well..
After 19+ years in the life, I find myself facing a change which, while welcome and long overdue, is at the same time making me very nostalgic and damn near wistful.
In 7 days I will begin a new position with the Cake, Monday-Friday, 9-5, with the occasional travel out of town. For those that know me, they will recognize the fact that I have been working the restaurant gig for many, many years, the schedule of which has played havoc with trying to plan anything with anyone: kids, loved ones, friends. While that is about to change, I still feel a bit of anxiety. I read about a man recently who was going to be paroled after 20 years of being in prison. He said he did not look forward to leaving because he was so "institutionalized"-he just didn't know anything else. And while being in the restaurant biz in far from being in a daily episode of "OZ", I think I know how he feels.
Its been great-I have made some friends who I still count as being close ones to this day. I have a head full of memories that I wouldn't trade for anyone elses. So I am writing today this love letter to all of those past and present who made the last 2 decades so much fun.
Here are some of the highlights, lowlights and funny stuff:
1987: Backwaiter at the Savoia, a french-italian place in Vegas. Every Friday the Chef would host a cooking class, wine tasting or somesuch. Ended up falling for the pastry chef, a young hippie girl who, while she wouldn't give me the time of day, would keep me in free profiteroles and hazelnut cookies. One Friday we did a tasting of very expensive cognacs, which I ended up tossing via my stomach into the toilet. Classy... Hey, up to that point, my only experience with wine or liquor was Boone's farm...
1989: Began working at Chili's in Las Vegas as a "back of house" guy. In restaurant parlance, this is a cook or kitchen dude. Witnessed J.C. (a well-respected doctor these days) thieve jugs of milk and the occasional steak to take home for meals. Became friends with Eric Berman, Clint Chew "bacca", Dena, Luanne, Shane and a host of others. I will always remember the Neopolitan Dance (don't ask).
1989: 2nd gig at Chaz, a nightclub in Vegas. Because I stupidly wasn't going to school anymore, I guess a 2nd job was okay. While technically not a restaurant job, it was a place that served drinks and the occasional food promo (remember hot-dog night?). Acted at the lighting effects guy cum bodyguard for the mixmaster Chris Cox. A year of house music, late nights playing super Mario and Nintendo beach volleyball until 4 in the AM with Chris, going on 7-11 runs for pink snoballs and gatorade before the music started.
1990: Move to Tulsa, which looked like a dumb ass move at the time, but which probably saved my life. Still in the kitchen at Chili's, I met and worked with such crazies as Brian "The Gypsy" Holland, Larry, Andy Stafford, Traci Deeds, Brian, Mikelynn Kennon...I am sure to forget some people here but hey, I am 41 now.
1991: The OuterUrban: a small bistro on the outskirts of Tulsa. My first chance to tend bar and wait tables, the latter of which I despised. Eventually was asked by Libby (whose husband Larry I worked for at Chili's...see above) to be a manager. So I blame her for putting me on this crazy path. One of the most stressful gigs I have ever had, due to the owner not paying his bills on time, so IN TIME we had to go on a cash basis with our vendors. Many were the day near the end where I would take what meager cash we had made the day prior and pick and choose what we needed from the Sysco truck. This experience was only eclipsed by Easter Sunday, when the vent-a-hoods went down and thick, grey, greasy smoke wafted into a dining room FULL of rich Tulsans dressed in their Easter finest. Was only scrubbed from my memory after me, Kyle and the 3 sirens (Amy, Bonnie, Kim) went ito the Urban after-hours and cooked up steaks and many cocktails..
1991: 2nd job again, this time to buy a car. Bartender at Sterlings, the biggest (at the time) gay bar in Tulsa. Before the questions start, let me say that this gig was a friend of a friend deal-the mixmaster Chris Cox had a part-time gig at Sterlings playing music and the owner needed a bartender for drag nights. $1.00 beer for the first few hours with all the drag queens you could want. Despite my protestations that no one would want me there due to my heterosexual tendencies, the owner wanted a token "straight boy" there, and it worked. Made a bunch of friends as well as adding to an already huge tolerance for all things. Met a lot of straight girls there as well (go figure!). Sad when the place closed; sadder still when Roland, another bartender, passed away from HIV. Gary and Jeff L were bigger than life and I still have great memories of the place.
1992-1994: The legendary Full Moon Cafe. A 125-seat bistro close to downtown Tulsa where I "made my bones" in the life. Worked my way from Kitchen Manager, whose primary duty was to make the 90 gallons of their famous tortilla soup every day. I didn't know a thing about cooking besides burgers, et al at Chili's, but somehow it all worked. Promoted to front manager then GM. Famous for their Full Moon parties once a month, the Full Moon remains the most fun I have ever had while in the biz. Karen Fearing, the Gypsy, Russell, Mary, Brian Hughes, Sara Hughes, Debbie, Jacques, Kelly, Hal and Greg; I miss sitting on the porch at Debbie's with green sticky and cans of beer.
1994-1998: Decide to get back to a big city, I send off resume to Planet Hollywood, who despite my meager experience, hire me anyway. Stints in Dallas, SF, Beverly Hills, Vancouver and Atlantic City. Memories of Gary Coleman stalking me to pay his dinner tab while he was stalking some of my hotter front desk staff, Richard Marx' bachelor party featuring 2 naked girls and "an appliance", Arnold, Sly, Bruce (who, when he came in would go straight to the kitchen and cut up with the kitchen guys, autographing their hats), sitting with Bruce's big Israeli bodyguard Avi doing shots at a bar in Vancouver while he told dirty jokes, watching Don Johnson tell everyone he was on the wagon while at the same time walking around with a coffee cup with "tea" in it (actually Patron tequila), drinking Thai beers at the bar of Union Square in SF, then trying to find the right bus line for home, smoking Cubans in the pool room with Joey Z and Gary Coleman...the list goes on and on. Shout out to Donnie Mixon, Randy Gossett, Alicia, Tuesday, Elizabeth Buck, Kim, Danny, Brian Hood, HD, Shannon, Terry and especially Joey Z. Too many folks to remember. Met the boys mother at Planet and have great memories of all.
