Victor Decker: One Hell of a Guy

I almost always write about food.... sometimes food doesn't matter.... The following is my thoughts over the last couple of days.... My friend, and loyal police officer, Victor Decker - Gonna Miss you buddy....

We all have our own memories and stories.... laughs and jokes....tears and sadness. Especially now. Never more than now....It is hard to sum up a man's life in a couple of words, or paragraphs, and this certainly won't do any justice - writing has always been my escape, and I would much rather marvel and dance in the light of his life with these words than accept the painful truth that we are all dealing with in the loss of a great man, Victor Decker. For me, I heard the news and like, just about everybody, refused to believe it. Coping with death is something we all do differently and there certainly isn't any right or wrong way to cope. All I know how to do is appreciate the life that has been taken and somehow try and merely focus on the positive that this life represented.

It will take a couple of weeks working at Baxter's those same hours Decker was patrolling the streets, to finally believe and accept that he is gone. Right now, as I scribble away here in the office at Baxter's, I think that if things were different, he might be out at the bar joking around with customers and playfully giving my staff a hard time. That was his routine he almost nightly came in to check on things at Baxter's, where we would catch up on life, his newborn baby, or the progress of our sandwich shop, the 3Way Cafe, which finally opened back in May. When we did open the cafe he religiously ordered our "Pilgrimage" sandwich and over the course of his lunch moaned and groaned about the pains of having to sit through court, especially since he most likely worked until 3AM the night before. He always parked that F150 right out front, and it is hard to look at the pictures from the scene of his death where that truck is mounted on the tow truck - Shouldn't that convince me? I just don't want to believe, or come to grips with it, because its one of those things I will never understand.

Victor was exactly what a police officer should be - a public servant. He was fun and approachable, though took his job and responsibilities seriously - his accolades speak for themselves. Above all else, he cared - not just about us - his friends and the community, but he cared about anyone he could help. When he stopped by the restaurants, it wasn't to check in on and keep tabs on anybody - it was the opposite. It was to catch up on life, to tell us about the 3 hours of sleep he got the night before because of the baby crying, or to tell a joke. If I ever needed help downtown at the restaurant, I sent him a text, knowing if he was working I'd have an answer within minutes. If not, he was probably at home asleep, and in which case I reached for the house phone to call the police non-emergency line. I wasn't the only one - all of us bar managers had him on speed dial, and that wasn't because he was a loyal, and respected police officer, it was because he was a friend. It is incredible when you think about the relationship Victor Decker had with downtown Norfolk, and especially the bar and nightclub scene. He was omnipresent, and looked out for everyone's best interest, and above all a true servant.

One night a waitress of mine had too much to drink, a situation that unfortunately happens all too frequently in this industry, and Victor stumbled upon her bar hopping down Granby Street, and instead of charging her with being drunk in public or giving her a hard time, he escorted her over to Baxter's where I met the two of them. He and I made eye contact and he broke into an unforgetable grin, "She's all your's now - I'm done babysitting for now. When her old man gets here to drive her home, tell him to leave my check for babysitting...." We chuckled, and he wandered back to his bike where he was off to log another couple of miles, before the night was over. He was always proud to mention the number of miles his bike had logged since he began riding it back in January, and as we were closing up, Victor passed back by, and stopped in to make sure that my waitress did, in fact, make it home safely. He didn't have to do that. He wanted to....because he cared. He genuinely cared, and that seems all too rare these days. Take this story of compassion, and multiply it across all of downtown Norfolk and that is how Victor Decker will be forever remembered.

About five months ago, when we were in the process of opening our sandwich bistro, The 3 Way Cafe, myself and the other partners were working long, 18 hour days. Daryl Bresach one of the partners, along with myself calls this last summer, the "Summer from Hell". It was the night before opening the shop and all day we spent, with friends and restaurant employees, putting the finishing touches of paint on the walls, hanging the various pieces of art around the restaurant, and doing all of the last minute things that barely ever get done before opening. We finished around midnight with blood shot eyes, and drained immune systems. For three months sleep was an after thought, but we wanted to show our appreciation to our friends who were able to help make this day a of becoming a restaurant owner a reality, so we wandered over to one of the local bars where we treated our generous friends to a couple of cold beers and a round of shots. My body was tired from the long weekend managing at Baxter's, and any other time was spent at the sandwich shop trying to tie up loose ends. I knew the morning would be here before too long, and the last thing I wanted was to spend the first morning at the new restaurant hungover. I wandered over to my car and began the trip home, to Chesapeake with a slight buzz, which turned out to be a bigger buzz than I perceived. Flashing police lights lit up my rear view mirror and I appropriately pulled my beat up Lexus over to the side on City Hall Avenue. The officers did their duty, and I tried to explain my hellish day, my forgetting to eat dinner, and offered to stay at 3 Way Cafe, a mere block away, to sleep it off. Within five minutes there were three police cars at what you thought would have been a drug bust, or worse. I was asked to step out of the vehicle, and I blew into their breathalyzer, which of course is standard operating procedure. In my mind all I could think about was where the hell is Decker, he's gotta be out tonight..... It turns out he wasn't out. He was at home sleeping. I told the officer who pulled me over that I was the manager at Baxter's at the beginning of the ordeal, and pleaded for mercy. It turns out that the officer, without my asking, called Victor Decker at 2 AM and was sound asleep with his beautiful wife. The baby would be waking in a few short hours, and he almost always religiously turned his cell phone off, in order to get a good, uninterrupted night sleep. "He's a good guy, a real good guy - tell that knucklehead to take it easy and that he owes me a free sandwich if that sandwich place ever opens."
"Turns out its openning in the morning, get some sleep buddy."

Well, sure enough Victor Decker came in that first week we were open and ordered the "Pilgrimage". I noticed him, though didn't want to make eye contact with him, since I felt the kind of disappointment equivalent to that of letting one's parents down. He smiled at me, I walked around and gave him a big hug. All he did was shake his head and smile. The officers didn't know that I knew Victor Decker, they did however know the relationship he had with all of us, all of us restaurant people downtown. They knew if I was a guy worth giving a break, then Victor would know and vouch for me. I didn't deserve this, its simply the kind of guy he was. He was selfless, larger than life, and will always be a part of this street. I still don't have the words to express my sadness and anger and pain. The only hope is that time will heal, and with time we will all be stronger. Now all we can do is give time, time and remember the joy he brought to all of our lives, and if nothing else encourage the public servants we know in each of our lives to use him as an example. Hell, if they did, this would be a much better place. See you on the other side my friend. Thank you for everything.

Deep Thoughts Analogized with Soup.... ha.......

