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.