1998-2000: out of the restaurant biz--had to try and get away for a while to see if I missed it...and I did.
2000-2004: eatZi's Market and Bakery: a jewel-box in the middle of Uptown Dallas. Think a 9000 sq foot gourmet/fresh-food market doing $17M a year. Fresh prepared foods, bakery, pastry shop, deli, coffee house, wine store, specialty food market...all rolled into one. An amazing place where it was less a place to work than a cult to be a part of. The place I am most proud of my work, thanks to Dan Simons, Diana Fair, et al. Met the future Mrs. Lory at eatZi's.
2004-2005: Took a chance at multi-unit management with Reata, a steakhouse concept in Fort Worth that had the best owner in the world, Al Micallef. Would spend any amount of money to make the place great. In charge of units in FW, California and a little town called Alpine, Texas which is where it started. The FW location is 4 stories high, with 7 private dining rooms, catering, a frozen food component...you name it. Only place where I had not one but 4 managers walk out on me AT THE SAME TIME (they sucked anyway....) Still wish I could have parted on good terms, but something about going through a divorce makes life a little tough at times. But we made it through. Fond memories of the food and a bunch of the staff.
Spring, 2005: Hook up with Tristan Simon and Cuba Libre. Great tacos and nightlife in the Knox-Henderson area of Dallas. Even though I decided to walk away and go to Dickey's BBQ (see below), I still have good memories of the place. Except...for the time when I was in training in the kitchen and happened to walk up to the front and there was a couple who said they had been waiting 3 hours to get a table. Wait...what? How long did we tell you? Oh, about an hour. And you waited how long to come and tell us we made this mistake? Well, we went down to this other bar.....blah, blah, blah. At that point I realized I didn't want to work with the late night crowd anymore. Laura and I and another couple went there for dinner the other night and had a great time, though. Although a short stint, a great place.
Summer, 2005: At the time I accepted a position at Cuba Libre, I had also spoken to Dickey's, a Texas-based BBQ concept, about a franchise consultant position. It didn't go through at first, but the weekend of the 3-hour wait lady Dickey's called and offered me the position which I jumped on (sorry T.S.). 3 months of redneck crap as I find the franchise consultant position is not the schedule they told me, but weekends, etc where I was working in the stores, cleaning and cutting meat. Nope...not gonna do it.
Fall, 2005: as you can see above, I guess I was trying to find a home again, like I had at eatZi's, at Planet and at the Full Moon. Finally, I turn my weary feet towards the Cheesecake Factory, whose call I had been avoiding for years. I knew a lot about Cheesecake as many from the eatZi's high-up had come from there, and my old Chili's buddy from back-in-the-day Eric Berman has been with them for over a decade at this point, so I knew there was something to it. Cheesecake has been an amazing ride, one that I wish I would have started long ago. Better late than never, I have spent the last 18 months there learning a ton, and now have the opportunity to transition into a corporate role. Sweet, Napoleon.
Next week, I am unsure what form my good-bye will take. I am sure that there are those from the restaurant who will want to take me out and get me completely sideways. I am sure that there are those who may be glad to see me go, giving personality conflicts or what have you. I am sure that I will miss it all.
David
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Friday, July 6, 2007
translates into "this sucks"...
El Penjamos
Morrillton, Arkansas
I tried finding the name "Penjamos" in the spanish dictionary. For some reason, I could not find it, nor any facsimile thereof. Perhaps it is slang for something, similar to American slang which often takes forever to make it into Webster's latest edition. I know what "pendejo" means, having heard it many times shouted in many kitchens...a perjoritive term slighting the receiver and causing the giver to smile or laugh out loud at the other's misfortune. Of course, what would follow would be one or more of the following: "puto", "maricon", "chupa mi vierga"...etc, etc, etc, (and often in tandem), but I digress...
I spent the last four days with my sons in Arkansas. It was our first trip since the divorce where I could spent a string of days with them...just them...soaking them in and doing Daddy stuff--and outdoor stuff, which I truly enjoyed with my father back in the day. Fishing, hiking, swimming, checking out girls. Okay maybe I did the last alone while they were swimming, but hey the lifeguards were hot.
The final night, I wanted to treat them to a sitdown meal somewhere that didn't involve chicken tenders, cheeseburgers or pizza. There was only one "restaurant" at the lodge we stayed; a bland place for those folks (like me) who didn't think to reserve a cabin with an actual kitchen and had to fend for himself and his tribe. I write not about this place, but I would be remiss if I didn't include it in the pantheon of all things that suck about food.
SO, we made our way to Morrillton, a town of 6500 that serves as a gateway to the State Park where we made our home for 4 days. Having driven there 2 nights earlier for a proposed fireworks show, I knew that there wasn't a ton of choices, but really wasn't paying attention at that point, occupied more by trying to find the damn park where the damn fireworks show was...dammit. As we cruised up and down the main drag on this fateful night, we passed a place offering "mexican food" called El Penjamos. There were several cars in front, so I figured lets give it a shot. A shot is what I should have had prior to dining.
Upon entry, the place seemed okay enough, given the faux pink walls (maybe giving the impression of a pastel adobe?), simple tables scattered throughout, a glass cabinet at front which served as the cashier stand/menu holder/tacky gift idea center and the presence of several very bored looking staffers.
"How many?
"Three, please"
"Okay"
The above started off the exchange in a very awkward manner. You could tell that there was no pop...no sizzle to this place. The patrons looked bored, the staff bored; was I in some kind of restaurant pergatory?
We sat and gave a drink order to Mr. Happy the server. Then Mrs. Happy came along and delivered the obligatory chips and salsa. The salsa was very quaintly served in a mini carafe which held enough for the 3 of us to pour into our small black ramekins styled after volcanic rock...if volcanic rock was made of plastic that is.
Perhaps we have been in Texas too long...or maybe just the right amount of time, given the circumstances. Regardless, you know that something is up when your oldest son, all of 9 years old, remarks "Dad, this salsa isn't very good. It's not spicy enough..." Hallelujah for them being born in Texas, baby. Then the younger one, Sutton, adds "and the chips aren't salted". Maybe its my fault for trying to raise them with an awareness of good food. I don't know.