Creamy Potato Soup with Havarti, Crispy Pomme Frites and Chive Oil - Recipe Below

There is something special and eternally gratifying about creating a meal.... Think about it - whether you are cooking for yourself, your loved ones or patrons at a restsaurant, the end product, whatever makes its way onto the plate or into the bowl is your creation - it will never be eaten nor exactly replicated ever again.... Sure there have been a million Cream of Potato Soups - some of which are very similar to mine, but none identical. Perhaps I am looking too deep into all of this or maybe I merely using this as an example of merely one facet of my life - our lives... So work with me here.... take that idea and spread it across your life, community, country, culture religion and the world. If you take this idea across the idea of human nature and through the spectrum of life which are defined by inherent emotion and worth, you recognize how incredibly distinct every person is with the choice to create their own future...We are continually defining it and creating our own "dishes" every day....Why not try and make it a good one..... So here, I am making an analogy in relation to soup which could potentially come across silly, though the soup is very tasty soup, and one I am proud to serve - whether my customers like it or not is irrelevant, because its mine - the biproduct of my efforts, both physically and mentally, and is the result of many educated choices along the way. Make educated choices, and start actively defining your future, thats what I vow to do, in my own life...... Anyway, back to the soup..... I can't wait to serve it tomorrow... I just hope our guests make the right choice by ordering it... :)

I just finished cooking soup for tomorrow's Lunch at 3 Way Cafe..... Cream of Potato... So, what I did is as follows..... I cooked the potatoes which I made into 1 inch cubes, in chicken stock. I added some onion powder, white pepper and a small pinch of nutmeg. Halfway through this cooking process (15 minutes at medium high heat) I tossed in the white part of green onions, some garlic cloves and a bouquet garni (a bundle of herbs tied together - here I used thyme and parsley), until everything was tender....I let things cool just a bit, and pureed everything, though started slow, as to not sending steaming hot liquid up and out the side of the machine. Once I had pureed everything, I passed it through a strainer to ensure that no clumps were still lurking. This also helps make the puree incredibly silky. I returned the mixture to the stock pot, added some Heavy Cream and a Havarti Mornay.....A mornay is a cheese cream sauce that is made from a roux, which is a mixture of a "fat" and flour - I used bacon grease, to give that "loaded baked potato" feel... Combine the flour and grease over low heat, stirring constantly to ensure that the flour doesn't burn - this also helps prevent any raw flour taste from leaching into the final product. So, once the flour and grease are incorporate and mixed for a minute or two, whisk in heavy cream and bring to a slow boil and add cheese. For me, I have chosen to finish it with Chive Oil and Crispy Pomme Frites....I feel the intense green color of the chive oil will be a wonderful contrast to the rich, creamy and blanket white soup that it will be garnishing.

Soups.... Almost that time of year.....

SOUPS

Everyday for the openning month of 3WAY CAFÉ I made three soups a day – we were trying to run with the concept of “3” as much as we could to detract from the sexual undertones that the name implied. We did, however, open in May, not the most conducive month, or time of year to move a lot of soup. The first week I even ran two cold soups: Canteloupe Bisque with Mint, and Hawaiian Black Sea Salt, then also a Guajillo Pepper Gazpacho – I sold a cup or two of each over the course of a sixty person lunch. After that first month we cut it down to a “Soup of the Day”, atleast for the blazing hot summer months, and on average still on served a couple cups a day – there would be days when I literally wouldn’t sell any. Talk about frustrating.
Fortunately we have some good regulars, and everyone seemed to be responding well to the new sandwich bistro downtown. A local artist in the nearby arcade comes by atleast twice a week and gets a cup of soup and enjoys lunch by herself, reading the newspaper while Frank Sinatra whistles over head. My face brightens when an order for soup comes in, I look at Ron and blurt, “Hell ya!”, and once my excitement is over, I always do my best to see how the customer liked it. Almost daily, somewhere around halfway through lunch the batch of soup is almost always half gone. My business partner Daryl, and his girlfriend Kat are two of the biggest soup fanatics I know…… Ironically, I don’t really even like soup. Sure, I like them as much as the next guy, but I enjoy making soups because I enjoy layering and building flavors, and seeing ingredients come together into something special. Like every other aspect of cooking the art of saucier is merely understanding and recognizing your ingredients, how they work with each other, how the flavor profile changes upon cooking it, and determining the right amount in relation to every other ingredient you have.

Anyway, Daryl and Kat give my soups unwavering praise, and I always have them try a couple spoonfuls before we open to ensure that it’s to their liking. Our cook Ron and our delivery driver Barrett have joined their team in an assault to put a hit on my soup. Just last week the four combined ate nearly all of my soup before 1 PM – it was a Roasted Tomato Bisque that we were running as a special with a “souped-up” grilled Cheese – we sold a near record 5 cups of soup, which sounds silly, though three of these came after the lunch rush – we only had two cups left to sell. I literally, in 5 minutes scrambled to stretch the two cups with some cream, a little chicken stock and some corn starch. I made Barrett puree some roasted tomatoes for me, and by the time I was done making the soup nearly every four-letter word escaped my mumbling breathe, and Ron who was putting the final touches on a few salads for a to-go order could barely keep from breaking into an enormous laugh. Daryl, the biggest soup culprit of them all was reclusive in the back office knowing my head was about to explode. All I kept murmuring was, “can’t y’all just wait until “expletive” lunch is over and then you can have all the “expletive” soup you want!” I ironically was frustrated at the fact that we actually sold soup! HA! In those first couple of months, it couldn’t have been more frustrating to see batch after batch of soup go to waste, not to mention the countless man hours it took to create these soups, though it did however give me a chance to refine my recipes, and thankfully Kat kept track of how many different soups were made in those first months, and the number is somewhere in the thirties. Many of those recipes are in the pages to follow – some are cold, most are hot. Most aren’t very difficult to master and they are pretty tasty. Well, that is atleast what Daryl tells me – that way he can eat all of my soup, butter me up, and I can’t get mad when we run out. So, that afternoon, Daryl finally came out of hiding as Ron and I were cleaning up the kitchen. We were joking about my rare explosion over the soup incident. I looked at Daryl, Daryl looked at me then he made eye contact with Ron. Ron turned away, cracking the slightest of smiles, “Damn, Daryl, so nice of you to come on back now…Now that he’s done screamin and cursin….” Daryl, started, “Chris makes great soups, Ron – you don’t think this episode is going to stop us do you? Hell, he just better start making bigger batches….

Birthday... Number 29....

The sun is trying its best to relocate for the night as the sky turns a million different shades of blues, yellows and reds. the beach begins to empty for the day, aside for a couple hand in hand and a young couple who is playing in the surf with their young child -they appear to be fighting the waves from their sandcastle, and since high tide is only a few minutes away, maybe they will succeed, but by the sun will be down and i will be sitting down to dinner with my family for our last meal here on the perfect vacation. today is my birthday, and i can think of no greater way to spend it, except for having my brother peter here and perhaps a small handful of close friends. this vacation has helped me clear my head and refocus my life on the things in life that truly matter. family is at the top of my list....

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Thoughts from the Carolina Coast....

