before sitting at the table my parents took us into the living room where a surprise was in waiting. The fireplace was burning embers from earlier in the day with which my brother and I struggled bringing back to life. My father guided us, and flames appeared, beginning to wave back and forth, almost at us. The ledge overhead was hung with stockings, manger scenes, and candles whose blazes were pale in comparison to the erratic flames below. My frail mother began speaking of her love for us - making allusions that this would probably be her last Christmas, how much her family meant, and how having each other is paramount. She had been fighting for years. Surgery after surgery debilitated her strength, though never her spirit. She was always proud, and strong, and ceaseless, but options were running out and we all knew that, but coming to terms with that is undoubtedly harder. An experimental laser surgery had failed, and the cancer had learned to combat the radiation and chemotherapy, thus eliminating options. Emotions were always tense and threshold-like, always preparing me for the worst. She didn’t say anything of it though, and neither did my dad. She merely walked into the dining room, returned with a camcorder, and the red light on the front told us that it was recording. This was our big Christmas present in 1995 – a camcorder. Though unsaid, it was so that we could remember that last Christmas with my mom – so that we could remember her voice, gestures, smile and most importantly her spirit. Looking back I am pretty sure those are things that someone never really forgets about their mother, no matter how far away, or how long away they have been gone. That voice, that touch, that spirit though at times cavernous and distant is always in the inner dwellings of a child, and inseparable. We joyously sat around the table passing the camcorder while cracking lobster claws, laughing, and enjoying each other. We were enjoying a family that had been through so much, but would in the end know what was really important ,and what really mattered. As kids, we grew up too fast and were faced with many of the harsh realities of life at a young age, though on the eve of Christmas in 1995, none of that mattered, and we spent this holiday season cherishing whatever remaining time we had together. That night we read Christmas books, held, hugged and loved each other. My mother passed away four months later. While expected, none of us were ready for it. To this day, Christmas Eve will always be synonymous with my mother, and of course Lobster.

Dani. Older than the typical restaurant manager, and not quite as rough around the edges. Atleast it appears that way from a distance. Before every shift her name swirls around curse words as waiters gripe about the difficulty of working with her. Surviving a shift with Dani is somewhere in the neighborhood of walking on coals…. Chinese water torture…. Waiters stroll in a couple minutes after ten – most are hungover. They had 45 minutes before the pre-shifting meeting to get everything ready for service, and they gossip while brewing iced tea, straightening tables that are poorly dressed from the previous night, and fill sugar caddies with the appropriate sweeteners. The abundance of light beaming through the patio windows reveals crumbs, used cocktail straws, and dirt, from the night before which is swept by the busboys who are readying their stations. The private dining room needed to be set for a thirty person pharmaceutical luncheon that would be arriving at eleven-thirty. The party had a pre-planned menu on which the kitchen was currently working. The restaurant had 700 seats. 20 waiters and waitresses. A six page menu, a fifty seat bar, and one kitchen. Every piece of food eaten at this restaurant came out of the eight man kitchen which included four fryers, a ten foot grill, twelve burners and a six-foot flat-top. Maybe two of the eight kitchen guys spoke passable English. Kitchen language was Spanglish at its finest.
Lunch is always chaotic. For two hours it is a constant flurry of business meetings. Executives walk ten minutes each way from neighboring buildings. They only have 45 minutes between meetings. Do the math. They need a full meal in twenty to thirty minutes – this is impossible. For the typical lunch shift there is one seating around noon, and then another 45 minutes later, and for the duration the kitchen is in a constant scurry, never looking up, never pausing, and never speaking. Dani always worked meticulously and systematically at the expo window. Responsible for sending each plate out of the kitchen to the appropriate table, she was the liaison between the kitchen and the service staff. At a quarter til eleven she gathered the front of the house staff for the pre-shift meeting.
“Hey everyone, before we get started, I have some terrible news I need to share with everyone,” Dani started then paused trying to gather strength. She comes across cold, hardened and resistant to pain. She continues,” Jennifer Jones passed away last night. I got a phone call from the police department this morning, and they said that she was found on the corner of Baldwin, and 12th Street. She jumped off a building there, or was maybe pushed. They don’t really know, but they are running blood tests, are trying to get some answers and will most likely be in here later this afternoon to question some of you. Especially any of you who might have been out with her last night.”
The previous night Jennifer and several other servers worked, then headed over to Spirits- the watering hole for local restaurant people. Servers and bartenders in the area flood the bar around midnight, when their work days are over. They smile at the bartenders and begin the relentless ordering of shots and drinks as they talk about their abnormal, and underachieved lives being lived. Some sneak off to the bathroom to fuel their bodies with cocaine, or other foreign substances. Some sneak off to the bathroom to vomit after one too many shots of Jagermeister. Restaurant workers form familial relationships that are often, confused, incestuous and a dysfunctional. These people work long, hard hours, together. They finish work when others are already asleep, and are out partying when others are nearly rising for the new day. The night before would be a blur, and receiving news of Jennifer’s death would be all but traumatic, since most aren’t alert enough to comprehend what was just said. Some were out with her the night before. Some were close to her….. Close in a restaurant sense. They had become friends through circumstance…. Through being thrown into this chaotic, whirlwind lifestyle, void of equilibrium. These relationships are born out of necessity. Born out of a need to fit in, and to be a part of something…. They existed because they had to, not because they were meant to or destined to….
This kind of news didn’t surface often, but the staff would find a way to see it through. They always did. Everyone is caught off guard, sitting silently for several moments thinking about the life that was lost and what that meant. Why did this have to be her denoument, her time to exit the stage? It was hard not to think about that, but at the end of the day life moves on, and so does the restaurant. Dani continues, in character as always, a couple moments later, and conveys the specials for the day nonchalantly, as if nothing has happened. She then gives specific instructions regarding the private party, and discusses some featured wines that would now be offered by the glass. It’s lunch - nobody drinks wine during lunch. Regardless there are two whites and a red, all from Australia….. One of the male waiters, under his breath notes that Jennifer never liked Australian wines, and Dani glares with disapproval.
11 AM arrives, waiters tie aprons around their waists, review the specials scribbled in their books, and Dani unlocks the doors to the world outside. The bartenders finish cutting fruit as guests trickle in. The hostess directs them to a table. “Y’all enjoy your lunch.” She returns and more guests are waiting for a table. She seats them, and each subsequent return to the front desk results in a larger crowd waiting to be sat. The lunch rush has begun, orders trickle into the kitchen and some to the bar, and then speed up exponentially as noon approaches. The pharmaceutical party is seated, and the two servers working exclusively on the party scurry to get drink orders.
“I need food runners,” Dani yells as servers walk directly past her and into the kitchen where drinks are made for the customers who have just been seated. By noon everyone has a full section, the kitchen has twenty tickets, and there is a line at each computer terminal where servers wait impatiently to place orders. Each one is different. Different items with different modifications, and different cook times. These kitchen guys were cooking, but not fast enough - they were running nearly twenty minute ticket times. Twelve was the goal during lunch, but when there was food for a group of thirty coming out of the same kitchen, twenty minutes wasn’t all that bad. “I need food runners, goddamnit!” She scolded each server that walked by her that was too busy to run the food that was for their customers….the ones who were tipping them... So now, the food was not only taking too long, but when it was finally ready there was no one there to deliver it to the table
“I swear to God, the next person to walk out of this kitchen without food in their hands isn’t going to have a job. I fucking mean it!” This was Dani in her early stages of stress. She is seemingly refined until the pressure begins to mount. In the kitchen plates are finished and garnished , but have nowhere to go – the heat lamp under the expo window is full. Why should the kitchen hurry to pump food out of the kitchen, if it is going to sit in the window for three minutes? Frustration mounts in the kitchen that is dealing with ninety degree heat. Tickets print and are called out by Jose, who runs the kitchen – he ensures that the appropriate cook knows of the incoming order. Dani, reads the ticket that is printed on her side, and mentally notes any special modifications that she would need to look for when the food was ready some twenty minutes down the road. Every couple of minutes a server hurries over to the window. Dani, I need the sauce on the side for the Chicken at 26. I need that steak sandwich medium rare, not medium at 33. The Tuna Salad for 42 needs to be cooked all the way through, she is pregnant. I need the calamari for 42 as an appetizer. Sorry. Every time one of these mistakes is made Dani interrupts the kitchen from what they are doing, and explains the mistake, and makes a note on her ticket. The problem could have been avoided if the server paid a touch more attention. The kitchen and Dani would now both be out of rhythm in the middle of a busy lunch shift. From here, things could easily spiral out of control if attention wasn’t refocused immediately. The first turn is made, the busboys hurry to change tablecloths, and reset tables with water glasses and still warm silverware. The restaurant is on a twenty minute wait, but that will change soon, because the first group of diners all arrived within minutes of each other, and would therefore leave within minutes of each other as well. The kitchen would then have the chance to get caught up before being hit with another influx of tickets, with new modifications, and new mistakes from the waiters. Atleast there wasn’t a private party to deal with this time around.