After a liberal dosing of both chips and salsa with the table salt, we continued. Mr. Happy came back over to ask what we would like to eat. Tristan chose a soft beef taco plate, Sutton a chicken burrito and for myself, an "enchiladas rancheros" plate: two enchildadas smothered in a "red sauce" with beans and rice. To kick off the meal, we ordered a small dish of guacamole.
While waiting for the food, I take the time to visit the men's room. While a man's toilet is his throne, this place took it to the literal end. I walk into the closet sized bathroom and there sits the lone toilet upon a 2 foot pedestal. There are even steps that bear to the right to get to the throne. Unfortunately, the size of the bathroom precluded much of a place to stand whilst using said toilet (there was no urinal...not enough room!). So I find myself with feet 1/2 on the ledge and 1/2 off into space trying to concentrate on my biz. If I hadn't locked the door and someone walked in on me, they would have knocked me in the ass and caused me to tumble onto the dirty tile. So I finished quickly to say the least. Leaving the bathroom, I had an open look into the kitchen, watching the line guys, all with that same vacuous expression on their faces that all of the other staffers had, slinging monochrome plate after monochrome plate onto the expo window.
I return to the table, passing several more bored patrons and employees all with the same Stepford look to them. Or maybe its night of the living/eating dead. I often get my movie metaphors mixed up. As I get to the table the guacamole arrives. You know that stuff that you buy at the supermarket in a bag that claims to be guacamole? You tear open a corner of the bag and squish the green mush into a bowl, garnish with a couple diced tomatoes and voila! Guacamole for all! No flavor and again, the salt shaker went into overtime.
Soon the plates arrive. Very basic presentation on all; entree at 9:00, rice and beans covering the rest of the plate. The beans obviously came from a can..perhaps the same can of Rosarita refried beans Mother used to buy at the supermarket. Great back then since I didn't know any better...not so great now. The rice was no better t the beans, slightly hardened from sitting in a hot pan, then the pass-thru window waiting for Mr. Happy to retrieve and slap in front of me and the princes.
The "red sauce" reminded me, colorwise, of a fake BBQ sauce I once saw...neon red in color and absolutely horrid in taste. I was a franchise consultant for a nationwide BBQ joint and had to travel to a far-off outpost off the New Jersey Turnpike. The location was a travel plaza...one of their attempts at 2nd-gen'ing their concept to fit into smaller venues. Well, one of my tasks was to make sure that all of the franchisees stuck to a corporate ingredient list; the one rule that was sure to be broken by some of these idiots trying to save a buck in hopes they would not get caught. This "red sauce" was worse then that. It tasted of simple tomato sauce dusted with a little salt (very little) and perhaps some cumin once came near it....not sure. Other than that, then "red sauce" was "really sucky". It covered a simple pair of tortillas filled with tepid cheese. The rice and beans were not to be outdone however in fighting for control of the plate as it was all slopped on as if by a dishonorably discharged veteran of some war, whose KP duty then made it possible for him to find an exciting career in the post-military food industry. Yippee.
The boys plates fared no better. In fact, I almost couldn't tell the difference between my enchilada plate and Suttie's burrito plate. Good times.
Right after my divorce, in a fit of insanity and instability usually present during those times, I contemplated very seriouly taking my kids and stealing them away from everyone on a cross-country spree, never to look back. I didn't want to be away from them and I didn't want their mother to have them either. I came to my senses of course, but realize now that if this is the food we would be subjected to while trying to hide out in different parts of the country, I might as well not leave Texas at all. So, their mother caught a break.
Perhaps the looks on the employees faces foreshadowed an impending closing of their restaurant. Perhaps hours had been cut back due to lack of business (although being one of the only places in town serving mexican food, I have to believe they would be busier). Perhaps they were still pissed from the US beating Mexico in the Gold Cup. Perhaps a death of one of their co-workers. Or perhaps they were just beat down from serving this food night after fucking night to a bunch of bored looking jerk-offs who didn't know good food from a tractor-pull? Maybe they wanted to serve better but god forbid the citizens of Morrillton allow them to put any spices or flavor or creativity into their menu.
Good food is possible, no matter where you are. I have eaten at the French Laundry in Napa, at Javier's and La Duni and Hattie's in Dallas, at Postrio in SF, at Coyote Cafe in Santa Fe (before Mark Miller decided to get popular and write cookbooks instead of staying in the kitchen). BUT some of the best places I have eaten in were little out of the way joints that no one writes about and I am constantly on the lookout for those places time and again. Good food is possible and sometimes it just takes educating people on what that is. My generation? We started on Van De Kamp pork and beans, Kraft Mac and Cheese and Pillsbury muffins. Not great at all, yes? But over time, hopefully most of us have developed palates or at least an interest in food that tastes good in no small part because it was made with pride. Good food doesn't have to be fancy in it's presentation, doesn't have to literally reach towards the ceiling in an attempt to wow and astonish the eater, doesn't have to include million-dollar ingredients like truffles and 90-year old balsamic and all that crap. It just has to be made by people as if they were eating it. I guarantee you...none of the staff at El Penjamos eats the food at the restaurant. They go home and made tortillas by hand, roll tamales with care and cook beans from scratch. They drink cervezas and laugh at the clones who come in to El Pendejo...sorry, El Penjamos night after night.
I remember watching Chef Joe Goetze stirring a tilt skillet full of soup for a homeless program we were doing at the time.(A tilt skillet is a marvelous contraption that allows you to do soups, braise meats or almost anything else in big quantities, then "tilts" via a gear device so you can pour whatever directly into containers. They are awesome and workhorses in a lot of kitchens). Now, this soup was destined for a bunch of folks who probably could have cared less HOW much pride Joe took in making it. For them it was a meal that they could count on in a life not being able to count on much. But you could see the look in his eyes as he was making the soup...careful, thoughtful and patient. He wanted it to be right. Weeks later, the homeless folks we were giving the soup out to wanted to know "where Joe's soup was" as Joe had taken a week off for vacation. They noticed, and most others do too. Do good food and expect good food...no matter where you are.
