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.

Chain of Fools

An excerpt from my memoir "We Got a Bad Potato!"

I’m a huge fan of independent restaurants.  My experience at Il Fornaio and a brief stint at a SF joint called Palomino in the 1990s, left a bad taste in my mouth for chains.  Corporate interests, like Restaurants Unlimited, and the Compass Group measure their success in units of onion blossoms sold and they create these highly detailed employee handbooks that reduce the human element to zero, but the one “bad service” aspect they can’t seem to eliminate is the manager “servicing” the hostess in the office after hours.  When chains aren’t hiring, and promoting sexual predators, they’re busy filling their proverbial butt cracks with fucking morons.  Case in point, in 2008, when the economy took a shit, I got desperate, and even considered suicide, but ended up doing something worse: I applied at Roy’s house of Hawaiian Fusion.  They’re so authentic.  They have seafood from all the great fish cities, like Phoenix and Chicago, and serve radical artful haute-cuisine like “pineapple upside down cake”.  Anyway, they had this elaborate psychological profile exam—you know how this is gonna end, right?-- and yet, they can still hire no-nothing managers with superiority complexes, or the flip side, obsequious taint lickers whose only job is to placate one star reviewers on Yelp. 

And on top of that, you go to these chains and get Stepford service or shitty service anyway.  I fucking hate chains like Roys.

Back to the interview/exam.  So on the skills section; I had to check a box on wine knowledge.  I checked “expert”.  I was trained by Michael Bonnacorsi for fuck’s sake.  The manager, this frumpy she-male, looked and said, “Oh, I see you are an expert on wine.” Yes I replied.  She then asked me the usual bullshit questions, “What are the major grapes of Burgundy?”  I answered one or two, thinking all the while, “Why did I check anything?”  I mean, for fuck’s sake, their list is heavy on California Johannisberg Riesling!  Then she asked me about the noble grapes of Bordeaux and I answered, “There are four: cabernet sauvignon, merlot, malbec, and cabernet franc.” She pounced, “You forgot Petit Verdot”  I acknowledged my omission, with the same emotional intensity one might have if you omitted Timothy Dalton from the list of actors who have portrayed James Bond, but as the words flowed from my mouth, all I could imagine was her blood flowing out of a severed neck artery into the cheap ass wine glass conveniently embedded in her neck. 

I didn’t get the job. 

Speaking of not getting hired, one time I was hired then fired in one interview.  This prick GM who, himself, had been fired by Wolfgang Puck's CUT, was overseeing the opening of an upscale Italian joint in downtown LA.  It was the real deal, with a killer wine list.  We hit it off well and he hired me on the spot.  I was so excited—I needed the job bad—so I asked a few follow up questions about parking and the holidays—and he did something wholly unexpected.  He said, in that comical accent that makes people hate Italians, “You-a ask-a too many-a questions…” and he put a big question mark through my application.  I was fired!  Something rare happened.  I was knocked off the horse!  I couldn’t respond.  He shocked me into a speechless stupor.  We were in an empty conference room on the 31st floor of an unoccupied skyscraper in downtown LA.  Thoroughly beaten I skulked out of the ad-hoc office space.  It wasn’t until I was in the elevator going down that I wished that I could have thrown him to his death.  Really. 

I hope the pharmacy is still open.

My Latest Search for Housing in Fresno

The first ad I clicked on....I hit the jackpot.

$350 Room mate wanted to share Country Home (Woodlake Foot hills)

You gotta read to the end....

$350.00 Per Month Plus Utilities.

To Share Country Home with 2 Acres in the Foothills outside of Woodlake.  Plenty of space to park horse trailer.

Also have 80 Acres to ride horses on, in the pasture next to residence.Full house privileges, which includes access to Internet via Clear Wire, Washer, Dryer, Full Kitchen. House is located in a quiet area with a crime free environment.  

So far so good...

Especailly in todays World. Safety should be considered when finding a place to reside, and rest your head at night.

