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.

T & A Honey on Beignets

T & A Honey served with fresh made beignet from The Beignet Truck! We have honey.  Not enough to sustain a spot at the Atwater Farmers Market, so we set up a little table on Glendale Blvd and see how it goes.  Great way to connect with people.  Bees are front and center in the collective conscience.  Atwater village has really come a long way. 

 

Meet the Fakers

Some of you have inquired how my orchard supervisor interview went at the organic farm yesterday. Not so great. In fact, profoundly disappointing. I drove out there early, and when I entered the farm, I was really impressed. Obviously whoever owns it has serious cash. The land alone is worth about 3 million (based on a Zillow comparison for a barren lot down the road).

Biodyamic farms are self-contained entities ("living organisms") as Rudolf Steiner would call them. There were beautifully laid out pastures, rolling orchards,Scottish highland cattle and exotic sheep. There was a pond that had been converted into a classic California riparian xeri-scape.

Anyway I got there on time, and then a farm employee, told me to wait as they were meeting someone else. I waited nearly a half hour, then met the young man who along with his wife are the "farm managers". Neither of them have an agriculture background beyond the three years the farm has been in existence. He's a documentary film maker, she was/is an in-house chef with a celebrity/vip clientele. You can see how I might have thought, "These are my people!" Anyway, they invited me into an office, and immediately embarked on one of the lamest interviews I have ever experienced. The husband was obsessed with my tractor skills. I am certified, but he kept talking about how "they" (the Mexicans) wouldn't respect me if my skills weren't as good as theirs. Never mind that I've worked with Mexicans of all stripes for 25 years, and my ex-wife is of Latina heritage (I declined to reveal this info). Plus the use of the phrase "they won't respect you" struck me as incredibly racist. That language is used for training stubborn breeds of dogs (i.e Rhodesian Ridgebacks, which I own btw!). Anyway, they told me nothing of the farm, which was peculiar, as it was a truly amazing place. I had to ask them all the questions. I told them about my honey business and how much I love bees, and he replied, "Sounds like you should stay in the bee business" BTW bees are indispensable to biodynamic farming, and they didn't have bees there.

I could go on and on, but perhaps it is another chapter in my book. LOL! Some might find this amusing, as I try to connect the dots, but I was suspicious of a company that has one investor (from Chicago) but they decline to reveal who he/she is, and the farm was featured in a OWN special on organic farming. Maybe it's Oprah, but what kind of investor shells out at least 5 million dollars but has two beginning farmers as managers. The wife had self published a cookbook with a foreword written by the musician Beck. Now, call me paranoid, but Beck is a well known Scientologist, and Scientologists only help each other. So as I sat there holding court with these charlatans, I could only think of the great existential film, "The King of Hearts", where the town has been deserted save for the inmates of the local asylum, who assume the roles of the town folk.

There is a vibe to Scientologists. For instance, a cult will tell you all the things to "talk you out of" wanting the position, so you'll beg to join. The wife actually said to me, "We're here to talk you out of it."--"DANGER, Will Robinson, DANGER!"--And they also insisted the position was a live-on position. The ad said "housing may be available"--a nice perk for the right person--but when I pointed this out, the husband proceeded to lecture me about farm-life. This being a small farm with a drip irrigation system. There are so many orchard emergencies!

I could be wrong, but my wife has a background in stunts, and she worked for a Batman stunt show years before where the company was owned by Scientologists. And they were always posturing in an arrogant, "we know better than you" way, and hired subcontractors who were scientologists, and then were humiliated when the million dollar set they built was built backwards!

OK enough whining...I've got a proposal to finish!

Bottom of the Barrel

OK...Money has been tight, but I have come to the conclusion that no matter how broke I am, I cannot settle for the "cheapest" coffee at the market. Cheap...ok...cheapest--NO! All coffee claims to be "hand selected" by Juan Valdez in the highlands of Colombia, but the cheapest coffee tastes like it was hand selected by Juan's cousin who sweeps the floor in the bean grinding room.