Morrillton, Arkansas
I tried finding the name "Penjamos" in the spanish dictionary. For some reason, I could not find it, nor any facsimile thereof. Perhaps it is slang for something, similar to American slang which often takes forever to make it into Webster's latest edition. I know what "pendejo" means, having heard it many times shouted in many kitchens...a perjoritive term slighting the receiver and causing the giver to smile or laugh out loud at the other's misfortune. Of course, what would follow would be one or more of the following: "puto", "maricon", "chupa mi vierga"...etc, etc, etc, (and often in tandem), but I digress...
I spent the last four days with my sons in Arkansas. It was our first trip since the divorce where I could spent a string of days with them...just them...soaking them in and doing Daddy stuff--and outdoor stuff, which I truly enjoyed with my father back in the day. Fishing, hiking, swimming, checking out girls. Okay maybe I did the last alone while they were swimming, but hey the lifeguards were hot.
The final night, I wanted to treat them to a sitdown meal somewhere that didn't involve chicken tenders, cheeseburgers or pizza. There was only one "restaurant" at the lodge we stayed; a bland place for those folks (like me) who didn't think to reserve a cabin with an actual kitchen and had to fend for himself and his tribe. I write not about this place, but I would be remiss if I didn't include it in the pantheon of all things that suck about food.
SO, we made our way to Morrillton, a town of 6500 that serves as a gateway to the State Park where we made our home for 4 days. Having driven there 2 nights earlier for a proposed fireworks show, I knew that there wasn't a ton of choices, but really wasn't paying attention at that point, occupied more by trying to find the damn park where the damn fireworks show was...dammit. As we cruised up and down the main drag on this fateful night, we passed a place offering "mexican food" called El Penjamos. There were several cars in front, so I figured lets give it a shot. A shot is what I should have had prior to dining.
Upon entry, the place seemed okay enough, given the faux pink walls (maybe giving the impression of a pastel adobe?), simple tables scattered throughout, a glass cabinet at front which served as the cashier stand/menu holder/tacky gift idea center and the presence of several very bored looking staffers.
"How many?
"Three, please"
"Okay"
The above started off the exchange in a very awkward manner. You could tell that there was no pop...no sizzle to this place. The patrons looked bored, the staff bored; was I in some kind of restaurant pergatory?
We sat and gave a drink order to Mr. Happy the server. Then Mrs. Happy came along and delivered the obligatory chips and salsa. The salsa was very quaintly served in a mini carafe which held enough for the 3 of us to pour into our small black ramekins styled after volcanic rock...if volcanic rock was made of plastic that is.
Perhaps we have been in Texas too long...or maybe just the right amount of time, given the circumstances. Regardless, you know that something is up when your oldest son, all of 9 years old, remarks "Dad, this salsa isn't very good. It's not spicy enough..." Hallelujah for them being born in Texas, baby. Then the younger one, Sutton, adds "and the chips aren't salted". Maybe its my fault for trying to raise them with an awareness of good food. I don't know.
After a liberal dosing of both chips and salsa with the table salt, we continued. Mr. Happy came back over to ask what we would like to eat. Tristan chose a soft beef taco plate, Sutton a chicken burrito and for myself, an "enchiladas rancheros" plate: two enchildadas smothered in a "red sauce" with beans and rice. To kick off the meal, we ordered a small dish of guacamole.
While waiting for the food, I take the time to visit the men's room. While a man's toilet is his throne, this place took it to the literal end. I walk into the closet sized bathroom and there sits the lone toilet upon a 2 foot pedestal. There are even steps that bear to the right to get to the throne. Unfortunately, the size of the bathroom precluded much of a place to stand whilst using said toilet (there was no urinal...not enough room!). So I find myself with feet 1/2 on the ledge and 1/2 off into space trying to concentrate on my biz. If I hadn't locked the door and someone walked in on me, they would have knocked me in the ass and caused me to tumble onto the dirty tile. So I finished quickly to say the least. Leaving the bathroom, I had an open look into the kitchen, watching the line guys, all with that same vacuous expression on their faces that all of the other staffers had, slinging monochrome plate after monochrome plate onto the expo window.
I return to the table, passing several more bored patrons and employees all with the same Stepford look to them. Or maybe its night of the living/eating dead. I often get my movie metaphors mixed up. As I get to the table the guacamole arrives. You know that stuff that you buy at the supermarket in a bag that claims to be guacamole? You tear open a corner of the bag and squish the green mush into a bowl, garnish with a couple diced tomatoes and voila! Guacamole for all! No flavor and again, the salt shaker went into overtime.
Soon the plates arrive. Very basic presentation on all; entree at 9:00, rice and beans covering the rest of the plate. The beans obviously came from a can..perhaps the same can of Rosarita refried beans Mother used to buy at the supermarket. Great back then since I didn't know any better...not so great now. The rice was no better t the beans, slightly hardened from sitting in a hot pan, then the pass-thru window waiting for Mr. Happy to retrieve and slap in front of me and the princes.
The "red sauce" reminded me, colorwise, of a fake BBQ sauce I once saw...neon red in color and absolutely horrid in taste. I was a franchise consultant for a nationwide BBQ joint and had to travel to a far-off outpost off the New Jersey Turnpike. The location was a travel plaza...one of their attempts at 2nd-gen'ing their concept to fit into smaller venues. Well, one of my tasks was to make sure that all of the franchisees stuck to a corporate ingredient list; the one rule that was sure to be broken by some of these idiots trying to save a buck in hopes they would not get caught. This "red sauce" was worse then that. It tasted of simple tomato sauce dusted with a little salt (very little) and perhaps some cumin once came near it....not sure. Other than that, then "red sauce" was "really sucky". It covered a simple pair of tortillas filled with tepid cheese. The rice and beans were not to be outdone however in fighting for control of the plate as it was all slopped on as if by a dishonorably discharged veteran of some war, whose KP duty then made it possible for him to find an exciting career in the post-military food industry. Yippee.