You would be sharing this residence with a former United States Army Veteran with a decade of military service in combat arms.

Veterans and Preppers are welcome.

Outside pets ok.  No indoor pets unless it is a trained attack dog. 

If intrested please send me your Phone Number and I will call you to set up an appointment/interview. All other inquires will be treated as spam.

Must be clean.

Female preferred, but all applicants welcome.

If you can cook, and clean, I can lower rent (see above).

Thank you for your time.

I love this ad! It's crime free but then he wants a prepper with an attack dog....

See LA the John Gailey Way

Artwork: Behnan Shabbir

                John Gailey was a legend.  He was a waiter’s waiter.  He had worked for Richard and Lynn for years.  He was a Gangly Mulatto Homo--his own description—which phonetically sounds like the Swahili word ganglimulatohomo, which roughly translates to “black man with dick in mouth.”  He stood 6’ 3” with size 13 feet and weighing in at 150 lbs soaking wet.  He was a total nut, and totally dishonest.  He would cheat his own Grandmother.   He was infamous.  He would train waiters and be vague about how many tables they had in their section, then steal those unattended tables. 

And he was cheap.  One time he was limping real bad.  “My foot is killing me. I bought these new shoes from a busboy at the Ivy by the Shore, whose brother got them when they fell off a truck.”  The bussers were famous for their “five finger discounts”

“One of them feels okay, but the other one is real tight.”  “Maybe they need to be broken in,” I said feigning concern. “Take them off and stretch them.” So he did and soon we heard him cursing to high heaven.  Apparently the busser’s brother had sold him 2 shoes. One size 13, the other, size 12.

Tom partied hard. He told this “I’m lucky to be alive!” story about being at a BBQ up in the Hollywood Hills, and being on a deck, tapping a keg, and he was laughing, and pumping the keg, and was chortling at someone else’s lame joke and went to lean on the deck rail, which would have been great if a rail existed.  And as he tumbled over backwards and fell into some gravel he realized that he was still holding the keg hose, and had managed to drag the keg to the edge of the deck. 

“I looked up and saw this keg of Coors Silver Bullet plummeting down at me, and I thought, ‘This kind of booze isn’t going to  kill John Gailey!’” He was right about that.  Another kind did the job later.

Photo: Batrachus

                Tom went to Las Vegas with me and some friends a few years later, and the highlight was him, as token gay man, threatening to drape is flaccid penis across the face of the first of us straight guys to pass out, and memorializing it with a polaroid photo.  I switched to club soda early that night.

I hadn’t seen John in weeks, and if you didn’t see someone for  awhile, but their name still appeared on the schedule, this meant they were either suspended, fired, or worse: scheduled to work at The Ivy at the Shore (aka Siberia by the Shore).  The Shore is to The Ivy as Khloe Kardashian is to Kim. 

The ugly sister who might still put out, but not like her ho-bag sister.  We were guaranteed to make money turning tricks at The Ivy.  The Shore was often just one big party of Europeans waiting to shove a five percent dildo up your keister. 

Turns out he was sick.  In a normal restaurant world employees are kept informed about other employees illnesses, or family tragedies.  Obviously privacy is paramount, but restaurants are a tribal system, and if someone is suffering, others help out.  I heard the Latinos would actually pool their tips and give them to their uninsured co-worker friends.  The Ivy wouldn’t allow us to post any non-Ivy notices on the bulletin board.  Our focus was always to be on “our important guests” and their needs.