I'm sitting here in my rusted and barely able bodied beach chair watching the waves lazily slide across the sand in front of me as my niece, elle, runs in circles sending her golden lockes in every possible direction as an omnipresent smiles glows from her innocent face. i barely remember those days and my life now is the antithesis of that childhood carefree naivety. we spent the morning on the water in the inner dwellings of the wando river where the sign of human life barely seemed present. the occasional hum of a boat motor drums in the background and a couple minutes later a couple half hearted wakes come splashing against us, rocking the boat ever so slightly.... we caught some 40 fish over the course of four hours, many of which we couldn't keep due to the size, though we returned with 7 pounds of seawater brined red fish and flounder that our captain fileted for us. it doesnt get any fresher than this anywhere.... its hard to believe that earlier today these fish were swimming in the vast atlantic ocean a few hours ago, living their lives in much the same way as my precious little niece..... the sun is starting its grand descent over the salt marsh and mud flats through the intracoastal water way and behind the various bridges conjoining the various barrier islands... seagulls glide with the wind parralel to the wando river and another flock simultaneously flies in the opposite direction parralel to the beach towards charleston. i suppose its time to go inside and help dad prep for dinner. kitchen 101... pan roasted red fish with lemon beurre blanc....

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Sunsetim

I'm here on vacation with my family right outside of chaleston, south carolina...... we are here on the porch catching up on the the lives we have missed out on over the past couple years and months..... its funny how the future sneaks up on you and all of the sudden I see my parents continuing the traditions that my grandparents most likely carried on from their parents. its amazing how much better the sunset looks when you know work is atleast a couple sunrises away and you are with the people you most care about.... I'm making an horsd'ouvre tomorrow night and a cocktail to go along with it.... that is all the cooking I will be doing.... I'm pretty sure that's what I need....

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Pride and Parents

My body hurts. Badly. Everywhere, and that includes my head. My eyes don’t want to open, and they don’t really have to yet, atleast I don’t think they do. The humming of lawn mowers innocuously blare in the background, and my thoughts are that it is still early. Yesterday was another 18 hour day, and I keep thinking that pretty soon this is all going to catch up to me. Maybe it will at some point…..
I have since , crawled out of bed and into my car and headed to work for our monthly bar clean. It is over now and I sit at the bar and reflect on the past week with a mimosa, my laptop, and golf whispering in the background behind me.
I have lived here for nearly two years and am well on my way to making some of my dreams a reality. I wanted to be a restaurant owner by the time I was 30 and, with hard work, dedication and a little help along the way that dream has been realized. My parents came into town for the first time this past week, and while anxious and somewhat emotional, I was incredibly proud to show them my first restaurant. I cooked them lunch as they wandered around the restaurant inspecting the art, perusing the menu and talking about what was, partly mine. I constructed a couple sandwiches for them, plated them with chips, walked them over and explained exactly what they were, and grabbed a seat next to Cheryl, my adoring and ever gracious stepmom. They ate, and we caught up on life - how things were going back home, how I was liking life here and the whole time they seemed to be smiling at what I had made for them. It is hard to describe the emotion that shot through me on that first day my parents came into my restaurant. If nothing else, it shows me that I am doing the right thing with my life, and that moving up here, while risky and uncertain, has paid off. I can rest now, knowing that my parents are proud of the steps I am making towards the future, but I won’t rest, because this is only the beginning. It seems ironic to me that, the very same day my dad and Cheryl came in for lunch to see the restaurant, was also my Mother’s Birthday. She would have been sixty, and though she couldn’t be here to see it, I know she is looking down with a smile.
The rest of the day I showed them around town, and drove the streets of the beach community where my Dad and Cheryl both grew up, though none of it had any sense of familiarity to them. All of the nostalgia has been replaced with over-commercialized streets that are lined with tourist ridden sidewalks, shops and restaurants. We had dinner and drinks and enjoyed each other’s company, which came all too brief, when we hugged at the end of the night.
The next morning as I was putting the final touches on my Cream of Mushroom soup for lunch service, Cheryl wandered up to the door. Her and my dad were on their way to the airport, and wanted to say goodbye one last time. I hugged her, as my dad smiled from the rental car in front of me, and we embraced for a couple of moments. I then thought about our wonderful time yesterday, what exactly it meant that they came to see me, and how this emotion could be translated into the future. My dad beckoned her, and I offered my thanks for them stopping in. I told her to wait momentarily and I ran into the kitchen quickly, poured some of the soup into a carryout cup for her, blew them a kiss, and wandered back inside where the hot kitchen was again waiting for me. We got busy over the next couple of hours and it wasn’t until after the lunch rush that I got the message, “Soup was delicious Kiddo.”
All along I knew this was the right move, I just needed this to help realize that. The future is mine, and the possibilities are endless….For now, it is back to the cutting board……
CH.

Sandwich = Happiness

I just got off the phone with my cousin, Courtney, who in a lot of ways is like myself. I think we both felt the pressure, as we worked our way through college and trying to figure ourselves out, to live the lives of our fathers have - the lives of picket fences that are bought with stock dividends, Country Club memberships that are granted through work relationships, and the notion that driving expensive cars seems to convey one's level of education. Hell, we both went to some of the best schools in the country, had great jobs, but weren't happy doing what we were supposed to be doing. So, we talked about 3Way coming a reality, and how she recently finished a week long seminar on opening a Coffee shop. I am excited for her, and regardless hope she follows in the way of her dreams. I can't begin to describe how important it is to spend your life at work being happy, and feeling fulfilled. Literally, today - they highlight of my day was one sandwich.
King Matt, a friend of the downtown Norfolk community and an employee at two of our other restaurants came in to 3Way for lunch, ordered a Corned Beef and Swiss Sandwich, with one request and that was to leave off the Mustard. I, smiled back at him, "Dude, the mustard literally makes the sandwich...." His hungover eyes offered no rebuddle, but I pulled the meat out of the fridge, emptied it from the portion bag and slathered it over the hot griddle, which sizzled and screamed as the two contrasting temperatures played games with each other. I grabbed a handful of previously caramelized onions and tossed them amongst the meat, and laid two pieces of jewish rye bread face down, in order to create a buttery sear on the outside of the bread. I momentarily neglected the sandwich as I was prepping a soup for tomorrow, and when I returned, everything looked perfect. I mounted the sandwich with grace, placed a slice of swiss cheese centrally across the bread and meat, and gave it the chance to melt in our convection oven for a couple of moments. I don't think I have ever seen a more beautiful toasted piece of bread. The shear goodness of a buttery shine bounced off the flesh of the rye and swiss cheese began to drape itself around the meat, infringing on the bottom piece of bread. I delicately relocated the sandwich onto my cutting board as I took it out of the oven, inserted frill picks into either side of the sandwich, and, on the slightest of biases cut through the sandwich. It was one of the most beautiful sandwiches I have ever made, and it was simple - nothing special or unordinary about it. I plated it with a pile of parmesan-cracked peppercorn chips and eyed the sandwich as I walked it over to Matt. I smiled at him again, and wandered over to the soda fountain for some Diet Coke. A moment or two later I walked back passed him, and he said this - "Chris, ya know I left my house a couple of minutes ago, and thought where do I wanna go? How about 3Way I.... then I Got here and was still unsure of what I wanted.... then I ordered this sandwich and you were giving me shit for leaving off the mustard, and thought is that what I realy want? I just took the first bite, and I am pretty sure I knew all along what exactly it is I wanted, I just didn't know it would be this damn good." I smiled at him and walked back to the cook's line where I needed to tend to the soup I was working on.
So, ya that is a story about making a sandwich, but when it comes down to it, it is all about caring - caring for the ingredients you are working with, and caring for your customers. For me, it is all about making people happy.....

