The floor was greasy that day, my friends.
 
There’s an old saying that goes something like this. Comedy is when you stub your toe. Tragedy is when I stub my toe. The incident that night in the kitchen was actually both. But it made my wife Carla laugh. In fact, it caused her to get the no-breathers. That’s a good thing, after all. One should periodically try to make one’s partner laugh. Because if you’re funny, maybe--just maybe, they will tolerate your lame antics for another day.
 
As a preamble to describing the incident in question, I was just re-emerging from quarantine for the second time in more than two weeks after experiencing the Paxlovid rebound thing. I was eager to fuss up some dinner, Carla having manned KP duty the entire time I was holed up in my office. Dinner that night would be marinated boneless chicken thighs sauteed on the stove top and finished in the oven, accompanied by roasted potatoes, cherry tomatoes, and garlic. A salad would round things off. The vino would be a just-released vintage of a California Sauvignon Blanc.
 
As expected, the prep went without incident. The only hitch was my brain, meaning I had to stop momentarily from time to time to remind myself what the hell I was supposed to being doing. That’s COVID brain for you. Yes, everything was going just ducky. The table was set, bubbly water poured, and a small votive candle lit. Things were in the oven and the salad was ready to go. Then like proverbial lightning, major kitchen disaster struck.
 
When the timer on my phone went off I opened the oven door, potholder in the other hand. The goal was to take the large skillet containing the chicken out of the oven to check the temp. Two things before getting to the brief action sequence:
 
First, I always use a quick-read thermometer to make sure that chicken gets to the required 160-degrees. Medium-rare may be A-OK for beef but slightly pink chicken gives me the yeechies.
 
Second, the new fancy stainless steel pan Carla bought late last year is heavy. One Sunday in January during the NFL playoffs I followed the instructions on how to cure the cooking surface to the letter, only for the pan to end up looking like a mess of Rorschach ink blots. It definitely didn’t resemble the photo in the instructions--just like the sea monkeys of old.
 
Now to the incident. Rest assured that I’ve taken things out of a hot oven thousands of times. But for whatever reason, this time was different. COVID brain--or serious operator error--must have interfered. What happened next was this. Using the potholder, I grabbed the now very hot metal handle of the pan and removed it from the oven rack. But in microseconds, as I turned to put the pan on the stove top, I realized the entire palm of my hand wasn’t covered by the potholder. In fact, it was now registering all 375-degrees from the oven. Fire. Hot.
 
The result was, as noted earlier, simultaneously tragic and comic. I lost control of the pan just before getting it to the stove top. Then, just as with car accidents, time altered. It was like Sam Peckinpah movies when everything goes into super slow-motion and all the cowboys get shot.
 
Instead of witnessing a rain of gunfire, I watched in horror as the fancy big sauté pan filled with our winner-winner chicken dinner and the melted butter/olive oil combo slowly fell from the sky and hit the parquet floor. On impact, it made a great noise, as they used to say in the bible. I reacted by doing my best Little Miss Muffet imitation and jumped back several feet, lest I got splattered by hot oil. I also watched the chicken bounce a few times before finally settling on the floor.
 
At this point an expletive or two was definitely merited.
 
@#$%&!
 
@#$%&!       @#$%&!       @#$%&!
 
In days past I would have barked like a beleaguered sailor. But experience has taught me that hissing curse words is far more effective and satisfying. After all, it worked for Voldemort. Otherwise, I was somehow eerily calm. The damage had been done. Then I heard Carla calling out from her office. “Everything OK?” I responded with something along the lines of, “yes, everything’s great. And dinner just hit the deck.”
 
Immediately it occurred to me that the 10-second rule was now in effect, meaning that food dropped should only spend seconds on the floor. Only problem was that I had already spent those ten precious seconds staring at the scene of the accident and swearing. I wondered if there was such a thing as a 30-second rule. If not, there was now.
 
I finally roused myself into action, picking up the chicken with a pair of tongs and putting it on a plate. I gently and thoroughly wiped it with multiple paper towels in an effort to remove any unwanted floor detritus. I then used almost half a roll of paper towels to wipe up all the oil that had splattered on the floor. However, despite my efforts, the floor was still shiny and a bit slippety, as we used to say to Maria when she was a tyke.
 