John was not fired, suspended, or working at the Shore.  He was very sick.  And soon he was hospitalized.  In the end he was in a hospice wing at Cedars Sinai, which was just around the corner from The Ivy.  I went to visit him after the lunch shift.  Strangely, Roberston Blvd. was quiet that day.  I recall seeing a few open parking spaces.  I walked passed Chaya Brasserie, and entered the hospital.  I noted that I hadn’t stepped foot in Cedars since my own nervous breakdown in 2000.  I took the elevator up to ICU.  He was all alone in his own private room.  He would have been happy to make the list.  I entered, and waited for that vaguely warm yet dismissive greeting he was so famous for, “Hello, Stupido!”  coupled with his usual crazed, Jerry Lewis smile.  Instead I saw his eyes wide open, and unblinking.  He had a breathing tube, and his gangly legs poked out of his gown revealing his big feet.  Now I understood why he was in such pain that day when the busser sold him mismatched shoes.  I held his hand, and told him about my day.  I told him about the waiters, about Brenda crying about how she was being seated, and Marc cheating the busboy, and who got suspended this week, and the paparazzi being desperate for any kind of picture and having to settle for David Hasselhoff.  The whole time he just clutched my hand, despairing, unblinking, as if he was afraid that if he closed them for a second too long they would never open again.  I cried for John.  I wept like a soldier weeps for a fallen comrade.  We were waiters.  We were veterans.  I had served at Spago.  He had served at Wolfgang Puck’s Granita in Malibu.  I was sober.  He was dying.  I was glad I showed up for my “frienemy” John.  Soon, I said my final goodbye. I looked back, hoping that maybe he would say, “Adios Stupido!”.  He was staring at me, unblinking.  The next morning he died.  It was his final checkout.  I hope he kept all the tips.

My 2nd Fresno Housing Trip or The Fresno Housing Forecast: Partly Cloudy with a High of 111 and a 75% Chance of Loonies.

Saturday morning I travelled to Fresno to secure graduate housing.  That very same evening I returned to reality to file this report.

The morning sun was already baking the landscape as I climbed the grapevine on my way to Fresno.  It was only 9 am yet the thermometer read 90.  The high in Fresno was supposed to be 111.  Imagine my disappointment when it was only 107. 

My first stop was to meet Cory.  She had a 3 BR/ 2 BA condo in Clovis.  I have not figured out yet what differentiates Clovis from Fresno.  It’s sort of like the blur between Los Angeles and Pasadena that some people call Glendale.  Anyhow, I was off to a good start.  Her condo was actually a condo (see below), and in great shape.  She was a renter, but it was her home.  The utilities were included along with high speed internet Wi-Fi.  It turns out she was a correctional officer in a federal prison in Mendota. 

I have a long history of service work in the jails of LA so we hit it off.  I was relieved that she was true to her word about NO DRUGS.  She joked, “The sketchy home hunters don’t usually want to live with a correctional officer.”  I thanked her for her time, and told her I would let her know either way.

My next visit was to Kelvin.  He advertised a 3 BR/ 2 BA “condo”.  I have learned quickly that “condo” is a term used very loosely in Fresno, and that easy freeway access, often equates to freeway adjacent, off ramp outside bedroom window.  Anyway, I turned down Fairmont Ave, which was true to the theory that the fancier the street name, the lower the class of the neighborhood.  The multiple cars on lawns bore this out.  I then pulled into Winery Circle, and called Kevin.  A middle aged African American man came out to greet me.  He had glasses and a Hawaiian shirt, sort of a Robin Williams meets Cedric the Entertainer.  He was jovial, and asked me in to his abode.  His apartment was classic black bachelor pad—not that I would know, as I grew up in a lily white suburb, and had only seen black people in National Geographic, Sports Illustrated, and the nightly news.

Like a flooding river, the muddy earth toned shag carpet swallowed everything in its path, including the ebony coffee table, lazy boy recliner, and then lapped up against the sides of the Naugahyde sofa.  Elephant candelabras adorned the walls along with African masks.  A Laurence Fishburne movie was paused on the direcTV.  I’ll chalk that up to coincidence.  He showed me the kitchen, which revealed it to be a well-appointed kitchen.  “Let me show you the patio,” he said.  He then pulled back a dented vertical blind to reveal the back yard, where I was told I “could relax and enjoy the fresh air.” What lay outside was a flea market horror show: a half raised EZ up shaded a card table with cigarette butts piled high, next to a carburetor, with a rusting oil drum BBQ smoker off to the side.  He chuckled, "Could use a little TLC." "Yeah," I thought, "Total Liquidation of Contents."