The Last Month.....

I haven't had the chance to sit down and write in some time now. The blarring of Chunk from The Goonies voice is on the TV behind me as I flip my perfectly golden egg-white omelette...My toast smells lightly browned, and the heat from the oven slips out and into my face as I open the door to retrieve the buttery potato bread. I just now realize I haven't turned the TV on at home in probably a month. Maybe longer. My legs hurt, and I haven't been to the gym in 5 days. I feel old, and am waiting for gray hairs to pop through my scalp, and for a doctors visit that is laden with blood pressure medicine. The last month has been a whirlwind of excitement. I am more behind on laundry and cleaning than I ever thought imaginable, and I have been a bad friend, brother, son and Uncle. So, sorry guys. Our sandwich shop,the 3Way Cafe transformed from merely an idea into a restaurant, and it happened through dedication, working 18 hour days and ceaseless vision. We opened this past Monday, and I was exhausted after having worked all weekend at Baxter's, then spent 12 hours on Sunday prepping the kitchen - making soups and sauces, and portioning meats for what would be our first lunch the next morning. I made a Southwest Broccoli and Cheese Soup, and Chix Tortilla garnished with fresh Salsa, and a Balsamic Glazed French Onion Soup. After about a week, I realized how old it can become to make three soups everyday in an unorganized and cluttered kitchen. Everyday as we were closing up, my soups simmered away, and as I pulled my phone out to check the time, I had a handful of missed calls, twice as many text messages, and knew I was going to be late for work at Baxter's. I have always said, well, that's the life of a restaurant manager. Now, I can atleast replace manager with "owner". Hard work and dedication pays off. This is only the beginning....

Between the Bread

I could write an entire book on this topic, and honestly I will probably attempt to do so at some point in my life….. Sandwiches are transcendentally universal. Virtually every restaurant in the country serves some kind of sandwich. Bread, instead of restricting welcomes just about anything, and serves merely as a glue for what you want to put inside. I recently dined at the Route 58 Deli in Virginia Beach to do some market research for our new sandwich shop the 3Way Cafe, and here the sandwiches are piled high with nearly a pound of meat. There is not nearly enough bread, and virtually everyone takes their leftovers in a box. While, it is a hell of a lunch, it’s gonna run you 20 bucks when you throw in a drink and gratuity – hell the sandwich doesn’t even come with a side, and you have to pay extra to get your sandwich grilled! Don’t get me wrong, everything was delicious. We feasted for an hour on our sandwiches, French fries, and desserts, while we analyzed the restaurant. I began to think about the perfect sandwich and how to define that. I’m unable to do so, but I think it begins with the bread, and the bread is the first problem I had with the Warm Pastrami sandwich I had for lunch that day. There wasn’t enough of it. It couldn’t stand up to the massive amounts of meat…. Or is the over abundance of meat the root of the problem?

4 Keys to Sandwiches
Bread: Balance between crunchiness, softness and thickness – it needs to be durable, but not teeth-breaking hard. This is the most important element to any sandwich.

Proportional: Everything should be proportional. Meats – to Cheeses – to Veggies – to bread – to sauce – If you can’t taste everything in a single bite than the essence of what you are making gets lost. A Reuben consists of Rye, Corned Beef, Saurerkraut, and Thousand Island. If there is too much Saurerkraut then the meat fades into the background, or if there isn’t enough dressing then the sweet creaminess to balance the sharp taste of the kraut doesn't prevail. Everything should have a reason.

Balance of Flavor: If you have a spicy component, cool it off with a fruit glaze or spread. If you have a strong cheese, it needs to be balanced out….. think about how you can incorporate fruits, and caramelized vegetables, which will add an added depth.

Temperature:Hot vs. Cold – I will almost always order a hot sandwich when one is available…. As long as the ingredients, when warm, have a combined balanced flavor profile, and that the ingredients work well warm. I.E. – I despise tomatoes and avocado when warm.

Hospitality in Business

Busy is a good thing, though at times we can become distracted from the important things that keep us going, the things that drive us to be here in the first place, and it is those things that continually move us in the right direction - in the direction of our dreams.... Anyway, I have about a months worth of ideas, stories and life from the food world to share, so that should be enough material to keep me busy for a while.... Now,if there were only 4 more hours in every day I would be set....
As the local downtown area worsens in terms of construction and desired clientele I naturally take a step back to look at the way we operate as a business. The number of heads that walk through our door are less than they were six months ago, and it is something that traditional advertising has no control over.... As we engage in more direct social media there are definitely ways can further leverage those mediums and tap into them(i.e. facebook, myspace, twitter)in ways our competitors currently don't, but irregardless, I still spend more time on marketing our brand than ever before. So in times when the negative factors surrounding us, as a restaurant, outweigh the positive reasons for coming in, how do you increase your market share? How do you convince your target market to jump through hurdles like the local construction, a lack of parking, and a diminshed desired local demographic. How do you? Speecials can do it, differentiating your product offering can, but in an area with competition is stiff, what can do you? Well, its simple - you work as hard as you can every day to make and keep your customers happy. You make them feel like they are a part of the restaurant, and the community. You take an active interest in their lives, you make them feel like you care, because in reality you do care..... For any of us that are in the industry, it should be because it is what we love, however so often we get clouded with the rigorous grinds of daily life in this industry. The long hours begin to take a toll on us, the complacent staff can at times be unbareable, the competition is brutal and the challenges to business survival never seem to want to go away. The other day there was a situation involving a waitress of mine - A customer was greeted at the front door, a server took care of the customer by directing them to a table and handing her a menu. The guest ordered a glass of water which was delivered, but then the customer was neglected - not intentionally.... the waitress forgot about the lady for ten minutes, until while circling the dining room she was delivering food and drinks to other diners, and was flagged down. The guest bantered with my waitress in a serious though friendly tone regarding the situation. Apologies were made, the lady ordered some food and it was delivered some fifteen minutes later - it was a medium-well burger which we overcooked - when I learned of the situation my waitress commenced to complain about how the customer was being rude, and kind of testy. I handled the situation appropriately, explaining that I wasn't really upset at the fact that the customer was neglected. Yes, that is terrible customer service, and shouldn't be tolerated, but what grinded my gears was that she acted almost as if she was being inconvenienced by the customer. My thoughts are this - Okay, first we messed up by giving poor service, then on top of the poor service we improperly cooked her food. Does she not have a right to be upset? Why would this customer ever come back? We didn't do a damn thing right in this situation. Hell, once a mistake is made it is up to us to correct it, then coddle the customer so much that they recognize we, as a business, don't accept mistakes. We are here to make and keep them happy, and so many workers in this industry don't get it!!! So often, I have taken a situation that could have potentially turned for the worse and twisted it to make a story that in the ened the customer ca't help but see in a positive light. Hospitality is an ideology, and something that I think, for the most part we are either born with or we aren't. I firmly believe that my purpose on this earth revolves around making people happy. I smile when someone cuts into a perfectly cooked steak, or downs a perfectly salted dirty martini. Groups of friends gathered around the bar enjoying beers and each other's company is incredibly satisfying and humbling, and it is something that I am happy to be a part of. I, as often as possible, attempt to show an active interest in our customer's relationship with us as a restaurant and a place to escape. All it takes is a smile and a thanks, a message on facebook, or asking somehone how their day is going. It isn't hard and is the greatest way to create valued customers who will in turn become ambassadors for your brand. So, no, we aren't perfect here, but if we, as ambassadors for hospitality, truly pride ourselves on taking care of our customers by making them feel appreciated and part of our community, then they will be a part of us, and regardless of the circumstances make an effort to support us, for no other reason than that they enjoy being a part of us..... So... Construction? Who gives a damn.... Inadequate parking? Hell, the customers we want, if treated hospitably will walk a couple blocks if we give them a reason to make it worth it. It is up to us to make it worth it. It starts with each and every one of us making an effort everyday. Every single person can make a difference, and if someone isn't making one, then its time to ask, why are they still working for us?