When service slows down, Dani leaves the expo window feeling confident that the servers are caught up enough to run their own food. The kitchen crew cleans their cutting boards, as the service staff polishes silverware and wine glasses that will be used for dinner. The busboys take fully loaded bus pans to the dishwasher and unload them. The food runner hangs around to make sure the final tables receive their food in a timely manner as the cooks step outside for a cigarette. The dining room empties by 2 PM, aside for a well dressed gay couple who was lingering over a final sip of white wine. They, surprisingly, actually did sell some wine today. Dani sees this then heads to the office for a cigarette where she can rest the legs that seem to be getting to old for this. Working expo during a stressful lunch is as straining as it gets. It is only for a couple hours, but more intense than dinner, because of the time crunch. People expect to be in and out in shorter than possible, and she knows this. Everyone knows this. Dani is always thinking of ways to make lunch less stressful. Maybe we can shorten the menu, bring in more cooks, or an additional food runner. There has to be something we can do, she keeps telling herself – she has been doing this for nearly four years, at this restaurant and has tried everything. It was the nature of the beast. Atleast the stress is short lived, and only comes in spurts. She then thinks about Jennifer, something exponentially more important. Did it really matter how fast they could get the food out on a day like today. One of her employees killed herself the night before. One of her employees was so disturbed that she took her own life, and of all ways did it by jumping off a goddamn building. She imagines those final thoughts from atop the Atlanta skyline. The clouded thoughts that were swirling painfully, telling her life wasn’t worth the trouble. Those troubled thoughts will never be told, and are lost forever. That is a good thing – they couldn’t have been encouraging, or uplifting. Maybe Dani was too hard on them. This was a business, not personal and when she is hard on them, can they distinguish the two. In business its never personal.

Dani receives a call from the hostess stating that two gentlemen are here police department. They are waiting for her in the reception area. What information would she have for them? Jennifer’s job was stressful; at night she drowned her stress with alcohol, and dulled the pain of life with drugs. Dani couldn’t speak of her family or her past. Remember, the relationship is never personal. There are a thousand other girls just like her dealing with, and struggling with what they saw as inadequately lived lives…. Jennifer’s was a life that was supposed to be so much better, but somehow, and for some reason it wasn’t…Somewhere along the way things went terribly wrong….Atleast there was no more pain. Dani took the final drags of a lipstick stained cigarette and lumbered to the front of the house trying to figure out what to say. For maybe the first time ever, she had nothing.

A Saturday Night Off.....

This writing gig seems to be getting harder and harder, as my life seems to be getting busier and busier but I am determined to keep it going, as it is so enjoyable from my end, keeps me striving towards my goals, and keeps me in constant reflection at my life and things that matter to me. I am sure that some of you laugh at the idea of writing about food and how that could translate into intense introspection. That is okay. At the end of the day I guess as long as we understand each other, where we are coming from, recognize that the presence of passion in life is paramount and is what makes waking up everyday meaningful , then it is a good thing that we all come from different backgrounds, ideologies and centers of passion. I am just grateful that I am passionate about something, that I have people with whom I can share it, and hopefully atleast some of you might be getting something out of it. I know I am. I know this writing will take me somewhere. Where? I am not quite sure yet….

I am in the process of writing a piece entitled “What We Do When We Are Not Working” ….. it is a story from this past weekend with my cousin Alec, and my buddy Vin. What do us restaurant workers that typically work every weekend night do when we get that infrequent night off. I worked the day shift so that I could get off work and watch the Alabama vs. Florida SEC Championship game………Rarely do I get the opportunity to have a weekend night off, but I was off by halftime, and sitting at the bar enjoying the game with my cousin over a couple of Yuenglings. Before the second half started, Alabama was winning by a considerable margin, we were both buzzed from a shot of Goldschlager, and I couldn’t have been happier. The night only got better…. Well more interesting…Foggy….. Foggy almost always means a good time, and yes a good time was had. Expect the full story in the coming days…. Hopefully Tuesday afternoon……

Our Culinary Roots

Cut it like this. No, a little finer, and make sure it is straight….. It has to be straight or the dish won’t have any uniformity, any cohesion, any symmetry. The chef in slightly dirtied kitchen whites explains to his prep cook the importance of creating the perfect julienne, and how that translates to everything else he does. If you can’t cut the perfect julienne, how can you create a perfect brunoise? Similarly, in food, writer Michael Ruhlman’s “The Soul of a Chef”, Thomas Keller explains this very idea. He asks, “Do you really care about everything that’s going on or just the finished product…. Because it doesn’t begin with the plate. It begins when you wake up. It’s got to be a philosophy. You have to be determined, determined to do it everyday. If you are going to have a clean plate, you’ve got to have a clean oil bottle.” For Thomas Keller it started in south Florida, which took him to France then to New York, then eventually to California. His culinary resume doesn’t include the Culinary Institute of America, nor Le Cordon Bleu or one of the Art Institutes. He learned classically, in France the art and history of cooking, where they had been doing this for decades. He learned how to make clear stocks and how to fix a cloudy one, mastered hollandaise but most importantly he was taught to understand and respect the ingredients he was using – what they were, where they came from and why they were valuable. This type of cooking had been going on for centuries, for millennia – and it had been occurring for no other reason than the fact that people had to respect and understand the value of their ingredients to survive. There was no supermarket around every corner, nor 24 hour fast food stops, and to this day it is like that in many cultures throughout the world. Even for the cultures that have made the transition into the modern day world of mass transit and urban lifestyles, we still very closely associate their cultures with certain, seemingly, primitive foods. In Mexico there is a tripe stew called Menudo, in France they marvel over calves brains, beef tongue and other seemingly foreign edibles, in Russia it is liver in the form of a Pate. In the American south we use chicken livers and gizzards; dust them, fry them up and the tender mineral taste can be otherworldly. In Italy, as their fish begins to go bad they make a hearty soup out of whatever is available – Cippino. They call it a Bouliabiase in France. In Portugal they catch Cod fish, preserve it by curing it with salt and, and it is subsequently available for months. Simply soak the fish in some water, and it will reconstitute, bringing it back to life – making it, well, edible. In Italy they call this baccala. You get the idea. This type of cooking and creativeness was imperative for the well being of cultures of the world that existed before the transport of produce cross country, before chicken farms were infested with hormones, and the idea of farm raising a fish, oyster or a softshell crab seemed asinine. Anyone that appreciates good food, understands and appreciates this type of cooking, but we also understand it is humbling, and was created out of a primitive necessity. Techniques that have been around forever are still used today, but things have changed, for the better, and culinary skills have turned into an art form. We see this with the perfect julienne, a perfect brunoise, or using a bottle of oil laced with herbs to garnish a plate. Metal into making rings to create a perfectly round portion of risotto, creates a focus on presentation that never mattered before. It didn’t have to, and that is how it all began… that is our culinary roots…. We have come a long way, haven’t we? Of course we have, but really good cooking in a way always goes back to our roots, never undermines the importance of basic foods, and always respects the lives that were sacrificed to make what we eat, well, food…


Have a Great Thanksgiving Weekend.
CH

Thanksgiving Day

I awoke with a surprisingly subtle headache after a night of prodigous drinking with my brother and some friends. It was an interesting night for us and the reasons why, I won't go into, but it was nevertheless a good night, and one that will not be easily forgotten. All afternoon we have been finalizing the menu for the day. I made a couple suggestions to the Apricot Sage Glaze we are using, I made an herb butter for injecting the Turkey, then helped my dad make our family friend Isaac's famous Bloody Marys, that are divinely laced with a wonderfully refreshing acidity from the lemons soaking in the large vat. It is time to get the Turkey in, and I need to make sure my sweater is dry. I hope everyone has a fantastic Thanksgiving. Enjoy it. Eat lots. Drink less, and enjoy the ones you are with.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving.... and Old Friends....

We had a good weekend – busy. I just got called in to help with some faulty equipment at the restaurant. I guess when you live with your boss that kinda thing happens...and that's okay. Anyways, I just left - being able to break away for a couple hours, before having to return. Starbucks to write. Then gym. Then, like I said, back to work. Then Atlanta for Thanksgiving. I love my family…

Thanksgiving to me, is the holiest of days. It is a holiday that for me and my family, while staying consistent has evolved with age, time and maturity…. I can’t wait to be back in Atlanta, where Thursday morning I will awake to the already roasting turkey that will be seeping into the stuffing with its juices, creating the most glorious of smells....It is ironically a day of complete contradiction. A day of being thankful, and appreciative of the things we have, therefore we will eat until our bellies ache, drink so much that we create memories we can’t remember, and we are busy all day, but really aren’t busy at all. There are no meetings to attend, weddings, or concerts. We are busy spending time with the ones that we have been spending this holiday with for as long as we can remember....Some of them we see not nearly enough, and others perhaps too much. While family it is merely family maybe once every couple years there is an addition.... A spouse....a girlfriend... A family friend... or a new baby... but the dynamics rarely change and it is always the important things that matter most…..

