Stay Tuned

Greetings! As many of you know, I've been pursuing a Masters in Plant Science and trying to write a waiter memoir.  I've decided to focus on finishing my Masters.
Stay tuned for new developments in food writing and T & A Farms as I wrap up my graduate work this spring.

Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters Part 2 of 2

Without getting too bogged down in details, the French have simply been growing grapes for centuries.  They know what grows well where and know their “terroir”.  That’s why they developed a system (AOC) to codify their tradition and experience into a legal framework.   In France, one cannot simply plant Chardonnay in Bordeaux, and Cabernet in Burgundy.  For one they don’t grow well outside their regions of origin, plus they have a strong centuries old tradition of grape cultivation and strong interest in protecting their reputations.

Burgundy: Chardonnay and Pinot Noir

Bordeaux: Cabernet and Merlot plus some others.

Northern Rhone Valley: Syrah

Southern Rhone Valley: Grenache plus others to create a signature blend.

In the New World where the wine industry only took off in the last 40 years, there are now legal guidelines that follow the AOC model.  They are called AVA’s (American Viticultural Area).  This offers growers and winemakers the same panache to protect and foster the emerging reputations of their wines.

In California we have regions described by geography and demarcation of physical-political boundaries. 

Example: Napa Valley is 3 things at once.

1)   a county

2)   a valley

3)   an American Viticultural Area.

There used to be a lot of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay grown in Napa Valley proper, but the results were mixed.  Succeeding generations of wine makers realized it need a cooler climate to thrive.  The reason behind this is simple.  Burgundy France, where Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are from, grow at a high latitude (47˚).  It’s cold.  FYI quality production of Pinot Noir has moved to Oregon.  Willamette Valley is the same latitude as Burgundy. 

So, if one wants to grow quality Chardonnay and Pinot noir grapes in California, one must find a cool climate.  That’s why you will see wines labeled Carneros, Sonoma coast, Santa Rita Hills.  These are all AVAs and they are all situated where the fog can roll in and cool the vineyard.

What’s interesting is that grapes grow well in many areas of California.  The soil and weather is simply fantastic.  The grapes ripen easily, but we know that it’s not just sunshine and soil.  If that was the case, all the quality production could be done in the San Joaquin Valley.  If it’s too hot the grapes have too much sugar, or they can get bruised from the sun.  That’s why they grow table grapes and raisins in the Central Valley.  The one notable exception is Zinfandel.  It loves hot weather so it grows well there. 

Not all grapes are the same.  There are red grapes and green/yellow grapes.  All grape juice runs clear.  Color is extracted by leaving the grapes in contact with each other so the clear juice starts to absorb color and tannin from the skins, seeds and stems.  Red wine is made from red grapes and white wine is made from green/yellow grapes.  Rose, or blush wine is made from red grapes that have been lightly crushed and/or not left in contact with the skins for a long time.

Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters Part 1 of 2

Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters

First and foremost wine is an agricultural product made from a crop called grapes.  Grapes grow in the ground in certain places in the world.  Some of these grapes grow better in certain environments.  Soil and weather play the biggest part.  The French call this “terroir”, which loosely translates to “a sense of place”.  Viticulture techniques judiciously applied, are naturally important; however, as we all know from perusing a wine list that wines are “from” somewhere.  California Cabernet. Argentine Malbec, French Bordeaux, Italian Barolo.  Do you notice something about the above mentioned wines?  They all mention where they come from; however, the first two mention the varietal (type of grape), whereas the third and fourth mention a region in their respective countries.  All wines from Europe are called Old World wines.  In the Old World (Europe) wines are described by their geographical origin.  The French call this Appellation Origine Controlee (AOC).  New World wines are from the US, South America, South Africa, and Australia.  These wines are made from cuttings originally brought by emigrants from Europe.

            Once these new world grapes were planted, they developed their own flavor profile.  For instance, Bordeaux France is where Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot originated.  They are grown on the banks of the Gironde River.  It’s relatively cool and not too far from the Atlantic Ocean.  Contrast this with California Cabernet and Merlot, both widely planted in the warm Napa Valley a full 6 degrees latitude lower than Bordeaux.  The soil is rich volcanic soil and it is very hot in the summer.

So this terroir (sense of place) figures prominently in assessing a wine’s quality.  For example, Apples grow well in Washington.  It’s cold enough to give the fruit tree the requisite hours of chill necessary for optimum fruit production.  This cannot be said for Los Angeles.  There are pockets of micro-climates that will chill, but not like Washington, so one could assume that apples from Washington will be a higher quality apple.  For the sake of comparison, let’s assume farming methods are the same. 

            Think of a target with three concentric circles.  The outside circle is the big region.  The middle circle is the village.  The bull’s eye is the vineyard.  So we have

Burgundy = region = California

Chassagne Montrachet = village = Napa Valley

Montrachet = vineyard = Araujo Vineyard

Theoretically, if we had three white Burgundies (btw white wine from Burgundy is Chardonnay), and the first said Bourgogne Blanc, and the second said Chassagne Montrachet, and the 3rd said Montrachet, which one would be the highest quality?

The Taste: An Authentic L.A. Food and Wine Festival

If you consider yourself a true foodie Angeleno, update your Labor Day Google calendar as “BUSY” as you will be attending the Taste at Paramount studios.   The Los Angeles Times sponsored culinary event bills itself as “A Food and Wine festival that is authentically L.A.”, and a passing glance at the bios of the participants shows they’ve got the street credibility to back it up.

Five events over the course of three days (Aug 29-31), offer guests the very best food and drink L.A. has to offer, at an Angeleno food festival starring actual Angelenos. Nearly every culinary professional participating makes L.A. their home.  From the chefs, Nancy Silverton, Josiah Citrin, Michael Cimarusti, John Sedlar, and even Thomas Keller—who grew up in Oceanside—to the L.A. Times staff that spotlight the unique facets of this great city.  To have the likes of Pulitzer prize winning food critic Jonathan Gold, Test Kitchen chef Noelle Carter, or the veteran critic/cookbook author Russ Parsons teaming up with Michael Cimarusti, Thomas Keller, and Nancy Silverton, one cannot help but smile at your good fortune to break bread with these hometown heroes.