From there, it was plating dinner and calling the kids to the table. Entering the kitchen, Carla took one look at the floor in front of the stove and then looked at me. Then she got the giggles. By the time she sat down, she had the no-breathers. I laughed too. After all, what the hell was I going to do? Patrick was flummoxed. I didn’t bother to explain.
 
As for dinner, the chicken was fine. But there were a couple of bites on the gritty side. Chalk it up to roughage. Beyond that, the good news was that I somehow avoided burning my hand. And I had survived the chicken catastrophe unharmed. Rest assured that I’ll use the largest oven mitt we own the next time I reach for a hot pan in the oven. Otherwise, if anyone would like the recipe for gritty chicken, I’d be more than happy to share. It’s called Chicken Floorentine. 

“Whenever life begins to crush me I know I can rely on Bandol, garlic, and Mozart.”
 
Jim Harrison
 
Recently I reread Jim Harrison’s last book called “A Really Big Lunch.” If not familiar, Harrison was a prolific writer of poetry and prose, with works including the much-lauded trio of novellas called Legends of the Fall. He was also a raging gourmand with enormous appetites not unlike the fabled Gargantuan of Rabelaisian fame. I don’t make that statement lightly. Harrison was obsessed with good food and wine. He made no bones about drinking two bottles of Bandol rouge a day. Mind you he never bothered with conventional wine glasses instead opting for a huge tumbler and 12-ounce pours that he “gulped.”  
 
What’s striking about revisiting the book is Harrison’s ADHD—which was significant. Reading his text is like being shoved into a cranial pinball machine and being smacked about with at least a half dozen topics on every page—all done with great elan and cleverness. To that point, Jim was an astute observer of the human condition and a brutal social critic. And he spared no one including himself.
 
Food and wine take center stage in the book. Throughout more than three dozen essays on topics varying from politics to the world going to hell in a hand basket, Harrison can’t resist the lure of what he calls “vivid” eating: hunting quail at his Arizona ranch, making bear posole at his cabin in Montana, and any number of ways of preparing tripe. There’s also no shortage of descriptions of dozens of meals enjoyed at high-end restaurants in France and beyond. The book’s centerpiece—and title essay—describes a certain lunch in 2003 at a French restaurant owned by Harrison’s favorite chef, Marc Meneau. In a marathon eight hour session (with breaks, of course), Harrison and eleven others including actor Gerard Depardieu dined on 37 courses washed down by over 15 legendary French wines, some dating back to the 1950s.
 
If you think 37 courses is the stuff of excess, you would be right. It’s hard to argue with that. It’s also hard to believe anyone was still alive the next day. This is French cooking after all, where using every possible source of fat is the norm and not an exception. Harrison also chronicles how he wandered around Paris for hours the day after in a food coma. But then he found himself peckish by dinner time needing to stop at one of his favorite bistros before boarding a red eye back to New York.
 
Harrison’s views on politics—and everything else for that matter—were strong water. No minced words, no middle ground. He hated the Bush administration vehemently, saying it drove him to eat, drink, and smoke to excess—which he already did. His opinions on wine were just as strong. To him, good wine had to be red—the color of blood.
 
“The great north from which I emerge demands a sanguine liquid. White snow calls out for red wine, not the white spritzers of lisping socialites, the same people who shun chicken thighs in favor of characterless breasts and ban smoking in taverns. In these days it is easy indeed to become fatigued with white people white houses, and white rental cars.”
 
No surprise that Jim was an acolyte of the wines from importer Kermit Lynch, the latter responsible for putting dozens of French wine appellations—many red--on the international map. Domaine Tempier, in particular, was an obsession with Harrison. White wines were a mere place holder in his universe, only to be tolerated if red wine was unavailable—or if a certain situation demanded it. Ultimately, he had to opt for white wine after being diagnosed with type two diabetes when “two bottles of red wine a day became inappropriate, a euphemism of course. One bottle a day is possible with a proper morning walk with the dogs, or rowing a drift boat for four hours in a fairly heavy current.”
 