The boys plates fared no better. In fact, I almost couldn't tell the difference between my enchilada plate and Suttie's burrito plate. Good times.
Right after my divorce, in a fit of insanity and instability usually present during those times, I contemplated very seriouly taking my kids and stealing them away from everyone on a cross-country spree, never to look back. I didn't want to be away from them and I didn't want their mother to have them either. I came to my senses of course, but realize now that if this is the food we would be subjected to while trying to hide out in different parts of the country, I might as well not leave Texas at all. So, their mother caught a break.
Perhaps the looks on the employees faces foreshadowed an impending closing of their restaurant. Perhaps hours had been cut back due to lack of business (although being one of the only places in town serving mexican food, I have to believe they would be busier). Perhaps they were still pissed from the US beating Mexico in the Gold Cup. Perhaps a death of one of their co-workers. Or perhaps they were just beat down from serving this food night after fucking night to a bunch of bored looking jerk-offs who didn't know good food from a tractor-pull? Maybe they wanted to serve better but god forbid the citizens of Morrillton allow them to put any spices or flavor or creativity into their menu.
Good food is possible, no matter where you are. I have eaten at the French Laundry in Napa, at Javier's and La Duni and Hattie's in Dallas, at Postrio in SF, at Coyote Cafe in Santa Fe (before Mark Miller decided to get popular and write cookbooks instead of staying in the kitchen). BUT some of the best places I have eaten in were little out of the way joints that no one writes about and I am constantly on the lookout for those places time and again. Good food is possible and sometimes it just takes educating people on what that is. My generation? We started on Van De Kamp pork and beans, Kraft Mac and Cheese and Pillsbury muffins. Not great at all, yes? But over time, hopefully most of us have developed palates or at least an interest in food that tastes good in no small part because it was made with pride. Good food doesn't have to be fancy in it's presentation, doesn't have to literally reach towards the ceiling in an attempt to wow and astonish the eater, doesn't have to include million-dollar ingredients like truffles and 90-year old balsamic and all that crap. It just has to be made by people as if they were eating it. I guarantee you...none of the staff at El Penjamos eats the food at the restaurant. They go home and made tortillas by hand, roll tamales with care and cook beans from scratch. They drink cervezas and laugh at the clones who come in to El Pendejo...sorry, El Penjamos night after night.
I remember watching Chef Joe Goetze stirring a tilt skillet full of soup for a homeless program we were doing at the time.(A tilt skillet is a marvelous contraption that allows you to do soups, braise meats or almost anything else in big quantities, then "tilts" via a gear device so you can pour whatever directly into containers. They are awesome and workhorses in a lot of kitchens). Now, this soup was destined for a bunch of folks who probably could have cared less HOW much pride Joe took in making it. For them it was a meal that they could count on in a life not being able to count on much. But you could see the look in his eyes as he was making the soup...careful, thoughtful and patient. He wanted it to be right. Weeks later, the homeless folks we were giving the soup out to wanted to know "where Joe's soup was" as Joe had taken a week off for vacation. They noticed, and most others do too. Do good food and expect good food...no matter where you are.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
who's got the bottle?
Back in the days of Planet Hollywood, where I lived for 4 years of my life, there were many traditions that, even for a young company, were followed with fanatic zeal. The stories that came out were even better.
The opening of a PH was the stuff of legend of course. Celebrities, media, PR people, gawkers...all crowded in/on/around the restaurant in a fit of frenzy. Inside were a tribe of 130 newly minted servers, kitchen dudes, bussers and the like; fresh from training, terrified that opening night was here and unwilling to truly believe that they were going to meet Bruce, Sly or Arnold and then tell their mom, sister or spouse about it. While Bruce's band played for the crowds outside, many celebrities were being escorted along the red carpet, stopping to chat with this or that reporter/photographer, acting as though they were in Cannes, an art opening or a benefit for MS, as opposed to kicking off an overblown burger palace.
Now, the management team, working 14 hour days leading up to the event, training the staff, arranging the offices, P-touching all of the shelving in storage areas, breaking out plates/forks/PH teddy bears, were ready for this night to come and go, so they could retreat to the closest watering hole for a late night of shots, storytelling and hopefully, that other "s" they had been missing for 2 months straight...isn't that why God created hostesses? :)
The celebs arrived, the staff made their rounds and all went off without a hitch. But thats not to say the start of the night went smooth...nor the hours leading up to it.
Arnold Schwarzenegger...love him, hate him, its up to you. But as a major investor in the PH empire, he was used to having things a certain way during his visits....and especially during openings. Being from Austria, Arnold had a fondness for a certain type of pear brandy found only in Europe and which had the unique quality of actually having a whole pear inside the bottle. Well, Arnold, in true Van Halen fashion (remember the brown M+M stories?) insisted on having a bottle of this brandy at the PH openings. No one ever knew if he actually drank the stuff while he was there. It was enough to say that he wanted it, and when you had a group of overworked 20-something kids running a $13M restaurant, you did what you were told.
As the bar manager, I was in charge of not only procuring the opening order of liquor for the site, but also to make sure that, come hell or high water, I had to make sure we retrieved the bottle of pear brandy from whatever opening happened before ours. No problem...right?
So I make my calls and find where the bottle was last. I call their bar manager and ask if he could package it up for me and send it FedEx. Don't worry he said....I gotcha covered. Arnold didn't even crack the bottle while he was here, he said. My ass. 2 days goes by....then 3...then my nuts are starting to tighten because, hey, I was supposed to have that shit there and it didn't look promising. Opening day arrives. No bottle. In an effort to not problem the GM with such quibbling issues such as a missing bottle of brandy that Arnold probably wouldn't touch anyways, I kept quiet. However, I thought maybe I should just go ahead and inform the poor bastard just so he can check it off the mental list, right?
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???? WE DON'T HAVE THE PEAR BRANDY BOTTLE?!!? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!"
Maybe I was wrong...
"I ASKED YOU TO DO ONE THING, DAMMIT!! HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHEEEEEEEETTTT!!!!"