Whether it’s learning about “found food” at a foraging seminar with Pascal Baudar—who knew there were so many edible plants in Griffith Park?--or seeing how local chefs sustain the emerging food hubs by only sourcing from family farms within 100 miles, the Taste demonstrates how Los Angeles has consistently led the way in a citywide reimagining of food and its effect on our collective culinary culture.  Despite the fact that the Taste takes place at the venerable Paramount Studios, let’s face the truth.   As movie crazed as we are, very few Angelenos can tell you who won Best Actress at last year’s Oscars, but coax them to recount their first dinner at Mozza or Melisse, and the vivid recollection would make you swear they were channeling Billy Wilder.

The philosophical and practical commitment to excellence makes the Taste stand out from other Food and Wine Festivals.  It’s more than tasty samples.  It’s a culinary chautauqua, a harkening back to adult education tent show revivals where, in addition to incredible food, ideas are exchanged to nourish the body and open our eyes to new perspectives.  Naturally, the Taste spotlights Chefs and Cooking , but fortunately for us foodies, the other gastronomical guilds, some of which are only now rising from the dead, like heritage Bartending, Canning and Preserving, Butchering, Foraging, are given their due.

Fri. August 29 7:30 PM

Opening Night of the Taste with LA’s Best Chefs

Sat. August 30 11 AM

Field to Fork hosted by Russ Parsons and Nancy Silverton

Sat August 30 7:30 PM

Dinner with a Twist hosted by Jonathan Gold, Betty Hallock, John Sedlar, and Julian Cox

Sun August 31 11AM

Sunday Brunch hosted by Noelle Carter and Chef Thomas Keller

Sun August 31 7:30 PM

Flavors of L.A. hosted by Jonathan Gold and Michael Cimarusti

Lauren Bacall and the Fava Bean Incident

"When the widow Bogart finally dies, they'll be able to hold the wake in a phone booth..." 

--Frank Sinatra

As I begin to cull the memories from the recesses of my mind, where only Jack Daniels and my therapist have tread, this one rises like a cystic acne boil--too deep to pop, too painful to ignore--from my days as a VIP waiter at Spago Beverly Hills late 1990's.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. At the pre-shift line up my boss Tracy came close, leaned in, and spoke in an ominous English accented whisper, not unlike a conjurer working a Ouija board, or a BBC announcer revealing the high probability of a Blitzkrieg raining down any moment. “Adam, you have Lauren Bacall on Patio 1.  Be all over that table.  Ms.Bacall can be difficult.  I’ll have your back.” Still buzzed from the two beers I had thrown back in my car before walking in the door, I shrugged.  Of course, I knew of the movie star Lauren Bacall.  Little did I know Ms. Bacall was gonna have my ass with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

As predicted, Lauren Bacall entered Spago right on time.  As she crossed the patio, people looked up for she emanated stardom, a classic Hollywood beauty. Some actors have star power.  Others, like Keanu Reeves, are often mistaken for valets, or homeless people.  Refined in her manners and dress, Lauren Bacall oozed sophistication.  Tracy had told me the young woman with her was her daughter, but there was someone else, who I did not recognize, and in retrospect, probably had been convicted of a crime and had to choose between 300 hours of community service, or dining out with Lauren Bacall.

Anyway, the order was fairly straight forward. She gazed at me with those piercing eyes and inquired, "What does the grilled swordfish came with?" 

Cool as a cucumber, I replied, "Fava beans."

When the fish arrived I was not at the table, but went to check on her soon thereafter. As I approached I saw her catch my eye, and she began beckoning me with her index finger.. “Yes Ms. Bacall, how is everything?”

She then starts stabbing the fish with her fork quite aggressively. “What seems to be the problem?” I inquired somewhat timidly, as small beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and slid down my puffy, booze saturated cheek.

She glared at me. “What do you think is the problem? I don’t see any fava beans. You specifically told me the swordfish comes with fava beans." STAB STAB STAB. "Where are the fava beans?!”

I gestured to the filet and said, “They’re under the fish.”

Now, a little back story. Restaurants like Spago don’t use heat lamps so the plates are preheated so the food arrives warm. And they are fucking hot, so the chef puts vegetables down first with the fish on top so it doesn’t get scorched by the heat of the plate. Anyway...

She looks under the fish, and without even an inkling of acknowledgement that perhaps the problem has been resolved, she stabs the fava beans.  “This is a disaster. A total disaster.”

I love how the rich and famous throw around words like “disaster”. Now mind you this was pre 9/11 so I was thinking to myself, “If this is a “disaster”, then what the hell happened in Oklahoma city at the courthouse?”

Of course we bought her lunch.  That's how self-entitled shakedown celebrities operate.  I found out later from my friend Dave, a waiter at the legendary Bel Air hotel, that Lauren Bacall has abused waiters and hotel employees throughout her life, and more importantly takes perverse pleasure in it. In fact while being interviewed at the Bel Air Hotel for her autobiography, I’m a Cunt, she took the opportunity--during an interview!--to berate a waiter who had the nerve to bring her tea in a tea pot! 

And I imagine this waiter could only think to himself, "Lauren, honey, they might not have been invented during the Jurassic Age of your childhood, but that’s why we serve tea in special pots called “tea” pots, you stupid sack of soiled satin."  Anyway she dismissed the waiter with a sarcastic line, “This isn’t Denny’s. Bring me a decanter like they use in room service.” This, according to the article, “left the waiter flustered and speechless”.

“That was me!”, exclaimed David as he read the article, “That fucking bitch humiliated me.”

Last I heard the Beverly Hills Hotel had told her, in a polite manner, no doubt, that she was no longer welcome there. No proof of that, just a rumor from some waiters, which is just as good as the truth for me.

Evolution of Street Food in LA.

My first article for a wonderful new website www.entertainmentvoice.com! The Evolution of Street Food in LA. http://entertainmentvoice.com/the-evolution-of-street-food/

Stay tuned for more!