Harrison is not the first I’ve come across who dismissed the white wine category outright. Over the years certain friends and acquaintances would eschew the white wine universe for various reasons, some vague and most arbitrary. The opposite could also be true. Some would profess not to be able to drink red wine because it gave them headaches. Of course they never connected the dots between over-indulgence and said headaches. However, the culprit behind the headaches could have been any number of things, including histamines and tannin in the wine to dehydration. Many times I suggested that someone take an antihistamine before slurping down that first glass of Merlot. Mind you there is always such a thing as too much wine.
 
In truth, everyone’s sensitivity—or lack thereof—to the structural elements in wine is different. Some crave white wines with insanely high levels of acidity, such that they could be used to make ceviche. Said acid freaks probably drank the vinaigrette remnants right out of the salad bowl as kids. Others like the monster truck pull experience from the tannins of a just-released Napa Cabernet. The same wine might cause another’s face to implode.
 
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention context at this point. It trumps everything. A particular bottle sipped during a gorgeous sunset on a first date can become a married couple’s perennial favorite wine. Or any number of first wine experiences enjoyed while in an exotic location. Then there’s the guy who was a regular when I bartended at Bentley’s Seafood and Oyster Bar in the financial district in the City in the 80s. He always wore a pink cashmere sweater. And he drank nothing but White Zinfandel. He once told me that he didn’t care for the wine so much as he wanted to drink something that matched the color of his sweater. I should also mention that he added Sweet’N Low to his White Zinfandel.
 
I can’t imagine not drinking white wine. To me it’s a vital part of the vinous spectrum—the Yin to the Yang of red wine, the day to the night, the Abbott to Costello, etc. More often than not, white wines are a much more precise lens of a place compared to their red counterparts, in which high alcohol, tannin, and new oak can muddy things. In particular, I’m a fan of unoaked, high-acid, and mineral-driven European whites, from Sancerre to Chablis to Pinot Bianco to Assyrtiko. Riesling is a favorite. Spätlese Riesling from Germany is my sweet spot. Literally. I think Riesling is transcendent and transparent. It offers a pristine representation of a vineyard and its microclimate like few other wines. Certain Rieslings also tend to be lower in alcohol. Combined with high acidity, it makes them a chameleon with food, matching well with just about anything aside from red meat or live game.
 
Age also matters. Not wine age, but carbon-dating our own world-weary carcasses. Specifically, the higher alcohol levels, tannins, and histamines in red wines are harder to metabolize as we get older. Not to mention that red wines are usually accompanied by some form of protein at the table with fat and salt on the side. Less red meat over time usually means less red wine. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. One can always make exceptions.
 
In the end, it's often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. That’s definitely true with the image above. Harrison looks like pressed rat and warthog of 60s rock lyrics fame. The decades of hard living, chain smoking, and gargantuan eating and drinking eventually took their toll. First, diabetes and then several bouts of gout. In the end, he died of a heart attack on March 26, 2016, in Patagonia, Arizona, at age 78.
 
It makes me wonder about Harrison’s life and idea of “living vividly.” Is it better to play it safe than exit stage left at a younger age? I’m not sure, but there must be some sort of middle ground. Whatever it is, I’m pursuing it. And I’ll keep drinking white wine while I’m at it. 

Tom Standage’s “History of the World in Six Glasses” is a good read. Standage writes for The Economist and has published several books. This is by far my favorite. The book frames history from the stone age to the 21st century through each of the era’s signature beverages--beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and Coca-Cola. Standage charts the history of each and shows how historical movements and even entire civilizations were influenced by particular drinks. How the workers in ancient Egypt relied on a diet of beer and bread to build the pyramids. How one of Washington’s first official acts in 1794 was to send a militia of over 10,000 men to Pennsylvania to put down a rebellion over whiskey taxes. How the tea industry in China was inexorably linked to the opium trade. And then there’s wine.
 
Standage writes that wine appeared later than beer by thousands of years. He then highlights what has to be one of the largest and most excessive celebrations in human history hosted by one Ashurnasirpal II, the king of Assyria from 883 to 859 BCE. During his reign, Ashurnasirpal II embarked on a huge plan of territorial expansion, conquering lands to the north and west, even exacting tribute from the Phoenicians on the Mediterranean coast. By all accounts, his methods were brutal. After conquering the Aramaeans and Neo-Hittites in what is now modern Syria, his armies put down a two day revolt. Then he had a monument raised in his honor with the following inscribed:
 
“Their men young and old I took prisoners. Of some I cut off their feet and hands; of others I cut off the ears noses and lips; of the young men's ears I made a heap; of the old men's heads I made a minaret. I exposed their heads as a trophy in front of their city. The male children and the female children I burned in flames; the city I destroyed, and consumed with fire.”
 