We then made our way upstairs.  I carefully made my way by one of those Z gallery wine racks that was a cut out of an elephant with inverted bottles of white zinfandel.

The bedroom had that comfortable feeling that one might expect in a “safe house”.   There was a futon that had seen better days, and a desk that appeared impossibly small.  I turned to Kelvin, and smiled, " I see the cable jacks, but do you have Wi-Fi?"

His blank expression would have made Marcel Marceau blink.  "Uh…no…I don’t have the internet. I..uh…had my ID stolen a while back and they used it to open an ATT and Comcast account.  I’m still straightening it out."

I thanked him profusely, and stepped back into the furnace that was Fresno.  I think the weather forecast was accurate.

My next stop was to meet Jesus of Fresno.  Now, this Jesus was not a carpenter.  He had higher sights.  He wanted to be a cop.  He was to start the LAPD academy in January.  Now he had told me this on the phone, which begged the question, “Who the hell am I going to live with?”, but I had agreed to meet him anyway.  His condo was a condo, which made me 2 for 3.  I finally located it, and parked—easily I might add, which is one bona fide plus Fresno offers the modern world.   

He met me outside and invited me in to see the joint, and to meet his girlfriend Bettina.  His girlfriend was frying something in the kitchen, and the greasy smell wafted out to greet my unsuspecting nostrils.  This, plus there appeared to have been a windstorm recently that centered its destruction solely within the confines of his apartment.  “Excuse the mess.  My roommate is in the process of moving.” 

“Yeah, right”, I thought.  I just couldn’t imagine the person who would live with these two, but I knew it wasn’t me.  I saw his computer and asked if they have Wi-Fi.

“No.  We get our internet from the neighbor whose connection is unprotected.”  On that note I thanked Jesus of Fresno, and bid Bettina farewell.

My final stop was with Dave and his semi-employed roommate Mark.  Dave was a Fresno Native who really wanted me to live with him.  He had called me twice to confirm my arrival time, as Mark wanted to meet me too.  I ended up being an hour later than planned.  Dave’s house was in NW Fresno.  I pulled up to an early 70's house that could have been the Brady house, that is if Mike Brady had been a Meth Chemist instead of an architect.  The yard was ill kept, and dusty.  I knocked and Dave answered.  “Hi Adam!” He was so excited to have me visit.  He let me in, and showed me into the kitchen where I met Mark.  Mark was one of those skinny white guys with the little beer belly.  He had bags under his eyes that were so big he’d have to check them before getting on a plane.  He looked up from his iPhone long enough to see he had a visitor.  He then rose and shook my hand.  “Hi.  Nice to meet you.”  And that was that.  The curtain descended, and he was gone.

Dave cheerfully showed me around.  “Mark and I are very clean.”  If you see anything dirty it was the previous tenant.  Well, the previous tenants had certainly been busy converting a house into something uninhabitable.  Dave led me outside to an enclosed patio that was about 150 degrees.  “This is Mark’s work area.”  I saw some carpentry tools, a half refinished chair, and beer cans….tons of beer cans. 

I thought to myself, “God bless the alkees that have the wherewithal to recycle.  It’s a form of unintentional full disclosure.

After the warm greeting, and the visit to the recycling center, it was time to see the bedrooms.  Stained carpets and dirty walls gave way to dusty closets and a filthy bathroom.  Dave wanted to sit and chat.  I begged off and wished him well. I even forgot to ask about Wi-Fi.

I ended up at a Starbucks.  By the way, they have Wi-Fi.  I quickly called Cory.  She was more than happy to rent to me.  She even pro-rated the rent.  After two iced coffees, I made my way to the 99 and headed to that town south of Bakersfield.