We Got a Bad Potato! Part 2 of 2

Now by then I had waited on hundreds of the rich and famous, but this moment was an epiphany. This was Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous incarnate.  I had heard that in the 1970s Marvin threw lavish parties at his home in Palm Springs for the Annenbergs, Henry Kissinger, Gerald Ford and their ilk. Attention fact checkers.  I heard this from a person with first-hand knowledge, who I trust.  In fact I trust this source with my most important worldly possession.  His name is Pete, the mechanic.  Pete, a Mexican-American cross between one of the polite chipmunks from Warner Bros. cartoons and Mickey Rooney (minus the asshole part), owns a successful repair shop in Highland Park.  Pete bought his repair shop in an all cash transaction, with funds acquired from the obscene tips he made in the 1970s as the VIP waiter of Section 1 at Chasens.  Section 1 signified royalty at Chasens.  Think Frank Sinatra and 100% tips (i.e. $1000 tip on a $1000 bill!).  These Palm Springs parties were catered by Chasens, and if there were 500 guests, and the choice for main course was a choice between steak, salmon, or chicken, Chasens prepared 500 of each dish, always one step ahead of the whimsical change of mind, and always factored into the final bill under Miscellaneous.

          Still, this was astonishing. How on earth could Greg, the chauffeur, have an extra potato on hand?

          How? Greg explained it to me. He always brought along two of everything, just in case “we got a bad potato.”

          This wasn’t the last of Mrs. Davis’s whims. A few weeks later I was waiting on Marvin and his symphony of sycophants, Mrs. Davis finally agreed to try our Dover Sole. Just one thing. She wanted that sole grilled, but she wanted no grill marks.

          I wrote down the order without blinking an eye though I knew that a piece of fish that is grilled but has no grill marks is just about as easy and likely as a sunrise without sun. I finally made my way to Marvin who thankfully ordered a simple Cote du Boeuf, rare, and as I was about to make my way to the computer terminal--the same terminal where fellow waiters greeted me with supportive words like, “Better you than me,” or “You must have been evil in a previous life.”--Mrs. D grabbed my arm with her bejeweled bony fingers, and said, “Adam, will the food be coming soon, I’m starving.”

          Never mind that I had just circled the table, and written down insane requests from Sydney Poitier, in the same “They call me Mr. Tibbs!” voice he was famous for.  Poitier wanted poussin—baby chicken—pounded thin.  Yeah, I’ll pull one of those out of my ass right away!  Or one of the Davis girls telling me she’s allergic to salt.  It makes up 0.9% of our blood volume!  If you’re allergic, you’re dead!  Regardless, in this Kafkaesque universe that I call Spago, the customer is always right.  Par for the course, I had to enter “SEE ME” under every item, and the “SEE ME” included a giant post-it note to the chef about those grill marks, poussin and salt allergies.  And as I sheepishly handed it to Cuko, the expediter, and ran from the line, I could feel Chef Lee’s breath.  I knew he was glaring at me through the hockey glass that separated us, furious at this mad request.  “What am I supposed to do,” he bellowed, “levitate the sole?!” 

          But unlike a Kafka bed time story, ours ends happily.  Lee grills the sole on a bed of carrots—they took the grill marks for the team.  Sydney Poitier got his poussin, although his poussin was little more than a slice of free range “adult” chicken pounded thin, and the salt allergy lady received a salt free dish that she promptly returned for being tasteless. 

We Got a Bad Potato! Part 1 of 2

          For years Marvin’s wife had been bringing her own food to Spago—salad, a piece of fish, green beans, and a baked potato. For months we tried to convince her to let us cook her Dover Sole, but she hadn’t yet agreed when, one night, as she was eating her own food in the Spago dining room, she flagged me down.

          Naturally I hurried to her side. I couldn’t imagine what the problem could be since I hadn’t served her a thing from our menu.

          “Adam,” she said, “this potato tastes bad.”

          By then I had learned that the customer is always right, so naturally I said, “Let me remove it, then,” and I removed the delinquent potato from her plate, prepared simply to toss it.

          “Tell Gary about the bad potato,” she said.

          Gary was her security guard, a retired LAPD detective and a bear of a man with a thick walrus moustache. Gary dressed in a slick black suit, an earpiece in his ear, and whenever I saw him, it struck me that he looked right at home riding shotgun in a limo.

          That evening I found him standing at the end of a quiet hallway by the bar.  To the left was the wine room, to the right another beveled glass door with the Flame of Life etched in it, which opened eastward to a beautiful narrow alley.  Shrouded in almost perpetual shade by towering blue gum eucalyptus, with a brick raised garden bed overflowing with exotic, shade loving bromeliads, and the wafting, intoxicating scent of night blooming jasmine, this walkway cleverly disguised an ulterior purpose: the surreptitious transport of VIPS.  For you see, the pathway broke in the other direction, by means of a narrow passage that connected the valet station and the alley.  When informed by the Maître’d, valets ran to the back and assisted “camera shy” celebrities before the paparazzi could run around the building.  Mr. Davis; however, was not in need of this service.  He had his own valets (body guards), Gary and John, and Greg the chauffeur.  So I saunter up to Gary, as he sips a coke. “Gary,” I said, proffering the potato, “Mrs. Davis wanted you to know we got a bad potato.”

          I had no idea what he was supposed to do with that information, but that wasn’t my problem, after all.

          He turned and looked at me. “Really?” His voice had that deep-throated cop sound to it, and I watched as he leaned into his wrist mic and said,

 “Greg, we got a bad potato here!” 

          Greg was the limo driver, and I couldn’t imagine what the limo driver was supposed to do.

          Gary listened a moment and turned back to me and said, “Hang on,” and I stood there, vaguely wondering if they had a plan. A few seconds later Greg came running through the alley and to the back door. He was carrying a new baked potato!

The Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Part 5 of 5

An elegant white Burgundy from Pouilly-Fuissé precedes the agnolotti, and we waiters inform the guest that this postage stamp-sized ravioli are closely inspired by the Piedmontese model, filled with fresh sweet corn, a touch of Mascarpone and Reggiano, butter and caramelized corn kernels.  But when the manager steps up and presents a cutting board with a large summer truffle and begins shaving it into delicate slivers that float like rose petals onto the dish, the din of the crowd vanishes. A portal opens. Goodbye Earth.  I say this with no apologies for the summer truffle’s status as third tier truffle, behind the classic black truffle of late summer and the angelic white truffle d’Alba that graces us with her presence in November.  Tasting menus done on the scale of Spago allow for elevated culinary journeys that do not necessitate a credit check.