I should have mentioned from the start that this GM was not someone who came up from the ranks of PH. He himself was a new hire, like me, and was already on fumes, having decided to run not only a restaurant, but a merchandise store cum movie paraphenalia museum and also be the unwitting liasion for media and PR people. Running the TGI Fridays in Tulsa could NOT have prepared him for this gig.
The GM ran off to try and fix the mess I made. Instantly, word got around through the rest of the management team and I somehow developed leprosy or something because everytime I moved near one of them, they mumbled something about "supposed to be over here...or something" and slinked off. Damn...
As you guessed it by now, Arnold did not ask for a drink of the pear elixir and the night went off without a hitch. I can still see the look of abject horror in the GM's face and still hear his excoriations of my obviously stunted lineage, my assuredly tainted childhood and overall bad character. After all, he was the boss, so it must be true.
The opening of a PH was the stuff of legend of course. Celebrities, media, PR people, gawkers...all crowded in/on/around the restaurant in a fit of frenzy. Inside were a tribe of 130 newly minted servers, kitchen dudes, bussers and the like; fresh from training, terrified that opening night was here and unwilling to truly believe that they were going to meet Bruce, Sly or Arnold and then tell their mom, sister or spouse about it. While Bruce's band played for the crowds outside, many celebrities were being escorted along the red carpet, stopping to chat with this or that reporter/photographer, acting as though they were in Cannes, an art opening or a benefit for MS, as opposed to kicking off an overblown burger palace.
Now, the management team, working 14 hour days leading up to the event, training the staff, arranging the offices, P-touching all of the shelving in storage areas, breaking out plates/forks/PH teddy bears, were ready for this night to come and go, so they could retreat to the closest watering hole for a late night of shots, storytelling and hopefully, that other "s" they had been missing for 2 months straight...isn't that why God created hostesses? :)
The celebs arrived, the staff made their rounds and all went off without a hitch. But thats not to say the start of the night went smooth...nor the hours leading up to it.
Arnold Schwarzenegger...love him, hate him, its up to you. But as a major investor in the PH empire, he was used to having things a certain way during his visits....and especially during openings. Being from Austria, Arnold had a fondness for a certain type of pear brandy found only in Europe and which had the unique quality of actually having a whole pear inside the bottle. Well, Arnold, in true Van Halen fashion (remember the brown M+M stories?) insisted on having a bottle of this brandy at the PH openings. No one ever knew if he actually drank the stuff while he was there. It was enough to say that he wanted it, and when you had a group of overworked 20-something kids running a $13M restaurant, you did what you were told.
As the bar manager, I was in charge of not only procuring the opening order of liquor for the site, but also to make sure that, come hell or high water, I had to make sure we retrieved the bottle of pear brandy from whatever opening happened before ours. No problem...right?
So I make my calls and find where the bottle was last. I call their bar manager and ask if he could package it up for me and send it FedEx. Don't worry he said....I gotcha covered. Arnold didn't even crack the bottle while he was here, he said. My ass. 2 days goes by....then 3...then my nuts are starting to tighten because, hey, I was supposed to have that shit there and it didn't look promising. Opening day arrives. No bottle. In an effort to not problem the GM with such quibbling issues such as a missing bottle of brandy that Arnold probably wouldn't touch anyways, I kept quiet. However, I thought maybe I should just go ahead and inform the poor bastard just so he can check it off the mental list, right?
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???? WE DON'T HAVE THE PEAR BRANDY BOTTLE?!!? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!"
Maybe I was wrong...
"I ASKED YOU TO DO ONE THING, DAMMIT!! HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHEEEEEEEETTTT!!!!"
I should have mentioned from the start that this GM was not someone who came up from the ranks of PH. He himself was a new hire, like me, and was already on fumes, having decided to run not only a restaurant, but a merchandise store cum movie paraphenalia museum and also be the unwitting liasion for media and PR people. Running the TGI Fridays in Tulsa could NOT have prepared him for this gig.
The GM ran off to try and fix the mess I made. Instantly, word got around through the rest of the management team and I somehow developed leprosy or something because everytime I moved near one of them, they mumbled something about "supposed to be over here...or something" and slinked off. Damn...
As you guessed it by now, Arnold did not ask for a drink of the pear elixir and the night went off without a hitch. I can still see the look of abject horror in the GM's face and still hear his excoriations of my obviously stunted lineage, my assuredly tainted childhood and overall bad character. After all, he was the boss, so it must be true.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
house of mirrors
Illusion-thats really the business we are in. Having worked in restaurants, nightclubs and bars for the last 20 years, I had the opportunity to be around after the last guest left, after the bright lights came on, after the cleaning crew started their rounds. Each and every place is the same: a big room or rooms...empty, dead without the living, breathing, drinking, groping, laughing, eating humans who populated said space.
Its funny to me how a "hot" place can be considered the spot, the "it" place, a place where folks will wait in line forever, lie to get a reservation, plot to get in as a means to an end (getting laid usually comes to mind). I worked at a nightclub in Vegas called Chaz back in the 80's during college. In the hours between the time we opened and closed we created that illusion...full of throbbing beats, a light show, white man-made fog to match the haze of it's drunken occupants. Once the last person walked out/was carried out, the lights would come on and illuminate what was really just 4 walls, carpet, a few bars and a bunch of truly tired folks, enriched by their tips but ready to clean up and go home (or perhaps someone elses home depending on their luck in hooking up during the night). I realized after many of those nights that the measure of humans having a good time depended on so many factors: how they were treated, their expectations of being there, reputation of our place, the "scene", the music....but in the end, Chaz was just a big room with some nooks and crannies for folks to hide in and celebrate, drown sorrows, flirt, relax, you name it.
Steve Rubell, the late great impresario of Studio 54, had it right. In his clubs, he could take an unused linen room, add a few lights, some couches and pipe in the music spinning in the main part of the club, and if you made it so there was a condition to get in: a cover, a VIP card, a look, drugs, promise of sex...people would clamor to get in. Because it was a place that many coveted, but few were allowed. But in the end, it was a linen closet, and when the lights came on, and the precious few were hustled out onto the street, a sense of sadness and emptyness remains: emptyness at what is left behind...the detritus of glasses, ashtrays and the like, and the sadness that people would choose to believe that, for a moment, this place was special, and worth celebrating, and boasting about (guess where WE got in last night), and standing in line for, and paying exorbitant prices for.