I am sitting in starbucks right now... and as I think about my family and my favorite holiday, my buddy, Rene who is from Mexico, but living in Seattle, calls me on Skype. I haven’t talked to him in three years, and I have never before used Skype. When I saw his incoming call on my computer while writing about the nostalgia of family and those things that we are thankful for, it seemed like a perfectly fatalistic moment. We caught up, and after a couple minutes of talking, we realized nothing had changed. The moderate language barrier didn't matter. We were just as close as before. We joked back and forth, talked about how we both missed our families and each other, and talked about the good ole' day back in Atlana. It all seemed right, perfect. I, unlike him get to return home to my family, and that I am thankful for. Rene, well, his family is a couple thousand miles south, and he would go through several more years worth of holidays before seeing them again. I am thankful that my trip home is only an hour and a half south on a plane. I will board the plane Tuesday morning with others returning to see their loved ones as well. We will land at the busiest airport in the world, and be greeted with many more who will be just beginning their voyages home. Thanksgiving and family are, in a sense, synonymous. I guess in the end the important things aren’t all that hard to identify, and rarely truly change....

Storms + Macaroni and Cheese

Last Thursday I didn’t leave the house. I opened the door to the patio and was greeted with spiraling winds and the persistent pounding of rain. I had never seen weather like this, or atleast not for this duration. It was like this for three days. Baxter -my boss, roommate and cousin went to the steakhouse attempting to rectify the gaping holes in the ceiling that subsequently ruined the carpet and private dining room over the following days. I offered to go into work at the Sports Lounge, but he insisted that no one would be out. The exits off the interstate into downtown Norfolk were closed. Granby Street was a wind tunnel and everyone was bracing for the worst of the storm that would occur at high tide that night. I watched two movies from my bed that afternoon - the lights were off all day, and I could have sworn that it was midnight at any point. I can’t remember the last time I just laid in bed, feeling no obligation to do anything.

On his way home from the steakhouse, he bought a variety of cheese – various cheddars, gouda, havarti gruyere and some parmesan - we worked on Macaroni and Cheese recipes. We made Rouxess, then Bechamels, then turned them into Mornays. We swapped suggestions, and ideas about what might make each taste better, creamier, or richer. A touch more salt, or pepper…. Maybe some garlic…. Or maybe some extra sharp Cheddar next time……too much roux, or milk…… We ate spoonful after spoonful of one of the great comfort foods…. It is one of those foods that everyone eats and most likely has a favorite recipe and almost always has associated memories of childhood. The rain had no signs of letting up, and the wind slapped the house as the dogs circled the kitchen hoping for a dropped spoonful of cheese coated pasta. They got lucky. Unfortunately the restaurant and the majority of Hampton Roads didn’t fare quite as well.....

Beginning of the Week

Beginning of the week update. I hope everyone has enjoyed the most recent blog entries.... My hope is that you will continue to read while spreading the word. Things have been busy here (I guess that is what happens when you head out of town for 5 days), and my hands have been busy in a number of things, so over the last week or so I have had limited time to write, but I will have something new on Tuesday, and I think you will enjoy it. I have intentionally made entries longer, and less frequent with the hopes that people with their busy lives don't have to tune in everyday for new content, but at the same time, when they do check in I want it to be something enjoyable... something real.... and something that, well, makes it worth coming back to. Thanks for your support, and keep your ideas rolling in.... I guess I should start posting some recipes on here too.....

CCH

The Breakdown: A Short Story

The incessant pounding of rain comes down on the world around me as I try to unify my thoughts…. My thoughts are cluttered, and the weather isn’t helping. Not in the least, so the blog I have for today is a short story I wrote a while back. Just so you know, it is NOT autobiographical, and is entirely a work of FICTION. No character described actually exists. The narrative is simply a loose interpretation of how easily our lives can spiral out of control. It is called “The Breakdown”, and it’s tone mirrors this dreary fall day.
I hope you enjoy.


THE BREAKDOWN

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. Debris flooded through the ceiling tile and onto table 20, the worst table in the restaurant. Every restaurant has a worst table, and Pat and Linda Johnson were sitting there tonight, and celebrating their wedding anniversary. Not to mention he is the president of the chamber of commerce. They needed to make him happy.
“Why does this shit have to happen tonight, to this table” he cursed under his breath making his way through the crowd over to their table, and continued audibly this time, “Folks I am so terribly sorry – Mrs. Johnson, let me have your hand,” he said, helping her out of her seat. The table was covered in dust, and detritus - the pounding of water against the seventy-five year old roof had taken its toll. He escorted them to a dimly lit, corner table that was supposed to be seated within minutes – the company accountant and his wife were bringing in their daughter and son-in-law. He was a pain in the ass anyway, he could wait. Besides, he eats for free.
“Why do we pay $6500 dollars a month in rent and they won’t fix this fucking building, huh Danielle,” Sammy the Maître’ D screamed across the bar, “It doesn’t make any Goddamn sense. Not a bit of sense – get me another glass of cabernet and a glass of chard,” he demanded trying to amend the situation. He wasn’t usually like this. Something was more wrong than usual. The Johnsons were first time diners, and it wasn’t the impression he wanted to make. Curse words stuck in his mind, and spun like a rolodex out of control.
Transforming into the personae he was paid to be was easy. This, he thought as he approached their table with a fresh glass of wine in each hand. He placed them adjacent to the water glasses that sat directly in front of the butter knives. The glasses had yet to be filled. “I am so terribly sorry – just so you know, everything you have tonight is on us, my most sincere apologies and please don’t hesitate to let me know if there is anything you might need. I am here for you.”
Sammy had a way of smoothing things over; he was a bullshit artist, and a master of his trade. Dressed in a two piece pinstripe suit that lay snug against his chest he walked towards the kitchen attempting to get things under control. A full restaurant saw the embarrassing sequence of events, and the dishwasher was now out in the dining room cleaning up, trying to hide the evidence. Mrs. Johnson had bits of rubbish nested in her graying hair, her charcoal shawl was specked with white, and Mr. Johnson’s navy blue blazer was now pinstriped and damp.
“Table 20 is now 41 – they moved – damn ceiling tile fell down right on top of them – right fucking on top of them. They are VIP – make sure it all comes out good – can you get me a tartare app on the fly – I wanna get something in front of them. “
“Actually I got one right here. Take this one - Hector I need one more Tartare to sell - now,” the chef uttered. He was nearly in the weeds.
“Thanks chef, I owe you one.”
He grabbed the plate and headed back over to the Johnsons who were now laughing at the situation. Their wine was void of debris, their table clean, and their plates were shiny.
“Folks I have our signature trio of tartares – beef , bison and venison. I hope you will enjoy,” he smiled finding a place in the middle of the table that would be accessible for both of them.
“This looks fantastic. Thank you so much, that is very kind of you…… Oh, and just so you know, I have a great roof guy – he would probably come out here tonight if you really needed him,” Mr. Johnson said teasing, knowing the torrential rain didn’t seem to be going anywhere. There was now a bucket of water on table 20 nearly full,catching the water that dripped from overhead.
“Very funny sir – you have a better sense of humor than I do. I would still be cursing right now if I were you.”
“Actually it is my brother, and he does great work. I will give you a card before we leave, I think I have one buried in this purse of mine.” This, Mrs. Johnson chimed in as Sammy leaned over, brushing specks of white from her husband’s shoulder.
“I might have to take you up on that offer. Y’all enjoy the rest of your evening, and I will check back in a bit. Just so you know, the sauce drizzled over the bison has a bit of heat and tends to sneak up on some people – so be careful!”
Sammy made his way towards the hostess stand, knowing he had fixed that situation, but there was now a restless crowd. They were assembled around the podium like protesters. Every table was full, and the hostess was nowhere to be found. She was probably on a smoke break at 7:30 on a Friday night. Sounds about right. The accountant Mr. Gibbs was loud, excessively annoying and trying to ensure that Sammy knew he was not only there, but was also waiting. He made every attempt to divert the situation.
“Sammy, come on baby – we have been waiting for fifteen minutes. Whatcha got for me,” Gibbs yelled across the crowd of people.
“I am working on it sir – It won’t be too much longer. Mrs. Gibbs you look beautiful tonight. Y’all go grab a couple of martinis while you wait for your daughter to arrive and we should have something ready for you shortly,” he said, hoping to ease the situation. Sammy then walked away, and into the office. There were too many people out there, and each needed something. A drink. An ashtray, or maybe a cigar cutter. They tug at his shirt trying to steal his attention. Sammy, could you talk to my four top, one of their steaks was overcooked, and they are being a real dick about it. Sammy, is my table ready? Just wanted to say hi. Hi. Is that a new suit, it fits you so well. Mom and Dad why are you here tonight, I told you we were full and there aren’t any cancellations. The roof caved in on a busy night. Goddamnit. Why tonight?
The restaurant one night at a time was destroying his life. He was only 29. He reached for a paper bag, then breathed into it– inflating and deflating it rhythmically. He reached for his pouch of pills, grabbing two, and a bottle of water – medicine always seemed to help. There was a restaurant out there; a kitchen that was buried, waiters were knee deep in the weeds, and a bar piled with drunks. Concurrently, food piled in the kitchen and soon there would be nowhere to put it, and no one to deliver to the appropriate table. The food runner only had 2 hands. On the computer he pulled up the cameras that documented nearly everything going on in the restaurant…. Everything that was going on outside the door he was too petrified to open. The cameras confirmed what he thought. This place was going down in flames. His hands were shaking, and the beat of his heart couldn’t keep pace with the anxiety presiding over him.
“I need a drink – a fucking drink,” he said over and over, reaching for the bottle of scotch hiding in the office. It was Macallan 12 year. Pulling the top off, he tilted his head back and swallowed. One, two, three. Therapeutic was the burn of alcohol, so he took one more generous sip, emptying the bottle, and fell into his chair knowing he had to face the crowd outside before things worsened. The agonizing pound of his heart dissipated over the next couple minutes, and his hands ceased to shake. The medicine had done its trick. Before heading back into the restaurant Sammy swung the safe door open and pulled out a ziplock bag, emptied enough powder to get him through the night, lined it up, and leaned towards it…….