The truffles allow the next dish, roast suckling pig with last of the season morels and fava beans, to offer an experience of two great spring flavor combinations nearing the end of their availability.  The crispiness of the pork, coupled with the earthiness of the morels, lend themselves nicely to a classic California zinfandel, and Michael Bonaccorsi forces the guest to think outside the box by offering a Ravenswood “old vine” Zin from Lodi, California!  Educated wine lovers, with all this talk of terroir and AOC, might be perplexed to discover this superb wine originates from the heart of California’s central valley, a place famous for raisins and Gallo wine. But there is that zinfandel with its deep purple hue, its jammy nose, the pronounced black pepper on the palate and supple tannins, the Ravenswood “old vines” Zinfandel from Lodi tells us to forget our pretenses and to look for quality and value wherever it may reside, and despite his predilections, that ability is Bonaccorsi’s genius.

Traditionally, the final meat dish would be rack of lamb or Kobe beef; however, now and then a guest might request another kind of beef, one that happened to be on the regular menu.  Côte de Bœuf , which loosely translates as “hunk of cow,” is a bone in rib-eye, or cowboy steak.  Added to this incredible cut, seasoned with only kosher salt and fresh ground pepper, we served pommes aligot, for which there is no direct English translation, the closest being “cheesy potato heart attack.”  Rumor had it Chef Lee brought the recipe back from three-star Michel Bras in Laguiole, France—and the fact is, this was the only dish at Spago that came with directions to Cedars-Sinai hospital.  Such a dish demanded a wine with enough tannins to tame it, and fortunately we had many to choose from, from a young Bordeaux to a rich Syrah from Santa Barbara County—Bonaccorsi’s preference being Santa Barbara where ultimately he moved to make his own high quality Pinot Noir.

The dishes cleared, the table crumbed almost for the last time, the good waiter fades into the background, leaving a guest on her own for a while.  She might observe a smartly dressed man and beautiful young lady having a light dinner—wondering at that, though we knew that the man had earlier eaten dinner with his wife.   The sommelier returns with the cheese cart, displaying  Brillat-Savarin, a triple-cream from Normandy; Brin d'Amour, a Corsican raw sheep's milk cheese rolled in herbs; Stilton, the famous English blue cheese; Pont l'Eve^que, from Normandy; and Te^te de Moine (aka Monk's Head), a raw Swiss-made cheese shaved by a spinning shaving blade into flower-like ruffles.  Sometimes we offered a trio, sometimes all of one, and the wine pairing depended on the cheese.  Bleu cheeses call for ports; soft whites go well with sauterne, and the harder cheeses allow the guest to carry forward the Syrah from the last course.

Next came a phase that that often incited the ire of the pastry chef, Sherry Yard.  Often Chef Lee hit guests so hard, they raised the white flag at this juncture, fearing even eating a thin mint would cause an explosion like that of the gluttonous man in the Monty Python sketch.  Sorbet arrived to cleanse the stinky cheese breath palate, and on its heels came a light fruit-based offering, or perhaps something astonishing like a classic mille-fueille, “thousand leaves,” embellished with blood orange zest in pastry cream and with juice from the fruit in the crème anglaise.  As if the artistry of the presentation wasn’t enough, Sherry often served the dessert herself, flooring the guests, leaving them sated and grateful.

At last, from a perch on the cliffs of culinary bliss, warmed by the Spago sun, a guest might take in the look of the bustling place with a clarity she missed on arrival. As intimate as the meal felt and was, the dining room is huge, one that easily could seat 200 guests at once. Since the tasting experience stretched out over two seatings, over 300 meals were likely served over its course! 

The bill arrives, always a rock solid reminder that the guest has returned to earth. Indeed, a guest might wonder if he’s just eaten in a tourist trap.

The answer is yes. Spago is a tourist destination. But the food and service elevate it far above other tourist traps like Mann’s Chinese Theatre or the Hollywood Wax Museum.  Still, some social critics—and more than a few jealous restaurateurs have knocked Spago’s fame as indicative of undeserving Hollywood glitter. There have been whispers and worse—that the Spago scene swindles through culinary subterfuge; that it’s all smoke and mirrors, a false heaven. 

To that I always said, “Praise the Lord!  You’re cured!  You can walk again!”

The Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Part 4

But back to our guest at the tasting menu table where the sommelier is describing the next wine, an Austrian white called Gruner Veltliner.  Within minutes the first course arrives in the form of white asparagus, prepared first as a salad with a Meyer lemon vinaigrette, and second as a warm gratin.  Asparagus challenges most wines for its naturally high levels of sulfurous methionine convert the taste of even the finest whites into something not unlike vegetal compost tea.  But then there is the Gruner Veltliner, a wine savory enough to cut through any resistance the asparagus mounts.  And the white asparagus itself, with its lack of chlorophyll--a result of sunlight never being allowed to touch it--diminishes the vegetal notes, thus aiding the wine, and everything is perfection, again.

By the time the guest has finished the two asparagus dishes, he might glance at the big man and see his table has already received a dozen dishes— as if the kitchen knew ahead of time what to prepare. The guest might ask and learn that the big man is Marvin Davis, and Spago values his business. Of course they knew ahead of time what to prepare. He eats here every day, twice a day.

 Plates are cleared efficiently, the silver replaced, another white wine glass added as the waiter arrives with a bottle of E. Guigal Condrieu.  When anyone asked, all we waiters knew how to answer. Condrieu is not a grape, it’s a place, and the history of Condrieu is built around one famous grape, Viognier, which makes a peachy but dry wine that lends itself nicely to Asian cuisine, particularly Thai.  A seafood curry arrives, featuring beautiful Santa Barbara spot prawns in red curry with raised octave notes of kaffir lime and Thai basil. The prawns' heads, tempura battered, lie on squares of white paper in the center of the table.  By now the guest can almost touch the moon.