The Art of Tipping

A restaurant in any downtown area will inevitably be confronted with the strangest of circumstances and our’s is certainly no exception. Last night I had to out kick four homeless guys that were trying to bum money for a drink or to satisfy their crack habits and this was a slow Tuesday. Way too much drama for a slow Tuesday. This next story happened last night and while dramatic, to me is more of a combination of sad and comical.

To set the stage, our restaurant hosted a series of video game tournaments for XBOX featuring John Madden’s NFL football game. Basically, a bunch of nerds, rednecks and thugs(it is amazing the diversity of culture, or lack there of this type of event brings) get together and play against each other in a double elimination tournament. By seven o’clock the restaurant was beginning to fill with customers for the tournament as well those who were simply looking to wind down with a cocktail after a long day at work. One of our most seasoned waitresses approached me in the kitchen as I spoke with Baxter, my cousin and the owner of our restaurant. She showed me the credit card receipt where customers who pay with credit card are to leave gratuity, then below that total the bill and sign. It is something we have all done probably thousands of times, and being in this industry it a piece of paper I see several hundred times a week. Sometimes the gratuity is considerably more than expected, sometimes the inverse, and sometimes there is nothing at all. It all comes with the territory of working for tips – not everyone appreciates and understands the idea of customer service and the respect that should be given to the ones who serve us. It is my job to ensure that if someone chooses not to leave a tip, or if the tip isn’t proportional to the typical standard in relation to the bill, to find out why exactly they didn’t leave a gratuity for the waitress or bartender. There are circumstances where on a busy night our staff is overworked with customers and potentially gave poor service, or maybe one of our feisty girls was having a bad night and came across rude or unprofessional. There are a number of reasons why someone might choose not to leave a tip, and one of the circumstances in which I approach a customer is when I feel their actions have intentionally disrespected my staff. This time, Kat, my waitress handed me the signed slip and on the line allotted for a tip it said, “Sorry not today, great service though.” I looked at her, then at Baxter, baffled trying to figure out what she meant by this and how this person could justify writing what they did. To me, this made no sense whatsoever. If you get received great service, and recognize that then there is no circumstance in which you shouldn’t take care of the service staff. Not a single one. Kat motioned towards the table and the individual that paid for the two drinks, that during happy hour only totaled $4.50. She didn’t even leave a tip on discounted items! It was an overweight middle age black woman who was short with orange tinted hair, wearing tighter than appropriate acid washed jeans and the hue of gold lining her teeth –they seemed to match her hair. She wasn’t our typical customer and far from our desired clientele, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt, walked over to her and in a surprisingly pleasant tone had the following exchange with her.
“Mam, my waitress showed me your bill and the signed credit card copy, which stated that you got great customer service…. If you don’t mind me asking, if you acknowledge that you did, indeed, get good service, then why would you choose not to leave a tip?”
“I didn’t leave no tip, cause I ain’t got no money.”
“I see, but you had enough to purchase the two drinks, it seems like you could have potentially purchased one less drink in order to take care of the service you received?
“I ain’t gonna overdraw my account just to leave a tip. I don’t gotta leave no tip.”
“If you can afford a drink, but not the gratuity on it then maybe you should reconsider going out. My waitresses make two dollars an hour and rely on their customers to make money.”
“What the fucks that s’posed to mean? Maybe you should pay them more,” she exclaimed beginning to get fiery.
“Mam,” I paused trying to find the words that might help her understand, “ I am selling you a vodka tonic for two bucks, so yeah, I could pay them more if I was charging twice as much for a drink. Additionally, my waitresses and bartenders are personally taxed by the government on the assumption that they are receiving gratuity on every credit card transaction. Thus she is essentially losing money by waiting on you. So keep that in mind.”
“I’m not keepin’ nothing in mind! I find you so disrespectful approaching me like this, I said I ain’t gonna leave no tip, now get the fuck outta mah face. If I were white, would you have come hollerin’ at me like this”?

“Okay, racial epithets are where I draw the line. You disrespected my waitress first – I think it’s time for you to leave. Get the fuck out of here,” I retorted feeling my face get red and the veins in my neck beginning to excite.
“I will leave, I can’t believe this shit is hapenin’,” she mumbled to her friend as she collected her belongings. I stood within a couple of steps to ensure that she was indeed leaving, but certainly gave her the space she desired.
“I done told you im leavin – get outta my fuckin face,”
“Mam, please lower your voice, I am giving you plenty of room.”
She grabbed her belongings and waddled towards the bar before heading to the front door.”
“Hey you, hey you – BARTENDAH!!!!” She screamed hoping to get Mike’s attention. He wandered over shaking his head – he despised this type of customer more than anyone else on our staff.
“I need the phone numba to da owner.”
“I can give you the number to our restaurant here, it is 757.622-XXXX“
“I need his ceeellll phoneee numba ya dumm ass,”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that, but you can call him during the day on the number I just gave you to setup an appointment with him.”
“That ain’t,” she began before I disrupted her.
“Mam, it is time to go, like he said call up here if you want to speak with Baxter. “
She begrudgingly made her way to the front door cursing under every breath she took. I shook my head as the door swung behind her and the echo of her profane voice faded away. A couple bar regulars grinned at me as Mike questioned the altercation. I explained to him and the regulars what had happened, and not five minutes had elapsed before the phone rang.
“Thank you for calling Baxter’s, may I help you,” I answered after the second ring.
“I need to speak with the manager on duty – wait – this is you – what’s yo name?”
“My name is Christopher Hill, what can I help you with?”
“Ya damn bartenda gave me the wrong fuckin’ numba – I told him I need the numba to the owner, and he gave me this. “
“This is the best number to reach him, but-“
“What is the number to your corporate office?”
“Mam, we only have one location, so again this is the number to our “corporate” office.”
“Yall stop bullshitting with me.” This went back and forth, until she seemed convinced that this was indeed the only restaurant until she called back about ten mintues later and asked for the number to our district office. Some people just don’t seem to get it, and she certainly seemed to be one of those people. When she called back she was more profane than before, and began threatening our business by stating that she was going to call the alcohol beverage control as well as the federal business bureau and get us shut down. I let her ramble and curse and finally hung the phone up when she, for the second time in a matter of 30 minutes, called me racist, and this time did so with profane language. I laughed about it for most of the night sharing with regulars and friends of mine who might find the story entertaining. At the same time I reflected on how sad this woman’s behavior was, and how eating in a nice environment outside of one’s home seems like a privilege and one’s behavior should reflect that. I wandered back to the office where Baxter was crunching some numbers for the sandwich shop we will be opening in the coming months and told him of the phone call I had with the crazy lady, he laughed and we swapped stories about similar situations, but neither could come up with a story that rivals this one.
When I added the part about her calling the authorities on us, he responded with this.
“Just tell her if she is going to call the federal business bureau then we will call the sheriff’s office and see if there are any warrants out for her arrest. That’ll shut her fat ass up real quick.“
We both chuckled for a couple of minutes. Just another day at the office……