“Sammy, Sammy – are you in there, open the goddamn door.”
It was loud and the clatter of people made it hard to distinguish whose voice it was. Sammy, laying in the same chair as before, looked at his watch, which now read 10:15PM – three hours from when he originally escaped to the office. His white shirt was tinted red and a strip of dried blood had crusted and ran the length of his face and down to his shirt collar. His shirt was soaked with perspiration as he sat, choosing to ignore the voices outside. The ziplock bag had fallen to the ground and emptied itself onto the floor of the office. It was smeared into the carpet creating a white cloud in the contrasting, dark checkered carpet. Moments later the door swung open, and a crowd of coworkers peered in.
“What the fuck is going on – get out of here,” he pleaded.
Bob McFadden entered, pushed the crowd away and closed the door behind him. He had a right to be here – he was the owner, and had been drinking at the bar when the chef alerted him of Sammy’s absence. McFadden was a large man with a demanding presence. He looked at Sammy for a couple of moments trying to gather the right words.
“Sammy,” he paused, “What is going on?”
“Bobby, I don’t really know – I don’t. I… I….I broke – I couldn’t handle it,” he responded, glossy eyed and sedated.
Mcfadden kicked the empty plastic bag towards the trash can, shaking his head, and paused. For longer this time.
“Look at you…. Let’s get you out of here. Chef can close up tonight. I will give him some keys and we can do the money later,” the boss insisted with visible disappointment.
“Did the Johnson’s leave happy,” Sammy questioned, diverting the attention.
“They did, they actually said you were great.”

Sammy actually was great… always. Atleast from a distance. From someone looking in from the outside…. someone from the audience. He is a thespian. The curtains eventually draw, and Sammy exits stage left, returning to the green room, He will hang his costume in the wardrobe and wash his face of makeup. Beneath it all is a tormented soul – a soul masked by an award winning performance. A performance that is put on every night. Alcohol and drugs had taken hold of him. They had gripped his soul and wouldn’t let go. The Johnsons would never know this. Neither would the Gibbs, or most of his coworkers. Guests would come in, and enjoy great food in one of Atlanta’s prized settings. That is what they were supposed to do. Their enjoyment was fundamentally dissociated from the performance put on by Sammy and the others that make this play go on. They are all actors. They all go home to their own lives of dysfunction. Lives of crying babies, their nearly foreclosed homes, and their love affair ruined lives. One of the cooks at the end of the night returns to the Fulton County jail where he is serving the last six months of a four year prison sentence. No one would have ever guessed. Here, it is their job, and they are paid to leave it all behind. At some point it all begins to catch up with you - there is nowhere else to run, no one else to turn to, and no one else to confide in.
McFadden walks Sammy out the back door where waiters and cooks gossip. They amble to his car and McFadden, from the remote on his key unlocks the car. They get in. A few words exchange before exhaust begins to pump from the back of the car, mingling with the humid air. The fogged windows hide the vehicle’s occupants as they drive out of view, leaving the busy restaurant in order to tend to more important things, the things that really matter. Atleast the Johnsons enjoyed the rest of their meal. Speaking of that.
“Did you get a business card from Mrs. Johnson before they left…. She was saying that her brother does roofing and we could maybe use his help since the damn landlord can’t seem to get it right” Sammy chimed in beginning to come out of sedation.
“I sure did – I was gonna give him a call in the AM, and I figured by the time you get back, we will have it all fixed up.”
“Back from where,” Sammy questioned.
“Let’s get you some help – I think you could use some,” Sammy’s boss suggested in the most earnest of tones.
They sat for a couple of moments in silence. Then Mcfadden turned the radio on so that it was barely audible. Sammy knew not to fight it.
“Okay, I can do that, let me get some rest tonight and we can talk about it tomorrow. Will you promise me one thing though,” he asked.
“Anything in the world,” Mcfadden insisted anticipating a serious request
“Let’s invite the Johnson’s back the night after the roof is fixed. I think they earned it tonight.”
“It’s a deal. I just hope it rains, they sit at table 20, and we don’t end up taking care of their tab again.”
Mcfadden patted Sammy on the back, rubbed his shoulders and smiled over at him. He was the father Sammy never had. Maybe that is what it all came back to. Sammy would have plenty of time in the coming weeks to think about that and the other plagues of his adult life. His time to start thinking started now, on his ride through the city back to his lonesome three bedroom house on a night he would never forget. Maybe it’s a good thing the tile over table 20 came crashing down. This he thought, and smiled, thinking about the debris that was probably still sitting loosely in the gray curly hair of Pat Johnson.

The Unwanted Job: The Dishwasher

The silhoutte of Atlanta’s skyline is ingrained in my memory, and the gold flecked capitol building has tinted itself in my mind. Forever. This place will always be home I keep thinking as the train rides into the tunnel towards the airport, hiding itself from the city. This journey South through the city has come to an end and it is one that has come to be all too frequent. I know the train stops like the back of my hands, and the people riding this train look eerily familiar, people I see in my dreams, and while driving, though none I know or have ever really seen. I am returning to a different kind of home, one away from my family with whom I shared the last weekend with – one of the greatest weekends of my life.
************



From the time he clocks in, he throws an apron over his neck and then ties it around his waist, fastening it close to his body, and is working harder than anyone else in this restaurant. The dish area is piled high from an afternoon’s worth of prep done by the opening cooks who hustled trying to get the kitchen caught up for dinner service after a busy weekend. Busy, receiving orders all morning the opening cooks were behind within moments of arriving. That’s how it always is on Mondays. Dirtied cutting boards, sauce slopped Robot Coups and bacon greased baking sheets were piled high in front of Margaro’s station, the Dish Pit. This was all to be done before anyone actually sat down to eat in this restaurant. He clocked in at 4PM and knew what to expect – it was a Monday after a busy weekend – this was his work, and he did it with fortitude and grace, never undermining the importance of his job. While yes, the dishwasher’s job isn’t one requiring high skill, it does require patience and strength to press on when dirty dish after dirty dish comes rolling in from the kitchen, dining room and bar. He scrapes, sprays and runs a load through the machine, then again – ensuring it’s cleanliness then stows it appropriately. Finally caught up from the earlier kitchen mess, Margaro sprays down the final sauce pot which was used for Beef Stock and rubs it feverishly with steel wool, placing it upside down in the machine, then presses the start button and walks away. He wipes his dirty hands on the bar towel that hangs from his waist, makes his way to the back of the building and pulls a cigarette from the half smoked pack in his back pocket. In the kitchen, Margaro is in his own world – communicating efficiently and infrequently – only when necessary and only when it involves work. On break though, he enjoys a single cigarette with the other kitchen guys before the chaos of dinner service has begun – it was a Monday though, and there were only 45 reservations in the books, meaning that he would most likely get the opportunity to sneak one more smoke in before the night was over. For Margaro it wasn’t an addiction, but rather a chance to step outside of the hot, steam packed kitchen whose temperature on a good night hovered around 85 degrees.
The night went smooth – plates from waiters were brought into the kitchen and scraped of any remaining food before being stacked appropriately near the dish area, where Margaro would seize them once a considerable pile had accumulated. The same was done with a steaming hot trough of silverware. Waiters tossed forks and knives, splashing the soap spiked water onto the already damp floor below. Cooks stepped around Margaro, tossing their final scorching hot sauté pans into the adjacent, half full sinks. By the time he would get around to cleaning them, the skillets would have lost all of their heat to the water in which they were bathing. “Caliente, Caliente guey,” echoes through the kitchen throughout the night indicating that yes, the pans are extremely hot. This is the last time Margaro would hear those words tonight. It was done. After 57 covers, and an early last call, the night was over.