The dishes begin to arrive in succession, and the keen-eyed guest will notice: They seem to come from everywhere around the globe.  Chef Lee Hefter commands a ship that sails the globe searching for the right ingredients, ingredients that, when synthesized, will elevate the diner to a vantage point high above the earth.  Oddly, wine pairings remain rooted in the old world since the master sommelier, Michael Bonaccorsi, believes that the “old world” set the bar by which the “new world” must be measured.  Many a wine enthusiast has embraced good wines from California and Chile and Australia, but the Europeans have been cooking and making wine for a long, long time.  There is a reason the Loire Valley is famous for its goat cheese so it’s no accident that the Sauvignon Blanc grown in the Valley is the right wine to accompany that cheese.  The French feel so strongly about these connections they have codified them into a system called Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC).

That said, the Turbot that arrives atop an eggplant nicoise may find a crisp Rose from Provence as its soul mate.  The sense of place, what the French call terroir, shines in the delicate texture and mellow flavor of the turbot, which only days earlier was fished off the Mediterranean coast of France and expressed overnight to Spago’s kitchen.  The crisp green beans, tomatoes, and delicate quail egg, comingle subtly with the interplay of fish and wine.

Next comes a straightforward sautéed Foie gras with a cherry reduction, but the wine accompaniment shows an understanding of the physiology of taste that would bring a smile to Brillat-Saverin’s face.  Jurancon Sec, the dry version of Jurancon, made from Gros Manseng,  and hailing from the Southwest of France,  integrates itself into the scene with its deep golden color, not unlike that found in Sauterne, but totally different.  Something miraculous is afoot.

The Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Part 3

            As soon as Spago Beverly Hills opened, an amuse bouche—often the miso cone—became a tradition. A trio of amuse bouche arrived in quick succession, season specific, for Spago’s menus always followed the seasons. You’d never find blueberries from Chile in December.  Truthfully, the billionaire Marvin Davis could get out-of-season fruit whenever he wanted since he didn’t believe in winter, summer, fall or spring; he lived only in Marvin time and assumed others did too.  Once Mr. D, as we called him, travelled to Houston in the morning to check on his oil company and returned to L.A. that evening just in time for dinner.  I’d heard Houston was struck by severe thunderstorms that day, so I asked, “Mr. D., how was the weather?”

             “What’s weather?” he replied, and it struck me then: Of course he had no sense of weather. He moved from air conditioned house to garage to air conditioned limo, to private plane in private hangar, to Houston hangar, to new air conditioned limo, to garage to air conditioned office.  Mark Twain once famously said, “Everybody talks about the weather, but no one ever does anything about it, but I realized in that moment that Marvin Davis had indeed done something about it.

            At any rate, back to the table. In early summer, the amuse bouche might be a delicate mini tart, filled with the first of the season’s Junecrest peaches from the Masumoto family farm just south of Fresno, topped with a dollop of mousse de foie gras marinated in sweet Moscato. This would be followed by a confit of pork belly tucked inside a pâte feuilletée.  Once the guest had peeled himself off the ceiling and floated back to the table, he was greeted by a petite tasse brimming with Santa Barbara sea urchin pot de creme illuminated by a wasabi cream and osetra caviar.  Sometimes I watched a guest and imagined he must be wondering if he ought to eat it or sell it to the highest bidder at Sotheby’s for the dish is that beautiful, and the very moment the urchin touches tongue, . The taste rockets the taste buds to the fourth dimension where time stands still and Cher looks young.

            As the guest comes to, waiter, sommelier, assistant sommelier and manager are staging glasses for the first course of the evening.  Sometimes a guest’s eyes might wander to glance at the big star who just entered the restaurant or to gaze at Wolfgang Puck standing just across the room despite having appeared live that very morning on Good Morning America. .  “How the hell did he get back in time for dinner?” a guest might ask herself. “He was in New York this morning and now he’s signing a stack of cookbooks for one large table, posing for a photo with another.  

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Barbara Lazaroff, designer and partner (soon to be Puck's estranged wife), appears and works her way around the room.  She’s directing busboys who carry a huge, booth-like chair into the main dining room and set it at a large, round table.  From a side door an enormous man enters; he’s accompanied by two burly men and a petite lady, obviously the man’s his wife dressed to the nines in a fabulous St. John knit.  At that moment Sydney Poitier appears around the corner, joined by Jackie Collins and Bob Newhart!  Barbara embraces them all.  And as I watched I always heard the Spago refrain playing in my mind: Live! Love! Eat!

Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Pt. 2

Immediately inside, standing attention at the host stand was the Maitre’d at Spago Beverly Hills, Jenny.  The time difference between a small delay and an hour-long wait could be subdivided by a simple twenty dollar bill while a hundred could send time reeling backwards.  Once past the portal, guests were escorted by cordial, and smartly dressed young ladies through the bustling, loud dining room, and seated at an elegant table with creme colored linen, and heavy teak chairs with the Flame of Life etched into their backs.  The pulling of the chairs for the guests was of utmost importance for no other reasons than, 1) it was polite, and 2) they weighed a fucking ton.   These custom made behemoths were a sight to behold.  They were unstackable, in yet another Barbara Lazaroff design triumph of form over function.  Their legs undulated, giving way to impossible curves that brought to mind Steve Martin’s Cruel Shoes.  I remember when the restaurant was new, and Barbara saw damage on these chairs, she went berserk, and you’d hear her and Wolf arguing in the hallway by the garden.  “Barbara, it’s a restaurant, not a museum!” he would lament.

When we knew a guest was planning to have  a tasting menu--or if the guest was a reviewer who had no choice but to eat whatever we served --the table was set simply, with a classic mis-en-place and a champagne flute.  Old school joints like Chasens began with an empty table, the waiter taking a cocktail or champagne order and serving up that order with oysters or their famous seafood platter and afterwards setting up the appropriate mis-en-place.  But by the time Spago Beverly Hills opened, times had changed. In the new era, even VIPs wanted bread right away, and Spago obliged serving an array of wonderful house baked breads like crispy Lavash, as well as olive, walnut, and sourdough from Nancy Silverton’s La Brea Bakery.  Spago couldn’t make everything in house, but if they went outside, they went for the best.  This also made sense as Nancy and her husband/partner, Mark Peel had both apprenticed at Spago in the 1980s.