In the end, we all long for community; the desire to be accepted, to be present and comfortable around their fellow man is what causes these interactions. For others, it is self-esteem: their worth is derived from what they appear to be or do, if only in their own heads. They may derive no true joy from their experience. It is merely enough to say they were THERE. For me, it is a job...perpetuating the illusion long enough for those there for the right reasons to escape the daily grind can relax and unwide, can share stories with friends or co-workers, can pretend that they, for a brief shining moment, aren't their job or their title or what they earn. They are there as part of a larger group of humans, sharing.
David
Its funny to me how a "hot" place can be considered the spot, the "it" place, a place where folks will wait in line forever, lie to get a reservation, plot to get in as a means to an end (getting laid usually comes to mind). I worked at a nightclub in Vegas called Chaz back in the 80's during college. In the hours between the time we opened and closed we created that illusion...full of throbbing beats, a light show, white man-made fog to match the haze of it's drunken occupants. Once the last person walked out/was carried out, the lights would come on and illuminate what was really just 4 walls, carpet, a few bars and a bunch of truly tired folks, enriched by their tips but ready to clean up and go home (or perhaps someone elses home depending on their luck in hooking up during the night). I realized after many of those nights that the measure of humans having a good time depended on so many factors: how they were treated, their expectations of being there, reputation of our place, the "scene", the music....but in the end, Chaz was just a big room with some nooks and crannies for folks to hide in and celebrate, drown sorrows, flirt, relax, you name it.
Steve Rubell, the late great impresario of Studio 54, had it right. In his clubs, he could take an unused linen room, add a few lights, some couches and pipe in the music spinning in the main part of the club, and if you made it so there was a condition to get in: a cover, a VIP card, a look, drugs, promise of sex...people would clamor to get in. Because it was a place that many coveted, but few were allowed. But in the end, it was a linen closet, and when the lights came on, and the precious few were hustled out onto the street, a sense of sadness and emptyness remains: emptyness at what is left behind...the detritus of glasses, ashtrays and the like, and the sadness that people would choose to believe that, for a moment, this place was special, and worth celebrating, and boasting about (guess where WE got in last night), and standing in line for, and paying exorbitant prices for.
In the end, we all long for community; the desire to be accepted, to be present and comfortable around their fellow man is what causes these interactions. For others, it is self-esteem: their worth is derived from what they appear to be or do, if only in their own heads. They may derive no true joy from their experience. It is merely enough to say they were THERE. For me, it is a job...perpetuating the illusion long enough for those there for the right reasons to escape the daily grind can relax and unwide, can share stories with friends or co-workers, can pretend that they, for a brief shining moment, aren't their job or their title or what they earn. They are there as part of a larger group of humans, sharing.
David
Friday, February 9, 2007
Gezellig
2010 Greenville Avenue
Dallas, Texas 75206
214.826.1700
"gezellig" is a Dutch word that is untranslatable into English. So with the magic of the Internet I found the Wiki listing: "The words "cosy" and "delightful" in English probably have the closest meaning, but gezellig means much more...one is with family and/or friends, light is right, people are right, music is right, conversation is right, then the atmosphere is "gezellig". So, a fantastic combination of cosiness, enjoyment, relaxation, well laid-back at home or chilled-out in a bar, while being in good company, is "gezellig".
The owners of Gezellig bar on Lower Greenville made it a point to visit many, and I mean many, bars and pubs on a trip to Amsterdam last year. What they found besides a high Amex bill and many hard morning-afters, was a sense of what they wanted to bring back to the states; a place where the beer was center-stage, but had other components that would keep people coming back: simple, but great food, live music (but not so loud that you couldn't talk to your friends), and a casual yet upscale vibe.
Lower Greenville suffered for many years as a place to avoid if you were over a certain age (think 30+). But Gezellig is an oasis from the SMU youth/Plano slumming crowd that has made so many other places in the area not worth visiting.
Beer: gezellig has 12 great beers loaded onto custom-made frozen taps that keep the beer ice-cold. Nick, our bartender, recommended the Affligem Blond, which is now my favorite beer...at least this week (I of course will have to go back and try them all). Nick took a glass from the stack and, before filling, turned it upside down onto a small black disk set into the bar and pressed the glass onto it. The glass was filled with water sprayed from a jet below the disk, rinsing the glass free of dust and dishmachine residue, prepping it for the golden liquid. A bit of theatre perhaps? But I like what it promises: a clean tasting beer full only of the flavors I wanted...and it delivered. The Affligem had a smooth initial mouthfeel with just the right amount of hoppiness and a small final bite. Wow.
They also offer a huge list of bottled beers such as Trappist ales, fruited import beers, Belgian ales and many others. Along with a wine list and full bar, you will not bore easily of their beverage selections.
Food: one of the owners has a cooking background that includes stints as a private chef as well as corporate management. So it comes as no surprise that the food is of a higher quality than expected from a bar. Remember the brewpub craze about a decade ago, and how the big draw of those places (besides the homegrown beer) was fresh, high quality food...the perfect compliment to great beer? Well, this place delivers a menu of sandwiches that hold their own against some of the best I've eaten. The best of these is their Rueben: tender corned beef sliced thin and piled high onto chewy rye bread with a secret dressing and sauerkraut. Ohmy...Many is the day that Laura called me to ask what I was doing only to find me stuffing "in the face" a Gezellig rueben. Another sandwich that delivers, and is a great reference to a very funny move, is "the McDowell". (Those who remember the movie this is from will get it. Those who are too young to know this ref are probably too young to go to Gezellig anywho..). And it tastes just like a Big Mac, without all of the preservatives, calories and social angst. Come'on...eating a Big Mac is like sleeping with an ugly friend...ultimately it is very satisfying, yes? As long as no one sees you do it... Just try it (the sandwich...not the friend) If you don't like it, I will buy you one of their Ruebens...