Mexican mariachi music sways from the kitchen signifying the upbeat mood of the staff that is nearly finished closing up. Foods are wrapped and placed in the refrigerators, as certain sauces and side dishes are placed into smaller, more economical pans, The smaller pans are wrapped tightly as well, then dated, signifying when the contents inside should be used. The final dishes come over from the kitchen and are stuffed with dirty knives. The last stack of clean plates is placed above the expo window denoting their readiness for use the following day. After a couple more loads, Margaro cleans his machine, then mops the floor – attempting to free the kitchen tile of the grime that has accumulated since the restaurant opened years ago. Confident no more dishes are lurking, the dishwasher is turned off, as is the music, and is then followed by the light. Into the computer Margaro punches his four digit number for the second time today, indicating his work was done for the day. He tosses his filthy apron into the linen hamper, collects his belongings and wanders out to the front of the house, the part of the restaurant where he doesn’t really belong. The bar and the rest of the kitchen staff sip over a beer at the bar as he walks out the back door, barely able to catch the last train home. His plain white t-shirt is clean except for the areas that were uncovered by his apron, and it sits loosely around his narrow torso. Margaro’s black pants are bleach-stained around the ankles and his socks are soaked down to his toes - pruning and further callousing his worn out feet. After speeding past three metro stops worth of city lights and tunnels, Margaro peels himself out of the last row of the last rail car that is on it’s last run of the night. The walk to his one bedroom apartment was a half mile, and was enjoyed with a cigarette, while reflecting on the tiring day that is now over, and of the family he loves which is so far away. His four children and wife live in Mexico, and the sacrifices he had made are hard to comprehend. He works six days a week ….. Six hard days that result in enough money to send back home to his wife and kids….Enough to offer them a life of luxury, a life he never knew.
Walking into his lonely, bare boned apartment, Margaro turns on the stereo that sits above the pawn shop television, and the same Mariachi music from the restaurant begins to simmers softly, increasing in volume until he is content. He pulls a Tecate from the refrigerator, cracks it open and walks out to the front porch, leaving the door cracked so that the music coming from the living room was perfectly audible. He drinks the first beer quickly, grabs one more and a handful of chicharrones he fried just before work. The evidence of fried pork still lingers subtly in the air.
***
While thinking about those nights of Margaro sitting on that porch, rocking back and forth, singing inaudibly to the music that takes him to his homeland, I can’t help but think about how much he truly misses his family, and the wonderfully unselfish life he has chosen to live - all for them. Most nights he would return from work too late to call home, since his wife and children had long since retired for the night – they were living their own lives, and would awake to their own obligations and responsibilities. After having lived four years in the United States, how much longer could he work these long hours away from his family? When would he move back to the ones he sacrificed everything for? Based on experience, I have a suspicion it could be another four years, and at that point his children would never recognize him, and a life without him would almost seem normal……
Margaro will finish off the better part of a six pack and ache his way into the bedroom, falling into bed - forgetting to mute the music that would play throughout the ill-furnished and modestly sized apartment into the morning hours. He will wake up in a few short hours and do it all again. Atleast he will wake to the music of Mexico, and there will be pictures of the ones he cares about on the table next to him. He will shower, dress, and grab some more chicharrones for the road. The restaurant was awaiting him with a pit full of dishes, half full trash cans, and a stereo sitting above his station ready to take him home…........

Weeds - Weeds - Weeds -

For those of you who don't know what it is like to work in a restaurant on a busy night, here is a glimpse into that life......atleast the way I see it........Enjoy.


“I will have the Filet Mignon special, medium rare, with a side of béarnaise and for an appetizer the beef carpaccio. For the wife how about the snapper special, but if you don’t mind, please put the sauce on the side, then for an appetizer she will have the shrimp cocktail. With dinner please bring us each a glass of the oakiest chardonnay you have,” Mr. Benson screamed across the table trying to battle the crowd, hoping Russell Hodges, the most veteran waiter at this top notch steakhouse, would hear. Russell gives him a thumbs up, signifying he had everything locked in his brain, atleast for the time being. He better hurry over to the computer to type their orders in before his brain lets him down. Russell has six tables right now and is in the weeds, and at this point everything running through your brain begins running together. Waiting for Russell at the bar are two grey goose martinis that are extra dirty for the Bensons – the thin sheet of ice over the top of the martinis has now melted, signifying the elapsed time since the vodka was strained into the glass. Additionally, there is an Amstel Light, a Budweiser and a bottle of California Pinot Noir for the couple in the corner that is celebrating their 20th year anniversary. They called ahead and notified the maitre’d of the occasion and he in turn adorned the table with rose petals, started them with two glasses of sparkling wine, and treated them to a complimentary appetizer as well. They were pleased, but suffered from Russell being overly busy and unable to maintain his section. The maitre’d could tell and kept a close eye on Russell’s section. His walls were about to come down, and there was nothing he could do about it except to keep going. Two of his tables had paid, one was relaxing over coffee while the other sipped on the last sips of an 18 year old scotch… neither seemed to be in any hurry. This would help buy some time. Sweat dripped from his chin as he began his voyage to the bar.

The bar area is completely full with no passageway for the cocktail waitresses and servers. They are forced to dive through the crowd that is talking, drinking, and enjoying the music coming from the baby grand piano that is tucked away in the corner. Couples dance, while businessmen ash their cigars at a nearby table looking on – the customers are having a good time and are oblivious to the intense work that every single employee is currently dealing with. It is stressful, and all Russell wants right now is a beer and a shot of jager. That time will come in a couple hours, but for now he is buried with guests, 18 of them right now. After fighting his way to the bar and back to the dining room he delivers the martinis to the Bensons’ table, hands the overweight businessman in pinstripes his Amstel Light, his colleague the Budweiser then presents the bottle of wine to the anniversary couple. He nervously and frantically begins opening the bottle of wine, knowing his food for them was probably up in the kitchen window and starting to cool. He still needed to mark his six top with steak knives since their meals would be arriving soon, and drop off a cocktail fork for Mrs. Benson’s shrimp cocktail. After pouring the wine, Russell placed the bottle in a bucket next to the table that was filled with ice, keeping the bottle cold until they were ready for another glass. He then draped a white napkin over the bucket, and made his way to the kitchen, but not before another bead of sweat slipped off his bony cheek and soaked into the same white napkin covering the wine. Russell brushed the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his white oxford, and tossed his curly gray hair behind his ears. Weaving in and out of tables he made it to the kitchen where Jeff, the newest server had begun garnishing the plates, handing them to him. Hurrying to the table, Russell with four plates in his hands cursed under his breath remembering that he had forgotten to bring them steak knives. The plates were placed on the table accordingly, and he began the trek back to the kitchen but was interrupted when the host of the party asked for two bottles of Stags Leap Cabernet – a Napa Valley favorite. Russell nodded his head, and returned to the kitchen, moving faster than he has all night. More weeds. There are too many things to do – he asks one of the waiters if they could drop off six wine glasses to his party, and tells the food runner that the Bensons were ready for their appetizers, that they would probably be sharing and that they would need two appetizer plates, which he forgot before when he dropped of the cocktail fork. At the computer he prints out a check for his four top that is now done, and have passed on dessert, then orders the two bottles of Stags Leap. The bottles of wine are at the bar when he arrives within the minute, grabs them, drops off the recently printed check and begins presenting the wine to the host of the party. He asks and ensures that all of the steaks were cooked properly. They were. The kitchen is good – really good, and Antonio on the grill has beef cookery down to a science. He has been doing this for as long as Russell has been waiting tables. Russell pours each of the gentlemen a glass and thinks that he is almost caught up, and might be able to smoke half a cigarette in the next couple of minutes. The thought of nicotine plays with his mind. Cigarette smoke from the bar wanders into the dining room, as he walks by the Bensons who are now enjoying their appetizers. The beef carpaccio has a beautiful drizzle of truffle aioli that Mrs. Benson soaks up with bread the bus boy just dropped off. Russell walks by each of his tables making sure no one needs anything, then pours another half glass of wine into the glasses of the anniversary couple that smiles with half full mouths. He returns to the computer remembering the two glasses of wine that he needed to deliver for the Bensons when their entrees arrived. The wine would be waiting for him at the bar upon returning from his cigarette break. He passes by the window looking food that might be ready and then checks with his fellow servers to see if there was anything he could do to help them. He prances out the back door fleet footed and excited for that first taste of nicotine since the night began. Outside it is dark, and cold, and loud from the noise within. The nearby dumpster smells of rotten fish and stagnant water has collected near the door. A bowl filled with sand is overly filled with cigarette butts – most of which are half smoked, because no one in the middle of a restaurant shift has time for a full cigarette.

The night winds down. Tables are cleared, and then redressed with silverware napkins and appropriate glassware. Tea lights illuminating individual tables slowly disappear, as the wicks, then flames slowly run out of fuel. One after the other extinguishes darkening the room that is now nearly empty aside from bus boys who are sweeping the floor and refilling the salt and pepper shakers that sit uniform on every table. They joke in Spanish and wave goodbye to the Bensons, the last patrons to leave the dining room. The front door creaks behind them and the valet brings their Mercedes around to the front of the building. The bus boys scamper over to that last table which has been cleared aside from the two glasses of chardonnay which are finally empty and smudged with fingerprints. One is painted with red lipstick nearly all the way around the rim. The servers congregate near the bar chain smoking and retelling the night, counting their money. The restaurant did 190 covers, a better than average Saturday night- everyone made money, everyone is tired, and everyone is ready for a drink. Danielle pours each a shot of jagermeister. The glasses are drained instantaneously, and the group heads out the front door and into the world outside these walls, towards the bar across the street. Danielle will follow closely behind, escorted by two of the three bus boys. Margaro the dishwasher will see himself out the back door, hoping to catch the last bus home. At the bar Russell finds a seat with the rest of the service staff, enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting down after a long night, orders a beer and another shot – and a couple shots of tequila for the bus boys that would be arriving momentarily. After a couple rounds they call it a night and wander towards their appropriate cars waving goodbye to one another. Russell unlocks the driver’s side door to his Jeep, hops in and the cold leather of his seat chills his body. Tossing his apron and it’s contents into the backseat, he starts the engine, lights a cigarette and screeches out of the parking lot puffing smoke out the side of his barely cracked window. It was a normal Saturday night. Stressful, tiring, and exhilarating. Russell will do it again next Saturday. It will most likely be busy again, and the same need for Jagermeister will be present. The taste of black licorice never gets old after a hectic night in a restaurant.