Respecting the Food we Eat and An Ideological Flaw with Vegetarianism

It is probably way too early to be this philosophical, especially in relation to food at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, but this has been on my mind.


Earlier this week our restaurant hosted a party for PETA, an organization with which we are all familiar and all inevitably have varying sentiments. This organization provides us with twenty thousand dollars a year in business for essentially making our establishment vegetarian and vegan friendly for two days out of the year when we are rented out for their biannual staff parties. With that being said, I appreciate the business and am not about to ramble about my disdain for the organization. I am, however, going to raise what I see as a rudimentary and ideological flaw with their philosophy.
I fully support anyone that chooses to be a vegetarian for whatever reason – it is often noble and done with good intentions. The choice to become a vegetarian doesn’t really effect me and the number is never going to increase so dramatically that the restaurants I support will be threatened. There is a certain part of the world that chooses to be vegetarians due to devout religious beliefs and you can hardly blame anyone for that. Another class is the most recent emergence of Vegetarians - those who are looking for a healthier lifestyle (something that is an entirely different argument all together) and they are abstaining from foods that are sometimes high in fat or cholesterol, but in most cases, are inversely depriving their bodies of other nutrients, which are often found in meats. Their commitment to vegetarianism is not one grounded with philosophy, or ideology – still, it is an individual’s choice. There is another group of individuals that refrain from eating meats or anything tangentially related because of cruelty to animals. This is presumably the largest segment of vegetarianism, atleast in the western world, and is undoubtedly admirable. Obviously there are a lot of poorly run farms out there not treating animals with the respect they deserve, but there are also a lot of great farms that do respect these animals. This is obviously the wave of the new world, and is something that excites me as it does many of the great chefs around the world.
PETA is undoubtedly an organization striving to do good, I enjoy having them in our restaurant, and there has been a lot of good done in the name of animals, but I feel that along the way a certain misdirection has surfaced. I am not going to get into the seemingly fanatical views PETA has on some issues(breast milk ice cream, their views on seeing eye dogs and domesticated animals), and the perspective they take on certain circumstances in the real world. Last year I was walking one of their executives through our Private Lounge where we host parties and while talking I spoke of the catering we do and mentioned that a lot is done out of our other restaurant Sterlings as well, and when I explained to him that it was as steakhouse he commenced to pierce my eyes with daggers as if I had just put a bullet through the head of his six month old puppy. I refrained to explain the business behind the size of the Vegan/Vegetarian share of the market and how unrealistic it would be to have a world of vegan restaurants, or how hard it would be to support even one exclusively vegan friendly restaurant in this city! His response almost made me mad - something hard to do most of the time. Nevertheless, I kept my emotions to myself and have since thought a lot about that conversation and the close-mindedness he imbued.

So, here is the problem I have with the organization, and certain vegetarians who choose to be vegetarians based on animal cruelty. For the sake of this argument, the people who have chosen to be vegetarians for the sake of a healthier lifestyle are exempt, as well as those with religious commitments. When we host PETA, our chef works with their corporate chef to get products and ingredients that work well with the theme of the dinner. We have had several pizza parties where a soy cheese and fake sausage were used, which I don’t really embrace, but can handle. The menu for another PETA party consisted of this, and keep in mind the descriptions while not implying vegetarian indeed are; BBQ Chicken with vegan coleslaw, Burger sliders with vegan American cheese, Fried Chicken Tenders, Quesadillas, and a couple more items that were, believe it or not, intrinsically, and ideologically vegetarian such as mixed vegetables. My problem with the menu is this: the foods they are eating, and choose to eat don’t embrace the philosophy of vegetarianism. The foods mentioned above were created to replicate the flavor of something this segment of the market chooses not to eat - for whatever reason. This seems a bit heretical. They embrace the flavor of barbecue chicken, freshly grilled burgers, and the creaminess of melted cheese on top. They love a ranch dipping sauce for a crispy fried “chicken finger” or a fennel laced sausage for their pizza. Sure, this is stuff is so intrinsically American, things we are familiar with, and I am sure the challenge of being a vegetarian is difficult, but with the accessibility to farms vegetarian options are greater than ever before. Instead of embracing the flavors of the foods they vow not to eat, instead why not find ways to reinvent the foods that are distinctly and ideologically vegetarian. Hell, I probably eat as much philosophically vegetarian food as many of them. I adore just about every vegetable, fruit and legume. Granted, I eat meats, and I love seafood, but in a sense they do too. I do my best to eat locally, cook organically, and use vendors that are responsible and treat the products I eat with respect. As long as we remember where our food comes from, embrace how it came into existence by acknowledging the hands that cared for it, and most of all respect the life itself then a meal becomes more than the contents on our plates. Food should be a part of us, and it is up to us, as consumers, to be educated and informed about the foods we choose to eat and the farms we choose to support. If you respect something, then in the end it doesn’t go to waste, but rather becomes a thing of cherished beauty. This is how it works and always has. To me, that is what it all comes down to.

The Last Night

This is a short story that I recently wrote that is loosely based on real events. It is, however, fiction. I hope you enjoy.