Live Music: one of the nights we went, Common Folk was playing, a very good blues band. They have also had many other local acts play in the bar's short history, as well as such regional faves as the Reverend Horton Heat. Again, the music merely adds to the experience and doesn't detract from a laid-back good time.
Atmosphere: a small patio greets you as you approach the front, just big enough for you and some friends to watch Greenville go by. As you enter, you notice a large plasma on the right wall, some tables, and then the bar, which seems to stretch forever. There are tall tables/chairs that line the left wall, upon which hang local artist renderings of such varied musicians such as Kurt Cobain and Johnny Cash. The stage is along the back wall, which also happens to hide a screen which partners with an LCD projector and comes down for non-music times (mainly sports :). There are several panels of muted light that slowly change color without bringing attention to themselves. It all adds to a very relaxed vibe.
Give gezellig a try. Its a place for singles, couples, after-work jaunts, neighborhood friends...you name it.
Enjoy.
2010 Greenville Avenue
Dallas, Texas 75206
214.826.1700
"gezellig" is a Dutch word that is untranslatable into English. So with the magic of the Internet I found the Wiki listing: "The words "cosy" and "delightful" in English probably have the closest meaning, but gezellig means much more...one is with family and/or friends, light is right, people are right, music is right, conversation is right, then the atmosphere is "gezellig". So, a fantastic combination of cosiness, enjoyment, relaxation, well laid-back at home or chilled-out in a bar, while being in good company, is "gezellig".
The owners of Gezellig bar on Lower Greenville made it a point to visit many, and I mean many, bars and pubs on a trip to Amsterdam last year. What they found besides a high Amex bill and many hard morning-afters, was a sense of what they wanted to bring back to the states; a place where the beer was center-stage, but had other components that would keep people coming back: simple, but great food, live music (but not so loud that you couldn't talk to your friends), and a casual yet upscale vibe.
Lower Greenville suffered for many years as a place to avoid if you were over a certain age (think 30+). But Gezellig is an oasis from the SMU youth/Plano slumming crowd that has made so many other places in the area not worth visiting.
Beer: gezellig has 12 great beers loaded onto custom-made frozen taps that keep the beer ice-cold. Nick, our bartender, recommended the Affligem Blond, which is now my favorite beer...at least this week (I of course will have to go back and try them all). Nick took a glass from the stack and, before filling, turned it upside down onto a small black disk set into the bar and pressed the glass onto it. The glass was filled with water sprayed from a jet below the disk, rinsing the glass free of dust and dishmachine residue, prepping it for the golden liquid. A bit of theatre perhaps? But I like what it promises: a clean tasting beer full only of the flavors I wanted...and it delivered. The Affligem had a smooth initial mouthfeel with just the right amount of hoppiness and a small final bite. Wow.
They also offer a huge list of bottled beers such as Trappist ales, fruited import beers, Belgian ales and many others. Along with a wine list and full bar, you will not bore easily of their beverage selections.
Food: one of the owners has a cooking background that includes stints as a private chef as well as corporate management. So it comes as no surprise that the food is of a higher quality than expected from a bar. Remember the brewpub craze about a decade ago, and how the big draw of those places (besides the homegrown beer) was fresh, high quality food...the perfect compliment to great beer? Well, this place delivers a menu of sandwiches that hold their own against some of the best I've eaten. The best of these is their Rueben: tender corned beef sliced thin and piled high onto chewy rye bread with a secret dressing and sauerkraut. Ohmy...Many is the day that Laura called me to ask what I was doing only to find me stuffing "in the face" a Gezellig rueben. Another sandwich that delivers, and is a great reference to a very funny move, is "the McDowell". (Those who remember the movie this is from will get it. Those who are too young to know this ref are probably too young to go to Gezellig anywho..). And it tastes just like a Big Mac, without all of the preservatives, calories and social angst. Come'on...eating a Big Mac is like sleeping with an ugly friend...ultimately it is very satisfying, yes? As long as no one sees you do it... Just try it (the sandwich...not the friend) If you don't like it, I will buy you one of their Ruebens...
Live Music: one of the nights we went, Common Folk was playing, a very good blues band. They have also had many other local acts play in the bar's short history, as well as such regional faves as the Reverend Horton Heat. Again, the music merely adds to the experience and doesn't detract from a laid-back good time.
Atmosphere: a small patio greets you as you approach the front, just big enough for you and some friends to watch Greenville go by. As you enter, you notice a large plasma on the right wall, some tables, and then the bar, which seems to stretch forever. There are tall tables/chairs that line the left wall, upon which hang local artist renderings of such varied musicians such as Kurt Cobain and Johnny Cash. The stage is along the back wall, which also happens to hide a screen which partners with an LCD projector and comes down for non-music times (mainly sports :). There are several panels of muted light that slowly change color without bringing attention to themselves. It all adds to a very relaxed vibe.
Give gezellig a try. Its a place for singles, couples, after-work jaunts, neighborhood friends...you name it.
Enjoy.
Monday, February 5, 2007
What?
restaurant boy: I started this blog to give myself (and you who know who you are) a chance to chronicle all of the stupid, crazy, "what-the-??" moments in the restaurant biz. Others have done it before me...if you've read Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain (among others), you know what I mean. After almost 20 years in this industry, I've seen and heard just about everything. But thats why I stay in restaurants...just when you think you have seen it all...
Some of the things I put in here will make you laugh. Some will make you wonder. Others will make you sympathize and feel glad you chose a different profession than me. Still others will make you angry and wonder what kind of an asshole I really am. Well, I will promise you this: I don't make these stories up (if you want fiction, check out stripperpole.blogspot.com...that is where that goes). These are observations and thoughts based on those obervations. You may not agree with it all....that doesn't mean it isn't true.
davelory
Some of the things I put in here will make you laugh. Some will make you wonder. Others will make you sympathize and feel glad you chose a different profession than me. Still others will make you angry and wonder what kind of an asshole I really am. Well, I will promise you this: I don't make these stories up (if you want fiction, check out stripperpole.blogspot.com...that is where that goes). These are observations and thoughts based on those obervations. You may not agree with it all....that doesn't mean it isn't true.
davelory
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