Barcelona Part II - The End of the Story

Walking through the corridor attaching the kitchen to the dining room, we followed closely behind the waiter who was laden in all white, aside from a beige ankle length apron that was fastened around his waist swinging with every step, wrapping around his legs. A wine tool hung from his back right pocket, and the stencil of a pack of cigarettes was outlined in the other. He motioned for us to seat ourselves in the corner table, which appeared to be the only current vacancy. The dining room modest in size had a dozen tables, all holding two or four people and were lined up bistro style, except for a round table in the middle of the room. A 5 person bar sat against the wall contiguous to the kitchen. There were two waiters – Ernesto our waiter, plus one other - a short, stocky older man who seemed to be friends with each of his guests. Ernesto brought us a wine list, and in passable Spanish I asked, and pointed for the Txacoli - an interestingly complex and very unique Basque white wine.

The interior was musky and dark, with attractive, black cherry wood floors – the perfect contrast to the starched white linen hanging over each table. There were two square windows adjacent to the front door that looked into the lazy street outside. It was entirely dark aside from the occasional storefront lantern. From time to time young couples passed by walking their dogs casting enormous shadows along the cobblestone streets behind them. Our waiter returned in no particular hurry with our bottle of wine, and an amuse bouche of prawns over a nest of salsa romesco. He poured her's first, and then mine and placed the bottle behind the salt and pepper grinder. He pointed to a nondescript chalkboard hanging behind the bar, and written were the day's offerings. The chalk was faded, smeared and I was under the impression that this board didn't change all that frequently. Included were all of the unique Catalan favorites that the Barcelonans cherish - Sarsuela - a seafood combination with white wine, sherry and paprika, Fideua - a cousin of paella, and other local favorites including rabbit, snails and poultry. He merely gave us a thumbs up and smiled. Anna's glass met mine as we rubbed the final bites of our prawns in the last of the nutty, vibrantly orange salsa romesco, while chatting about the remainder of our six weeks in Western Europe. We were at the halfway point, and would be traveling to the Italian Riviera in a few short hours - a new country speaking a new language along a different strip of the Mediterranean Sea. We spoke of the amazing places and things we had seen thus far on our trip, spoke of life back home, how we missed our families but how we never really wanted to go home. Every day was a new adventure, a new cultural experience and this dinner was no exception. After a few short minutes two plates were placed in the middle of our already overcrowded table. We played chess with the various preexisting items in front of us - rearranging things in an orderly fashion that would allow us to eat comfortably. We never ordered anything. We smiled at each other, looked at Ernesto who was chatting with the chef and bowed our heads in appreciation. He returned the gesture. We were given Sarsuela, and the other dish - it was rabbit loin with currants and a smokiness of paprika served over a wildly aromatic saffron rice. We ate, marveling at the unique flavors of Spain. It wasn't European, nor North African, nor Mediteranean. It was all of those braided together and was wonderfully harmonious. We cherished the incredible meal from the back alleys of Barcelona while the restaurant slowly emptied out. We enjoyed the remaining sips of our wine, chatted with Ernesto about this city, where we were from, and why we were here. Conversation was minimal and elementary, since there was an obvious language barrier, one that couldn't be hurdled with my many years of school taught Spanish.

For dessert we sipped on sherry and when our glasses were dry and I asked for “la cuenta” Ernesto notified us that our meal had been taken care of. At this point the chef was sitting at the bar with a brown tinted aperitif, and a stack of papers with a pen behind his ears. There was still a meat thermometer in the sleeve of his chef’s coat, and he was going over the night while determining what needed to be purchased at the local farmer's market the following morning. Anna and I approached him. His face was dark and tinted with a combination of two to three day old black and gray hair. I introduced myself and grasped his hand, shaking it firmly - it was rough and calloused, signifying the life of a restaurant chef.

"Thank you so much for wonderful meal, that was too kind," I said with extreme gratitude.
"No, thank you. It has been nearly a month since an American has walked through these front doors, we are hard to find for most of you guys," he responded with, well, what seemed like an American accent.
"I find that hard to believe, but I guess you are a little off the beaten path. Your food was fantastic though. Every bite of it," I insisted, and then continued," If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"
"Me, oh I am from Boston originally, but that was many moons ago. I visited Barcelona when I was about your age. I was in culinary school and wanted to get away, had to get away, so I decided to do my externship here and never left. Being from Boston I had to be by the water, but the weather here - the culture here - the people here - you can't beat it. I couldn't leave. So here I am twenty something years later."
"Wow, that is incredible," Anna responded.
"So here you are - that really is incredible. I wish I could do something like that.... that we could do something like that," I said, then thought about the implications of what that would mean.
"Why can't you?" He inquired.
*****

I didn't really have an answer. Neither did she. Several moments passed and he smiled at us, shrugged his shoulders, then poured another scotch and offered us one - we passed. The rest of the night that question wandered through my head. Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I live that life? A life that is real, emotion driven and passionate......

The door swung behind us, muting the music within. We left the empty restaurant and found ourselves on an equally empty street under a cloudless sky, exposing the wondrous stars above. These were the same stars illuminating a similar sky across the mighty Atlantic Ocean, in a land very far from here. The flicker of flames from gas powered lanterns swung back and forth with the wind, and the smell of the salty sea took hold of me. It was eerily quiet except for the infrequent howl of a distant dog, or the chatter of Spanish drifting from one of the nearby porches. Though together, the walk back towards Las Ramblas was forlorn and introspective. Our thoughts coincided - thinking about the lives we were living, what they meant, what we were destined to do, and who we were to become. Slightly buzzed and full from a fantastic, authentic Catalan meal, we walked back towards a world we were more familiar with, a world that was safe and one which was filled with tourists that would return to their own lives, just like we would be doing at some point soon.

Barcelona - Part 1

The streets of Barcelona were bombarded with tourists and the smell of the salty air with it's healing power fortunately had the ability to clense my pores from the toxins that my body acquired last night at the discoteca. It was a night that ended at 5 AM, and was one that consisted of exotic tourists, a $50 cover, a $100 Euro bar tab, and five floors of utter insanity. It was an American nightclub on steroids... or maybe on ecstacy... yeah that is probably more accurate. Techno music blasted until the wee morning hours, and that is all I remember. Not sure if that's a good thing, I have a sneaking suspicion it's probably not. My liver is screaming at me, as my head whispers angrily into my subconscious......

We awoke at noon attempting to sleep off the hangovers from last night's insanity. Glass was shattered on the floor beside me - how it got there, I have no clue. I am trying to piece back together the night. I fail miserably. Shots of absinthe coupled with local Spanish wine clouded my mind as we discussed our plans for the day. We decided on Park Guell - a park that sits atop Barcelona looking down over the beautiful, ever changing, though historic city with the water of the mediteranean as a backsplash to this wonderous setting. Extraordinary mosaics, and statues line the park that was created by the Spanish artist Gaudi - it is marvelous and an inspiration to every tourist that ascends those steep steps to the top of this park that gazes down on the world below. Cars are tiny ants, trees are blades of grass, and buildings, I suppose they are pebbles. The ocean is bluer than blue, and a pencil thin strip of white is the beach - the last bit of land before the vast, endless ocean. The view from atop is spectacular and my girlfriend and I wandered the park, hand in hand with a crisp white wine, that wasn't nearly cool enough. This didn't matter though. We were content, and without a care in the world.... nothing else seemed to matter.....atleast for the time being.

We wandered down to the bottom of the park, and in my broken Spanish I told the cabbie we were heading to Las Ramblas, the entertainment district - he smiled and responded in English, nodding his head. We weaved in and out of the narrow streets of Barcelona at a frightening pace and he pointed, showing us all of the local attractions that we wouldn't get to experience since we were leaving Barcelona in the morning. We would be off to a new, and different city on this cultural adventure through Europe. We arrived at our destination where the streets were lined with vendors, restaurants, bars and boutiques. The area was congested, overcrowded with tourists and full of energy. Locals and tourists alike lounge on patios sipping sangria and eating appetizers of pulpo, tortilla and an assortment of olives paired with local cheeses and artisan breads. The sun is decending upon this beautiful city as we decide to venture off the beaten path in hopes of finding some authentic cuisine... something real.... We find an alley that seems to lead to know where - exactly what we are looking for. The cobblestone streets are rugged, seemingly centuries old and are ill-suited for vehicle traffic. There are no street lights, and the only sign of life is restaurant employees - we are apparently on the back side of a restaurant and they are on a smoke break, joking in Spanish, living their ordinary lives. We smile and they motion for us to enter. Why not? We are lead into the restaurant through the back door, the chef glares at us as he diligently sautees local seafood in their undersized kitchen. The restaurant is dark, with wood, and stone..... one thing is missing though.......