January has come and the bone chillingly cold air is obvious proof of that. Crevices where sidewalks dip to meet the road are lined with sheeted ice. The leafless branches of trees sway with the howling wind that sweeps detritus down Granby Street. The moon is just as hidden as the sun was some six hours ago before it set, so the sky is hazy, which is just about right for a cryptic winter day.
“Sorry guys, another shitty night – but hey – look at it from the bright side, we are gonna have a chance to make it over to Cask for a quick drink, first round’s on me,” I exclaimed locking the front door. There were six guests left, half of which were employees enjoying a beer and some shots on their night off. Additionally, there were a couple of navy guys playing pool, trying to prolong their night, seeing as they would soon return to the Naval Base a few miles down the road. I slowly brought the lights up, indicating that last call was here and it was time to order the final drinks of the night, and to finish them in a timely manner as well. It was only midnight and we could legally serve alcohol for two more hours, but that didn’t matter since there was no one there to serve. I began doing paperwork for the night while sitting at the bar that was still sticky from a previous guest, who had drunkenly and haphazardly spilt his Captain and Coke. I began thinking about how much longer we could operate doing nights like this, and it frustrated me to think that on a slow night the bartender still hadn’t gotten around to clean the bar that was dirtied some two hours ago. This type of thing a restaurant owner or manager reflects on constantly, and as my mind began drifting elsewhere, out of the corner of my eyes I saw a group of guys approaching the front door. I wandered over to address them and see if I could be of help, but was reluctant to invite them inside. They, obviously drunk, begged for me to let them in, exclaiming that the morning would bring their deployment to Afghanistan and they wanted one more night of drunken happiness. I couldn’t argue that, so I granted them access, and motioned them to the bar where Jessica was waiting and sighing with discontent at me.
Scampering a couple steps ahead of the crowd, Johnny, an overweight Asian was the ring leader, and took the liberty of ordering shots of Rumpleminze – peppermint schnapps, a cordial that is so iconically appropriate during the winter months. Jessica lined up the shots, they looked on and cheered as each glass filled to the brim. She handed Johnny two at a time, and he began issuing the chilled glasses as I fielded a phone call asking what time we would be closing tonight. He motioned for her to pour four more, which upon his receipt, handed two right back for us, and he motioned that the others were for our off duty bartenders sitting at the bar who were already half drunk. I smiled as Jennifer handed me the shot, and I motioned that she could have one as well. This was a special circumstance, it was an honor to be a part of this quasi-last supper, and I was excited to embrace the occasion. Johnny motioned for everyone’s attention, and began his toast as the group circled around.

“Here's to other meetings,
And merry greetings then;
And here's to those we've drunk with,
But never can again.”


The toast seemed to echo the harsh truth of military life and the possibility of death, while sobering, was reality for this group that had worked so hard, together, in harsh conditions which would inevitably worsen upon arrival in Afghanistan. Johnny raised his glass, circled the bar clinging his against everyone’s and I half smiled at Jessica knowing I could never really relate to them – I would never have the fears, doubts, and sleepless nights by which their adventure on the other side of the world will be defined. I can, however, understand this desire to drink away the pain of leaving behind all they ever knew, and though brief, and unsustainable the notion of drinking away the pain makes complete sense. Perhaps at a certain point in drunken cloudiness the frightening journey for which they embark in the morning begins to fade and emotions of love, happiness, and peace will persevere. This indeed did happen but not before another two rounds of shots. Jamie the youngest of the group, just out of officer candidacy school was ironically from my hometown of Atlanta and we began swapping stories of our childhoods there, our families, and our forlorn love for that sacred place. He jumped in and offered to buy the next round, which also meant the next toast belonged to him as well.
“Okay guys – you know I love every goddamn one of you… including you bar keep – you are so damn cute and you too – Jeff, my fellow Atlantan,” he slurred, prefacing his toast in obvious discomfort from the spotlight. “Grab your glasses, this shit is much better than that peppermint bullshit! We got some Goldschlager… this stuff has real gold. Bring it on baby!!! Grab your glasses,” he hollered as the crowd gathered around laughing at the buffoonery he brought to the table.
He paused and continued solemnly, trying his hardest to keep his poise:

Here's To Singles,
Friends And Heroes.
They say in life we need friends and heroes,
As I look out upon all of you today,
I raise my glass and say to you....
I am glad I can be both.

“I love you guys – you know that – we have something special…. We are friends, but above that we are heroes, and wherever this journey takes us,” and he paused as a solitary tear slid the length of his cheek, trying to conquer the emerging emotions. He proceeded, “Wherever it takes us I am proud to be a part of this, and I am not talking about being an American, or even a Navy officer, I am talking about being a part of this fraternity, this eternal and sacredly formed friendship we have here tonight and I am a lucky son of a bitch to know every damn one of you.”
I looked at Jennifer who now had tears running down her face and she smiled softly at me. Later that night I found out that her father’s life had been taken in the Persian Gulf War, and this incredible display of emotion was something that was perhaps eerily familiar to her. She walked over, we wrapped our arms around each other’s goosebump lined shoulders and we soaked up the wonderful display of passion from these often cold and hardened souls. They held each other, smiled and opened the floodgates to their hearts that would, come tomorrow morning, be shut off from the world for six months. I lined up ten more shot glasses, and grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark, perhaps the most iconic of American Liquors. I put eight glasses in front of them, and began.

“Guys, this is an incredible honor to have you all here. I’m happy as hell that you guys showed up when you did, and for me it is a raw and vivid look at fate that you came into our lives tonight. What you are doing for us and this country will never be forgotten – the sacrifices you have all made are selfless, and real and more than I will ever fathom. I know that you guys have to get out of here, but before you do, I want to buy each of you a shot and make a quick toast.
I began:

“I wish you health, I wish you well, and happiness galore.
I wish you luck for you and friends; what could I wish you more?
May your joys be as deep as the oceans, your troubles as light as its foam.
And may you find, sweet peace of mind, where ever you may roam.”

We raised our glasses simultaneously and they motioned for Jennifer and myself to come around, and out from around the bar so that we could be a part of them for a couple of moments. Johnny kissed me on the cheek with tears now streaming down his face, and we embraced for a couple of emotion filled moments. He was drunk, as were the other seven, but that didn’t take away from what they were feeling, because it was real. They vowed to return to my bar on their way home six months from now, and I insisted that all eight of them would be back and we would celebrate the occasion appropriately. As the bar cleared out, I turned off the lights and muted the music and locked the doors. Crossing over the Chesapeake Bay on the Berkeley Bridge I looked towards the waters that would soon be taking those eight Navy guys to a different part of the world, and I thought about their life on the ship and how grateful I was to have my life of blessing. This night helped me put life into perspective, and it helped me understand how truly blessed I am in so many ways – most of which I take for granted. I then began to think, in respect to these eight individuals that I really haven’t made much of a sacrifice in my life at all.
It took two months for Jessica to tell me the secret of her father’s death in the war of our childhood’s and we did it over shots on an eerily similar March night, and her toast was this.

“Life lives, life dies. Life laughs, life cries.
Life gives up and life tries.
But life looks different through everyone's eyes.”

I’m not sure what to make of the toast she made that night, however I feel that she had been trying to gather the courage to give it and tell me of her father’s death since that emotion filled night with the Navy guys. I guess I will never really know what she was trying to say, what it is like to lose a father in battle, or watch a fallen comrade never make it home, but I know I am blessed and Johnny, Jamie and the rest of those guys helped me realize that. It probably means more to me that Jamie, my fellow Atlantan, never made it home from Afghanistan. The other eight did and when they returned we hugged, laughed and cheered with thoughts of Jamie in the forefronts of our minds. Goldschlager tastes a lot better when drinking to the memory of a life that was sacrificed for his country.

Thanks to all of you who serve our Country. Hurry home Greg.
CH.