So now the guest is seated, so let’s get started.  A true tasting menu always begins with champagne.  Cocktails at the table are bad-form.  Having a Negroni lingering on the sidelines like some vagrant on a piazza in Florence is absurd, but a wise waiter carefully navigates these waters.  You don’t want the guest juggling his cocktail, and Billecart-Salmon with his amuse bouche (its purpose to amuse the senses), miso cone with ahi tuna tartare.  The wise waiter proffers champagne with a small introduction.  “We are happy to offer a world renowned cuvee Bille-Cart Salmon Brut Rose,” making the 3 oz. pour in one pass. 

            The fine waiter pours the Billecart-Salmon and the iridescent bubbles that race to the top, dare him to twist the bottle back just before overflowing.  If all goes well, the table will be aglow with an effervescence that beckons the diner to a higher state of consciousness.  Something truly wonderful is about to reveal itself.  If the stars have led us towards a fusion of cultures, the sesame miso cone with Ahi tartare will manifest itself, or perhaps the strong pull of traditional European cuisine will be desired, and then the amuse bouche might be a potato gallette with crème fraiche, smoked sturgeon and black osetra caviar.  Either way, the champagne and crunch transport the diner into an astral plane; he is rising and flying, like a honeybee racing, towards the warmth of the sun.

Memory Lane: the Lazaroff "Spago" Collection Goes on the Block

Wow!  I saw Julien’s Auctions of Beverly Hills--The Auction House to the Stars!--plans to auction a sizable collection of works of art from the collection of Barbara Lazaroff. 

Wolfgang and Barbara back in the day.

What makes these works notable, is that they were all acquired to decorate the famous eateries owned by her and former husband Chef Wolfgang Puck. Spago recently went under the knife to reinvent itself.  Rumor has it his current wife, Gelila, oversaw this redesign, so if their marriage doesn’t work out—knock on wood!--maybe there will be another auction down the line.

Almost all the works are from the private dining rooms of the original Spago Beverly Hills.  In light of my recent musings on Spago from 1995-2002, and the fact that I spent almost that entire period intoxicated, this auction serves as a gift from God.  A veritable treasure trove of forgotten images, that when viewed in the sober light of day in 2014, awaken memory after memory. 

Who can forget drinking tequila in the banquet bar while debating the bartender whether Jim Lutes’ watercolor abstracts are really depicting penises and saggy boobs over out-of-focus portraits,

Jim Lute Abstract '96

or if the Mary Burns’ ornate ceramic urns that we hid our cocktails behind were really designed and put there in the likely event that if Milton Berle dropped dead while dining, we could just cremate him in our pizza oven, and pour him into anyone of the urns glued firmly to the shelves throughout the private dining room (PDR).  I recall we used them for paper wad “basketball” practice too.  Eventually they would overflow, and Hugo, the manager, would have to empty them, but he couldn’t tilt them because they were cemented in place!  I’ll never forget the disgusted look on his face as he would stand on a chair and reach in, never knowing for sure what might come out.

Ceramic Vase by Mary Burns

In the main private dining room, I would get dizzy studying Robert Motherwell’s “artist’s proof” lithographs of his Beau Geste Suite abstracts.  Every mother says their kid is precocious; Motherwell’s mom, I’m sure, was no exception, but sometimes the only difference between a piece of shit and a work of art, is a price tag.

Beau Geste Robert Motherwell

James Rosenquist’s Time Door Time d’Or dyed paper abstract depiction with lithographed appliques hung nearby the fabulously dizzy work of Motherwell, and the central artwork in the VIP dining room belonged to Jim Dine’s The Oil of Gladness [heliorelief and drypoint (printers proof)].  His reimagining of Venus di Milo sought to capture an age old depiction of beauty, and in my refocused recollection, it succeeded, especially when the scintillating rays of lamplight emerged from the hand blown Venetian glass chandeliers.

The Oil of Gladness Jim Dine

Time Door-Time d'Or Jim Rosenquist

Other works included Helen Frankenthaler’s The Grove color wood cut print on Awagami-Fujimori paper, and Roy Fairchild Woodard’s Only the Stars

The Grove  Helen Frankenthaler

Only the Stars Robert Fairchild Woodard

Also, perhaps on the cheesy side, but to me totally appropriate, she is auctioning all the furniture from Spago Beverly Hills.  A wave of disappointment crashed over me as Marvin Davis’s custom chair does not appear in the catalog.  I bet if you take a whiff of the upholstery, you can still smell the Cote de Bœuf he had just before his death.

I’ll be there on Thursday June 26^th at 200 pm.  ! http://www.juliensauctions.com/auctions/2014/fine-art/index.html

The Taming of the Review: the Spago Tasting Menu Part 1

All restaurants want good reviews, and Spago was no exception, but what Spago did to ensure a good review was nothing short of a culinary and service miracle. Indeed, the show Wolfgang Puck and our crew put on was on par with shows by the world’s greatest tent show faith healers.  We at the restaurant had a hive mind, all workers focused on one goal: We would win over the reviewer.  We knew their personality quirks.  Some, like Sunset Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine and run-of-the-mill travel guides were easy to impress.  House made angnolotti with shaved white truffles (trifola d’Alba) pretty much sends anyone over the moon; whereas a more world travelled restaurant professional would actually be able to compare this otherwise spectacular dish with the one they just had in Alba—last week!.  They know the real deal.  It was these heavy hitters that were in our sights.  Whether it was national reviewers, like Ruth Reichl from the New York Times, or S. Irene Virbilia of the LA Times, who served as conduits for our mission to reach the 1% of the 1%, or perhaps a historic wine maker like Henri Jayer, who revolutionized wine making in Burgundy, or Didier Dagueneau, the mystical, gravel worshiping vintner behind Pur Sang, the legendary Sauvignon Blanc, from Pouilly Fume.  These reviewers, even those posing as friends, required gastronomic jujitsu.  What I found remarkable as a participant in this culinary Olympics was Wolfgang’s unspoken battle cry: “Casual Elegance!”  The vibe in the front of the house was often comfortable—after all, he was “friends” with all these VIPs at least he was in the “Hello, he lied…” kind of way made famous by film producer Lynda Obst—but making a good impression was always the goal.  You are only as good as your last movie.  In the kitchen, it was a different story.  Chef Lee would bark at his sous chef, and line cook soldiers, and they would jump.  His gigantic pewter spoon, the one he always carried for tasting sauces, would ring like the bells of Notre Dame as he banged the counter, as he bellowed, PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP! For you see, we had no heat lamps.