This is the end of Today's Blog - Tune in tomorrow for the =continuation.......

A Perfect Meal

The rastafarian next to me on the train is banging on his bongos like we are on the beach somewhere tropical. He is wearing earphones and seems to be the only one not bothered by the insane ruckus he is making. We are very far from tropical - the middle of the urban epicenter of the south, Atlanta, on a train nonetheless. Some of us are heading to work....some to school.... me, I am off to the airport to return to the life of a restaurant manager - a life of unparalled absurdity..... one of long, often unappreciated hours. I have just realized I left my keys at my parents house. These keys grant me access to my house, the restaurant, and my car. I guess I should get off at the next stop and turn around. I can always board a later flight.
Besides, that gives me more time to write. I need this time......


***

After a three hour ride through the countryside of Georgia, up the foothills of North Carolina and around their mountains and cliffs with the prestigious view of the world below, we arrive in Cashiers, NC. This is my Aunt Cynthia's house and this place is a sanctuary, however on this night it was dark, rainy, and cold; never a fun or desirable combination. The reason for the trip was a family reunion
for my mother's side of the family, the Porters - a family that I had never met, and knew nothing about, except that a quarter of my genes came from here. In the preceeding weeks, we were all given a family tree and other tidbits of information that might prove useful in unearthing and explaining a side of me that I simply knew
nothing about. My mother passed away before I ever got to know her as an adult, and shortly there after my cousins, my only attachment to the Porter side of the family moved away, thus here I was in North Carolina, with 30 people who I had never met. At the same time we had so very much in common, and it didn't take long to realize this.
We were crowded around the kitchen, living room and porch, chatting, playing games, and drinking in order to warm our souls from the cold air outside, while the translucent smell of a dijon crusted pork tenderloin roasting in the over began toying with our taste buds, as the apple and white wine chutney simmered away on the stove, gracing us with the wonderous flavors and aromas of fall. Bluegrass music whispered softly from the speakers overhead, and I was nominated to carve the meat a mere moments after walking in the door, not yet having met all of the people who by the end of the weekend I could truly call family. I took a quick swig of Woodford Reserve and headed into the kitchen. I asked my cousin Seth for a refill, thinking I would need one. Yes, more alcohol please. We had 16 pounds of screaming hot pork cooked perfectly, though not by me - I was just here for my knife skills. Apparently a number of my relatives had begun reading my blog and were insistent on seeing my skills at work. Though, the real skill was my Aunt Cynthia taking the meat out at the exact right moment, allowing it to rest for a couple of minutes, and at this point it would be nearly impossible to screw up. They marveled as a sliced the meat in 1/4 biased slices, exposing the pink tinted flesh within. They all cheered as the final pieces were plated and a generous portion of the apple chutney was then sprinkled on top. It was beautiful, and tasted just as good. It was served with winter vegetables, and some salad. As we enjoyed the thoughtfully cooked meal, stories were told, jokes were had, and we caught up on the decades of life we had spent without each other. We drank whiskey, and wine, ate homemade apple pies, and enjoyed each other's company until the wee hours of the morning.

I think a lot about the meals of my life. I often sit in my kitchen with a glass of wine or a beer mulling over menu ideas and recipes. I often create a really unique meal for myself, and I always plate it up like I am in a restaurant kitchen - I squeeze sauce over the meat, garnish the plate appropriately, and determine how it would fare in any high end restaurant. This is a meal that I have chosen to eat alone, but have spent no less time or put any less effort into. I equally enjoy going to restaurants with a beautiful girl on a date, or having a summer bbq with friends under the hot sun with cold beer and a football, but the meals and times I most remember are the ones that tend to happen with special people in special places in unordinary circumstances. My favorite foods don't necessarily correlate to my favorite meals. But rather those meals are.....Sharing tapas in an off the beaten path tapas bar in San Sebastian, Spain with the girl I, at one point, thought I would marry. Christmas with my family eating Lobster, spraying lobster juices in every conceivable direction. My first oyster with my best friend in Nantucket as a frightened ten year old - that was for a bet, and I won. Shrimp and Grits at my buddy Rich's wedding - seeing him happier than I ever thought imaginable. These are meals, but more than that they are memories, and have positive feelings and emotions attached. They were in special places with special people. So, yes I love Foie Gras, and I can't tell you how many fantastic, perfectly cooked Filet Mignon's I have had at Hal's Steakhouse, but if you were to ask me what my dying meal would be, it would be one that is based on a very unique and special memory.. When the great chefs of the world are asked what their dying meal would be they almost always respond with their favorite soup from their mother as a child, or the fried chicken their grandmother made until she died when they were adolescents. Yes, food is fantastic, and has the potential to truly take us somewhere else, but more often than not the thought of my favorite meals take me somewhere else - maybe home.... maybe to the coast or to Europe, or maybe to the mountains of North Carolina with the glorious Porter family that I have come to truly love. I guess when you think about it..... The food isn't really that important if everything else falls into place.......

The next morning we had locally stone ground grits, venison sausage which was also local, scrambled eggs and sourdough toast. I had three cups of coffee on the porch and looked into the crystal clear valley below. The colors of red, orange and yellow hung from the trees below, and smoke faded upwards into the sky from the fireplace that was glowing a beautiful hue of orange, sending the smell of burning wood into my mind. It doesn't get any better than this. It is now time for a hike - I just hope I am not too full, or hungover.... Hell, if I am, it is Saturday and it is the fall.... there is always college football.....


*****
The plane is making it's initial descent into Virginia, and I should probably go ahead and send this before my computer batter dies or the flight attendant verbally assaults me. I hope you all enjoy. Who knew family reunions could be so much fun? I had a sneaking suspicion they could be.....

Tailgating - Does It Get Any Better Than This?

RVs roll in by the dozen. They exit off I-2o coming in both directions and head towards the outskirts of campus. They start arriving on Thursday, and on some big game weekends their influx starts on Wednesday - beginning their massive takeover of our institution for the next few days. The parking lots around our beautiful campus methodically fill up with die hard football fans who will soon begin their tailgating festivities. This is a cult following that every saturday during the fall season travels around the southeast following the Alabama Crimson Tide. Every university with any football tradition has these fanatics, the ones who take off half of the work week in order to start prepping for Saturday's big game. So, the campers get settled in, creating their impromptu homes for the weekend..... They set up tables surrounding their area, connect televisions and radios to the RV's power supply, organize coolers properly, align chairs systematically and do all of this with precision and exactness in order to accomodate the numerous groups of friends and family that will stop by in the coming days to eat, drink and share the joy of football in the South. After all, this is their home until Sunday morning.

Friday comes and Tuscaloosa is considerably overcrowded. The town of 100,000 is now bombarded with atleast 150,000. Hotels are full, dorm rooms are packed, and old college bungaloo houses hold students from neighboring colleges - sleeping on the floor, on the couch, wherever they can lay their heads. After all, it is Friday morning when they wake and they most likely went out drinking the previous night - played a game of beer pong, or funneled one too many beers, thus the sleeping arrangements aren't paramount.... They will sleep just fine. Their friends that actually go to school here are most likely too hungover to go to class, and are simply resting up for the coming weekend - trying to deter the oncoming headache - usually some wings at Buffalo Phils does the trick, or a hearty breakfast from The Waysider. But the restaurants are packed and have a consistent hour long wait, and if you are looking to make reservations for Friday night you are atleast two weeks late, because there isn't a chance in hell you are gonna get one. Even with cancellations every restaurant in town is overbooked. Streets are blocked off with police baracades as they direct traffic, trying to maintain some sense of order as old college buddies wander the streets bouncing from bar to bar reminiscing about the good ole days - the days when they wandered these streets as students, inhabitants of this utopia. Friday night comes and the energy on the streets and around town is electric with chants of "Roll Tide Roll", as drunken college kids scream the chorus to "Sweet Home Alabama". They will be hoarse before the game on Saturday even starts, and after a game weekend in Tuscaloosa you will vow to never enjoy listening to that song ever again - it is played that much. Sorority girls dab their makeup on, getting ready for the hoardes of fraternity parties they will attend where they will drink crappy keg beer and Hunch Punch - a lethal concoction of juices, rum and if I had to guess, lighter fluid, that with a couple sips makes me feel like a lightweight, like I am eighteen again, trying to choke down that first beer that I hadn't acquired a taste for yet. They will get drunk, be asleep by midnight and most likely not remember anything after 10 PM, but that means that they will get a good night's sleep, which is important because they will be awakened at 10 am to commence the tailgating festivities....Everyone in town is up at 10 AM to get ready for this game, afterall that is what all of the commotion and excitement is about.