Oyster: The Great Wager

One of the greatest memories of food from my early life comes from the beautiful island of Nantucket.
My childhood friend Doug had invited me with his family to Nantucket, the wonderfully historical whaling island off the coast of Massachusetts when I was 10 years old. They annually rented a house for the month of July to soak up the beautiful beach culture, where they rode their bikes from one side of the island to the other as the beaches filled, adorning themselves with tourists. As the sun began to grow lazy in the western sky they would stroll to the wharf where ubiquitous fishing boats constantly weaved in and out of the inlet, back from their day on the open seas. The bewilderment of the incessantly swarming seagulls over each fish laden boat matches the amazement of the onlooking children that take great notice and excitement as these local fishermen butcher the day’s harvest.
While preparing for the trip, my mother told me the tales of her childhood, and her family who like Doug’s rented a house there every summer. While there, we daily hustled to the beach, neglected to lather ourselves in sun tan lotion and slowly encroached upon the waters of the Atlantic Ocean as our bodies loosened to the seemingly frost-bitingly cold water. We enjoyed that week during the summer before our fifth grade year of school with innocence and resolve in hopes of sucking every bit of joy out of our time spent on that island. The cottages, cobblestone roads and Inns are forever imprinted in my mind, the echo of sea shells in my ears, and the taste of my first oyster on my tongue.


We made the short walk into town whose streets are lined with ancient cobblestone, equally archaic buildings that date back to the mid 17th century as we talked about the wonderful trip that was drawing to an end, and how this paradise was everything but that centuries ago when the locals survived by whaling these cold, north Atlantic waters. The island itself has the ability to transform you into an ironically new and distant world, especially walking down wondrous Main Street where, like the days of old, the hotbed of activity occurs. There was a particular restaurant we were in search for on this breezy summer day as our sunburnt bodies hobbled down the various corridors of Nantucket. The sun was still high in the sky, but as tourists began crowding the downtown area, the sun escaped behind the island, descending towards Boston, a few miles west. We arrived at our destination, one of the island’s most acclaimed oyster bars that I later discovered was also religiously frequented by my mother and her family an entire generation in the past. I look back at my childhood Christmases when her sole contribution to the dinner table was undoubtedly Oyster Casserole, and I can’t help but think that her inspiration stemmed from that beaten up, brick building where the floors are bruised, stained, and in dire need of a polish. It probably looks no different now then when I was there some twenty years ago, or even when my mother was there as a child. It all seems to work, and is in fact a part of the reason why you love this place so much. That and of course the oysters…


“Gang, it looks like there is gonna be a hell of a wait – they told me close to an hour. Don’t worry Christopher that is to be expected. We come here every year and it gets better every time, I promise,” This, Doug’s father jolted at us with sheer excitement while directing it at me, the lone newcomer to the group. “So what do y’all want to drink? We can get some drinks and a couple appetizers to munch on while we wait.”

He returned a couple of moments later with a bottle of black cherry soda for Doug and myself, and a couple of beers for he and his wife. He was followed by a waitress carrying a Last Supper size platter which had, at the time, unidentifiable and grotesquely foreign objects. He had ordered a seafood platter with clams, mussels, and of all things freshly shucked raw oysters that were still nestled in their half shells, and everything was locally harvested – something I had no appreciation for at the time. We gathered around as he dared all of us to dig in and enjoy the wonderful foods that were born of the ice cold water in which we were swimming a mere couple of hours ago. Mussels were a piece of cake, and despite the occasional bit of sand that also created among these very waters some thousands of years ago, the clams were palatable. This was at a time in my life when I was slightly over weight, and called the “Vacuum Cleaner” by my family because of my tendency to devour anything in sight within reason. I was absurdly famished and knew I wouldn’t be eating for atleast another hour since we were still deep on the wait list, and as the mussels and clams slowly vanished I grew nervous. The oysters were looking me dead in the eyes, and I could barely stand to look at them. They were slimy, and had the appearance of some unknown and internal human infection.
“Come on guys, who wants to try an oyster – I promise these little buggers are good… much better than they look. ”
I kept telling myself, “nope – not gonna do it”, and I have the feeling Doug, in his mind was vomiting as well at the sheer thought of attempting to digest the mollusks that sat fat and juicy on the platter in front of us.
“No, thank you though Dr. Murphy – I think I am gonna stick to the Mussels and Clams, they look delicious though,” I responded with obvious sarcasm.
“Comeeeee onnnnn Christopher! Give them a try. I promise you will like them. You can go home to your mom and dad, as a proud, self-respecting young man, and brag about the adventures you had in Nantucket, and how you have found the love of your life – the oyster!”
“Dad – they look disgusting! You couldn’t pay me 10 bucks to eat one of those creatures,” Doug chimed in agreeing with me, trying to divert the pressure from me, seeing as I was quiet and unable to deter the attention.
“Okay I tell ya what. How about this – I will give 25 dollars to the first one to eat an oyster, but you have to keep it down. None of this running off to the bathroom business. Deal?”
Most of the negative thoughts escaped my mind at this point as Dr. Murphy began waving money in our faces, and for me, 25 bucks was quite appealing. I thought for a couple of moments before responding.
With skepticism I blurted, “Okay, I will do it! Just one though right?”
“Just one.”
I grabbed some saltine crackers, severed the package and readied my cracker for the slimy mollusk that to my knowledge was still alive. I motioned for a cocktail fork, which Dr. Murphy handed over, I stuck it into the oyster and like a construction crane, dropped it on top of my cracker, where it rested – sitting plump, intoxicating the air with the smell of the sea. Dr. Murphy squeezed a slice of lemon over the oyster, issuing acid downward in all directions as a seed escaped from the flesh of the citrus, landing on the oyster I which I was soon to be paid handsomely for eating. I childishly flicked the seed towards Doug, and smiled nervously, attempting to grasp the challenge ahead. A crowd gathered who were ease dropping and looking on with excitement as I painted a dab of cocktail sauce over the top of my prey, readying myself for the dare. I smiled again, before closing my eyes, and tilted my head back. I opened my mouth and slid the oyster,then cracker into my mouth. I chewed the cracker as the oyster slid down my throat - the texture was outrageously foreign to me, and it indeed tasted like the water in which I was splashing earlier that day. I swallowed the oyster, chewed the cocktail basted cracker and upon completion threw my hands in the air claiming victory and motioned for my winnings. I grinned emphatically at Doug and his dad, and the crowd of people who were all clapping.
I paused for a couple of moments after eating the mollusk as I mentally digested what had just happened. “That was great!”


So, Dr. Murphy forked over the $25 and I immediately wandered inside, found a waitress and purchased two dozen more oysters for us and the onlookers who had been cheering me on. That night I ate oysters until my belly was full, and by the time our table was ready I had probably consumed two dozen by myself, and was no longer hungry, but that didn’t matter because I ordered more for dinner. Our meal finished and we wandered home, laughing about my new love for oysters, and how I ironically was paid to try something that I ended up falling in love with. Of that trip, the memory of Nantucket is beginning to fade, but that island will, like I said before, be forever imprinted on my mind. My first experience with an oyster, however, is a memory that is still very vivid. It is a memory that I will cherish, and not a single meal I have where oysters are present is finished without the tides of Nantucket crashing against my mind. Oh, to be an innocent ten year old again, who would try just about anything for some cold hard cash.