The Spago journey always began on an earthly plane with the destination being the stars.  Upon pulling up outside the restaurant, a team of highly-trained valets greeted you.  The first sight as you stepped out of your car was the high garden wall and century-old olive trees offering the air of natural Mediterranean beauty and a guarantee of privacy from the prying cameras of the paparazzi.  If the valet manager recognized you—and it was his job to know people!--he instructed one of his men to serve as an impromptu doorman.  He swung open the heavy hardwood doors with the “Flame of Life” etched into the beveled glass, revealing a remarkable scene unfolding.  The long, narrow, wooden bar stretched out to the left while the French doors on the right opened up into the garden where olive trees bookended a fountain etched to look like a flame.

The Death of Regional Theatre: Goodbye to the San Jose Repertory

The San Jose Repertory Company is dead.  They went bankrupt.  Saddled with over 3 million dollars in debt, they just couldn't stay afloat, and this happened in one of the wealthiest cluster of zip codes in America.  As a San Jose State University Theater Department alumnus, I was more than a little bummed out by this development, but not enough to say I really cared.  What?!  How could I not care? What has happened?  Has the market has changed?  Have the times changed?  As Douglas Coupland said in Generation X, "We live in an accelerated culture."  Is it possible, that perhaps theater, as produced by the regional companies like the San Jose Repertory doesn't matter much anymore to the modern entertainment consumer.
But why didn't I care?  That question has plagued me.

Meyerhold by Boris Gregoriev 1916 

In order to understand the collapse of the San Jose Repertory company--one of many regional theater companies to shutter their doors in the last 20 years, one first must look at a brief history of theatrical entertainment, particularly the history of Vaudeville in America, which itself affected the development of so called "legitimate" theater.  The advent of vaudeville paralleled the rise of the US industrial revolution.  The migration of workers from the fields to the factories changed everything, and as the pace quickened towards the end of the 19th century, the traditional rural forms of entertainment, in the form of migratory music hall comedians, and travelling minstrel shows, and the spiritual/philosophical tent gatherings of Chautauquas,--all with roots in Europe--gave way to larger, more formalized acts.  The PT Barnum's and BF Keith's rose as impresarios.  Even though hours were long for our urban folk, there was time off.  This radical shift created a miraculous situation.  Workers had leisure time!  More importantly, wives and children who did not work in the factories, had leisure time too.  And even if it was an hour, that was enough for a reasonably priced show at a spectacular vaudeville palace.  Unlike performances of today, where we go to the theater, usually in the evening, as a special event, vaudeville shows, in contrast were all day events.  B.F. Keith ushered in the age of "continuous performance".  Concerned about losing the audience, he had shows that ran from 11 am until 11 at night!  And these were family friendly entertainments geared to reassure the city folk that the American dream was alive and well, even if it had shifted towards a materialistic dream and away from their traditional ethnic folk cultures.

Albert F. McLean Jr wrote an incredible social science book called Vaudeville as Ritual which brilliantly portrays how formal entertainment developed as ritual to nurture the myth of the American Dream.  Further, McLean "evaluates vaudeville as a symbolic manifestation of values shared by the American people during the period 1885-1930...."  He argues that the Myth of success, (American Dream), was given it's tangible form by the likes of Houdini, who could literally break the chains of technology, and the fast talking vaudevillian comedians who offered a paradigm of urban life, and how the melodramatic playlets, with their contrived story lines that mixed sentimentality with a thin veneer of sophistication, actually gave urban Americans a dramatic demonstration of what it means to be "glamorous". This obsession with celebrity and success, traces it's roots backwards from today's celebrities like Angelina Jolie, to the likes of Marilyn Monroe, and further back to Mae West.  Of course, there are thousands of other stars to look at also.  In fact the first movie stars all got their start in vaudeville (W.C. Fields, the Marx Bros., Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, et al).

Time marches on though, and the vaudeville "palace" theatres gave way to silent movies, silent movies gave way to talkies, movies gave way to television and the TV networks became the new impresarios.  And these networks reluctantly gave way to cable which gave way to the Internet, and now streaming of movies, TV, and music.  It seems our American obsession with "continuous performance", as taught to us by B.F. Keith, has morphed into an almost insatiable appetite for instant gratification.  Thus, the death of regional theatre with all it's trappings, and out-dated ritual.  It appears people just don't have time for it, and if they can get their fix electronically, then so be it.

Furthermore, I believe, and it is self evident in their bankruptcy, that SJRC suffered an economic backlash. Customers voted with their feet and wallets.  Perhaps they voted against "theatre" elites who feel they know better, who dream of generating political, or social change by producing socially conscious shows, shows that used to affect audiences, like Master Harold and the Boys, or Angels in America.  Don't get me wrong.  These plays are incredible works of art, but once they were produced on cable TV, there was little reason to see it live.  Time, technology, and traffic have conspired against us.  Home delivery of fast food beckons us to stay home; electric garage door openers squash any incidental interaction we might otherwise have with our neighbors; google maps has given us the absolute knowledge that allows us to proclaim, "Yes, indeed, the 87 northbound is stop and go for 3 miles, so there's no way in hell I'm going downtown." 

Another reason may be in the poor choice of material, in a desperate attempt to fulfill some diversity clause in their grants, theatres like SJRC decide to showcase some part of the world that needs illuminating.  Case in point, the San Jose Mercury News article states one of the last plays the SJRC did was called Disconnect, about an Indian call center.  I didn't see it, and by box office receipts, it didn't do well.

I'll confess.  I don't go to much theater. I don't even spell it as theatre anymore, and in my darker moments, I even ponder how bussing kids to the "theatre" only sets them up to lose that future spelling bee when the misspell "theater" as "theatre", but there is still hope.