Saturday morning comes and the streets are lined with crimson, and every passing car seems to have an Alabama flag hanging from it. Groups of fraternity guys in khakis, buttondowns and sports coats walk their cute sundress wearing dates over to Bryant-Denny stadium on this prototypical fall day. Vendors are on every corner with hats, shirts, and other paraphenalia. The quadrangle, surrounded by white columned buildings, has been held captive by football fans - Tents with tables, chairs and TVs begin to fill with food. Chicken wings are frying; this I know because you can smell the poultry flecked oil from a mile away. Charcoal brickettes are being dusted with the juice from hamburgers and hotdogs, igniting the air with smoke and the heavenly smell we are all so familiar with - the smell that is so very American. Beers are poured into sixteen ounce red cups and flasks are filled with whiskey as tailgaters ready for the big game. Faces are stuffed with food and the tables that were once filled with burgers, wings, brats and brownies are now being packed up - saving some for later, for the postgame festivities, assuming we win. The streets and sidewalks that were once crowded are now unbearably full as game time approaches. The band in perfect uniformity marches, following the cheerleaders into the stadium . They play the school's fight song as on-lookers cheer, knowing that in a couple short minutes the game will have begun, and there will really be something to cheer about. Fathers hold the hands of their precious young daughters who marvel at the cheerleaders. They are wearing a smaller version of the same uniform, cheering the same cheers, dreaming of being here, a student, as one of them a short decade from now. They were born to into being an Alabama fan.... it wasn't a choice, it was a birth right, a destiny of sorts.

So, the game plays, and chances are we won - unless the game I am recounting occured during my tenure at this beautiful university. I'm not sure what our record was while I attended the University of Alabama, but it wasn't good - this didn't matter though. I guess that is what I am writing about. Tailgating stems from a passion and a pride for an institution - college or professional. It is about sharing a common pride, a common loyalty. So yes, for me Tuscaloosa, Alabama will always be the tailgating epicenter, the mecca of football tradition and pride, but as you read this I know you will have your own set of memories, stories and understandings of football and the pride associated with truly being part of a team, a university, an institution. I guess, what I am saying is, we tailgate for football games, but at the end of the day it is about so much more. It is about being a part of something. My heart aches for those beloved Saturdays in Tuscaloosa as a student, rallying around our football team, our university and the cammaradie that is the Crimson Nation.

Post you favorite tailgating stories..... maybe it will come from this weekend.... I am gonna post mine on Sunday.... Alec and Seth.... this is for you...... Y'all have a great weekend..... I am off to spend my weekend in the mountains of North Carolina with a bunch of Ohio State fans. All I have to say is - who is undefeated and number one in the country? That's right. Roll Tide. I actually might get to watch the game this week......

Wine - In Georgia?

I keep trying to put together some good content for the next couple of days, but I am continually distracted by all sorts of things, as I am back here in Atlanta, only for a day or two, and then off to North Carolina for a family reunion where I will meet half of where I come from for the first time..... I have a lot weighing on my mind, and I have some decisions to make, so the words aren't flowing freely like they usually do. They are slowly making their way onto my page.....onto my computer.... type .... delete... type ... backspace.... Okay, I think I have it. Here goes.......

Some time ago I traveled to the North Georgia Mountains where I did a piece for a magazine on local wine, so I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon driving north up I-75 to Crane Creek Vineyards. Aside from a small college, in the town that I have now since forgotten it's name, not much is up there. It is farms.....agriculture... and more farms.... I assume this is how it has always has been up there.... Fields of cotton, corn, and the other commodoties that have supported the local communities for centuries. Then a few daring individuals said, "Let's make some wine" - Why not? There are a dozen or so vineyards that drape these mountains and roll through the foothills and valleys of North Georgia that put out a decent quality wine.

The emergence of quality wine making in regions aside from California, and Europe is a relatively new concept. While I am not typically a fan of Australian wines, they have some top notch wines - both red and white, and they have mastered Shiraz. The same can be said about South America, and their love affair with Malbecs. Me, I love Chilean red wines. Now, I am not going to go the extreme of saying that the wine I have tried on a regional level here in the American South is comparable to the heavy hitters on the other side of the country - the one's in Napa, Sonoma and the Russian River Valleys. This, however, isn't necessarily a bad thing. The climates are drastically different, thus the grapes are different, and you can tell. Crane Creek didn't have a full bodied, incredibly robust red wine like the kind I prefer to eat with a nice piece of red meat, but they had wines with interesting complexities, using grapes I had never heard of. I have included that piece below - I hope you enjoy.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Nestled in the foothills of the Southern Appalachian Trail is a vineyard that sits two thousand feet above sea level in Brasstown Valley - the silhouette of Georgia's tallest peaks. I visited this quaint establishment on a rainy day in early April when the clouds sat like blankets on the nearby hillsides and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The trip to Crane Creek Vineyards is a quick two hour drive through the Georgia countryside. Situated in its' own little world in the sleepy, quasi-college town of Young Harris. The vineyard, founded by Eric Seifarth grows an expansive variety of grapes; both new and old world varietals ranging from Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Chardonnay, to new world varietals of Norton, Catawba, and the recently engineered Chardonel, which is a hybrid Chardonnay grape that was created in the labs of Cornell University.
Eric Seifarth, a native Atlantian, spent several tours of his career in the Army in the northern countryside of Italy after his graduation from West Point. Exposed and educated in an old family orientated cultural, which cherish there food and wine, Seifarth decided to take the knowledge he had gained in the countryside of Tuscany and start anew; an entirely new, foreign career. Seifarth's vineyard, opened 13 years ago, and was originally merely a supplier of grapes to local vintners, but has since grown into a full service vineyard with, a tasting room, and a guest house that sits on the side of a knoll overlooking a pond stocked with fish, and more grape vine draped hills.
Seifarth commenced to tell me the story of how he and his wife met, while she was working for the Army as a veterinarian, which she still practices to date. The couple, which purchased the land in 1995 lived in the charming farmhouse that was built in 1886, which has since been refurbished and is home to the retail shop, and tasting room.

Seifarth's wines are what he calls "accessible", and for any number of palates. For being a mid to small sized vineyard, in a state not necessarily known for it's wine, Crane Creek produces a surprising number of varietals. For reds, they offer a Claret, their Brasstown Red, which is a Merlot/Cabernet Franc blend, and a Norton, which is a full bodied bold and hearty wine (atleast bold for this region) perfect for the enjoyment of a steak dinner. For whites they have their Enotah, which is an okay Chardonel, very reminiscent of California style chardonnays. Additionally they have a blush and a Vidal Blanc which is an off dry, fruity, fresh, and grassy wine that begs to be drunk on the porch of a blazing summer day. While being walked through the production process, and through the barn, festooned with Oak and stainless steel casks, I was offered a tasting of each variety alongside other visitors, and with each we were pleasantly surprised. All of the wines had a surprising balance to them, several were fruit forward, while others were dryer. Tannins, which often contribute a sharp, overarching imbalance to young reds, were unexpectedly nonexistent, and this anomaly he attributed to the malolactic fermentation (the wine's secondary fermentation).
Noting their geographic location in north Georgia, home to some of the world's worst soil, I was beyond curious in wanting to know the effect the infamous Georgia red clay had on the production and the outcome of the wine, and Seifarth exclaimed, "Oh, the grapes, they love the clay. Perhaps too much. The Georgia red clay retains a ton of moisture, which results in absorption of water that is completely dissimilar to places like Sonoma and Napa Valley and other semi-arid places." This response led to my next question regarding the recent and seemingly ongoing drought that has plagued this part of the country over the last year. He commented, "The drought was beneficial for me, and every other vineyard in this part of the country. It allowed us to monitor the development of the fruit unlike ever before. I have a feeling that the 2007 season is going to yield our best season yet."
Well, we shall soon find out, since the 2008 vintage is virtually ready to be bottled, and to that I can attest. I had the opportunity to try the Sevyl Blanc right out of the stainless steel barrel, where it has been maturing for months. This is their first vintage for this variety, and it is what Seifarth is most eager about. It is an old world variety that was created in the 1880's and was at one point an extremely popular grape for producing lush whites. The crisp wine, Seifarth describes as, "becoming dry, austere and a somewhat flinty white, much like a good northern European Sauvignon Blanc. Here at Crane Creek we like to produce a very simple, classic style. It is a 100% stainless steel fermentation aging and it is a perfect match with fish dishes and chicken or veal with lemony piccata sauces."
I will admit up front that I was skeptical and simply unconvinced that reputable vineyards even existed in the state of Georgia. On the rainy day that I made the trip up I-575 to Crane Creek Vineyards, I was reluctant and even contemplated delaying the trip for a spring day when the sun was out and the flowers were blooming. I realized the beauty of the drive itself is almost worth it, though wait until you are there; the wine will send your taste buds into a frenzy, and will undoubtedly test all of your senses with an assortment of distinct flavors. Dreams that were dreamt in the Italian countryside have been born in a very distant land to a man with a vision and a passion to follow them. La Dolce Vita - the sweet life seems to flow from every glass, which seems quite appropriate. After all, their motto, "Wine is proof that God loves us", reigns so very true.