The best theater I have seen in recent memory was at, of all places, the LA Renfaire.  A family circus troupe called Clan Tynker, performed at one of the pavilions.  They are a travelling brother and sister troupe from New Mexico, made up of a stilt walking master of ceremonies, surrounded by his siblings in interchangeable roles of juggler, clown, fire eater, sword swallower, acrobat, magician.  We saw them twice, and much to our surprise, their second show was totally different. The crowd was multi-cultural, admittedly a niche group, with the obligatory turkey legs, honey mead, and dill pickles firmly plonked in cascading cleavage, but they loved Clan Tynker! They told us they were paid a base stipend to appear, but they really needed tips to survive, and it was with great pleasure that I watched their ritual, and how they cajoled the crowd into supporting them by offering cold, hard cash on the spot.  It was proof positive that ancient theater forms held their own in a modern world, that physical archetypes (clown, magician, gypsy, mystic) transcend language, which leads me to Meyerhold.  Vsevolod Meyerhold was both a student of Constantin Stanislavski and also a competing teacher of a more presentational as opposed to psychological approach to acting.  My next blog will examine how these two titans of Russian theatre collaborated, and ultimately diverged, with one dying of old age as a celebrated innovator and defender of Russian greatness, and the other being accused of being a Western spy, subsequently tortured, then summarily executed by Stalin.

Why Adam Does What He Does...

Sometimes people ask me, "Adam, how in the world did you go from waiter to beekeeping plant scientist?

I thought an explanation was due.

Mark Twain once said, “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Over the years, I have found myself being an armchair quarterback reading the Los Angeles Times, and complaining about policy decisions that were just being revealed but that had been maybe two years or more in the making. Like many citizens, my reactions were often emotional, devoid of any appreciation for the thoughtful analysis that had been so sagaciously applied to the problem at hand. It dawned on me that there is much more to life than merely having a point of view. With this in mind, it is my deep desire to be a useful, contributing member of society that propels my interest in agriculture and specifically plant science and its implications on California’s food supply.

My father was an analyst for the Rand Corporation in the 1950s, who then spent 35 years at IBM. He instilled in me an appreciation for, and, simultaneously, a healthy skepticism of statistics. I am reminded of comedian Steven Wright’s quote, “Forty-three percent of all statistics are made up on the spot,” but I digress. My father also taught me the power of big ideas, and how logic coupled with passion could transform society. He also taught me the computer programming concept of GIGO (Garbage In, Garbage Out). One gets out of a problem what one puts into the problem. Logic and emotion are strange bedfellows indeed! It’s a synthesis of classical and romantic paradigms similar to those outlined by the protagonist in Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. As there is more than one way to view a motorcycle (logic of engineering vs. emotion of riding one), there is also more than one approach to agriculture.

To risk a cliché, I want to be part of the panacea, not the problem. To live in the solution requires a commitment to optimism, as well as a rejection of the cynical notion that “the world is going to hell in a hand basket.” To live in the problem is easy. It’s right there staring at us. The solution is more elusive. Developing solution-oriented policies requires a multitude of approaches, but a few that come to mind are: a selfless commitment to the concept that “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” a cool determination to succeed where others have failed — especially in the face of passionate, and often ill informed, resistance — as well as stamina and more than a truckload of tolerance for those in disagreement, who fully deserve our empathy.

A Masters in Plant Science, with an emphasis on sustainable environmental practices in regards to honeybee health, will give me a solid foundation on which to build a house — a mansion, really — that has many doors, all of which lead to an exciting, solution-oriented future. By working with faculty and other aspiring farmers, I will gain a deep understanding of the food production techniques that help shape our society and how those ideas come to fruition and are implemented, hopefully for the common good. As a single father I strive to teach my two young children that love, patience, and tolerance are the lifeblood of personal happiness. Love of learning, patience in the face of demands for immediate change, and tolerance for divergent opinions, form a trinity that I hope to utilize on a daily basis as a professional farmer.

On a personal level, my children are growing up fast, and when they graduate from high school, I hope to relocate to Northern California where I have family. Being a professional farmer would be invaluable in my quest to positively affect California, and to help solve the environmental, economic, and societal challenges that have driven so many people away from farming in recent years.

Although the above-mentioned challenges of the politics of agriculture are pressing, my mind keeps returning to the one thing we cannot survive without: water and the food it grows.  Water dominates my thoughts. I guess I have “wet brain.” Ever since I was a kid, I have been fascinated by how California moves water around. Dams and reservoirs, the California Aqueduct, not to mention the rivers that feed them, totally enthrall me. Little did I know, at the time, how politically charged the issue was to California. I was less interested in the actual engineering — fascinating as it is — than in the massively important role it played in our prosperity.   For instance, the 1982 battle over the peripheral canal revealed the conflict between Northern California and Southern California. In fact my children’s mother is from Orange County and we used to argue over this issue, which shows how subtly our beliefs have been formed by our geographical references.

Many great books address this geographical conundrum.  Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner shows the precariousness of our very existence.  Kevin Starr’s Material Dreams shows the cunning steps taken by Southern Californians like William Mulholland to secure water, as there was no future without it. More recently, California Public Policy Institute researcher Ellen Hanak has written many thoughtful articles on the subject of the health of the Delta. In fact, the concept of the delta serves as a fitting metaphor for the challenges facing California’s water future. There are many tributaries, and it is more than easy to get lost, for water policy addresses so many important issues: sustainability (agriculture, aquaculture, fisheries), environmental restoration of native plants and animals, safe drinking water, and preservation of farmland from poorly planned suburban sprawl.

And of course without water, there is no food.  Michael Pollan’s Food as a National Security Issue reveals the importance of having a food supply that originates within a few hundred miles of the markets. My years of experience in fine dining in Los Angeles as a waiter at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago exposed me to the vibrant world of organic farming and viticulture. The romance of the farmer’s market and the incredible wines we make in California reveal a legitimate and, dare I say, almost irrefutable truth. There is profit to be made in the preservation of farmland. This idea alone could be used to promote a reverse migration from urban to rural. California Farmlink, of which I am a member, has been addressing this challenge for over 10 years now, as it seeks to link retiring farmers who don’t want to sell to developers and young “beginner” farmers who seek a better quality of life.

As Rivers of Empire author Donald Worster puts it, “The social consequences that follow from the modern commitment to instrumental reason and the disenchantment of nature have been antidemocratic and antihuman.”  It is precisely this threat and my desire to remedy this injustice that propels me.   I believe the judicious application of sustainable farming practices serve as the foundation on which to build a better future, and I wish to be part of that indispensable team that helps build and improve the incredible home that we call California.  A Masters in Plant Science would assure that I have the tools to make a difference.