Yes, Ashurnasirpal II was a cruel rat-bastard of the highest order. But the man also knew how to throw a party. Standage writes that the feast held to celebrate the building of the new Assyrian capital in Nimrud lasted for ten days. Over 70,000 attended and were served 1,000 fattened cattle, 1,000 calves, 10,000 sheep, 1,000 spring lambs, 500 gazelles, 1,000 ducks, 1,000 geese, 20,000 doves, 12,000 other small birds, 10,000 fish, and 10,000 jerboa—a kind of small rodent. Vegetables, if you’re curious, were an afterthought, with just 1,000 cases served. Astounding as the previous list is, the most important part of the festivities was the fact that wine—not beer—was featured. No doubt beer was the common beverage at the time, having been extant for at least two millennia. But wine was a prohibitively expensive rarity, produced hundreds of miles away in mountain vineyards. It had to be transported down river to the new capital by boat. In serving wine, the king demonstrated his power and wealth to all his subjects and beyond.
 
After finishing the book, I forgot about Ashurnasirpal II until one cold fall day in London in 2008 when I was in the UK to help with MS exam. I flew in early to have a museum day, spending the morning at the Victoria & Albert, one of my favorite museums anywhere. After lunch, I took the underground to the British Museum. It was my first visit there and initial impressions can only be described as “overwhelm.” In a moment of rare common sense, I booked a tour. I’m glad I did. Our guide was named Emma. She was thin as a reed and about 5’5,” with wire rim spectacles and graying hair done up in a bun so tight she’d never need plastic surgery. Emma’s voice was a bit on the shrill side. It reminded me of Frau Greta Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies in that she shouted out directions, often startling those in our group as well as innocent bystanders.
 
Our first stop on the tour was the Rosetta Stone, one of the most remarkable artifacts from the ancient world. Emma warned us there would be a huge crowd and that it was imperative to stay close together and follow her instructions. From at least 30 feet away, she slowly backed up towards the exhibit with our group following close behind. Those already viewing the Rosetta Stone had no choice to move as our group made its way. Several people complained about our pushing them aside. One Italian guy even yelled at us. Frau Farbissina barked at them in response, telling them go somewhere else. And they did.
 
Once in front of the exhibit, Emma gave us a thorough history of the stone and an explanation of why it’s so important to the history of language. Finally, after the crowds threatened to go all wonky around us we took off for calmer locations, first stopping at the Elgin Marbles. When someone in the group asked her about the possibility of the museum returning the marbles to the Greek government, she responded with something along the lines of “that will surely happen when hell freezes over.” Otherwise, the tour lasted about 90 minutes and was more than worth the price of admission. At the end, I tipped Emma five pounds, more than anything because I was afraid of her. But she actually smiled and thanked me.
 
Afterwards, I had tea and a snack at the café in the Grand Court with its roof of 3,312 individual panels of glass held together by four miles of steel (!). Then I spent at least two more hours in the museum going from end to end, mind agog the entire time as I looked at the exhibits. Before heading out, I strolled through the antiquities one last time. At one point, I rounded a corner to find an enormous room with the walls covered in ancient Assyrian stone reliefs. As I scanned the scenes, I suddenly stopped cold. There in the middle of one of the reliefs was a large kingly sort holding a cylix—a shallow bowl for wine. No doubt he was fresh from having just slain a giant beast or two. Suddenly, I realized who he was. It was my buddy, Ashurnasirpal II.
 
In seconds, I became verklempt, even a touch misty-eyed. Maybe it was jet lag. But I knew it was him. I thought about this mighty but evil ruler from the ancient past who deigned to serve wine to his subjects. And how, in a way, king cruel shoes was responsible for my career. I silently thanked him but then immediately cursed him for his blatant lack of respect for human life. Regardless, it was a moment. Just me and Ashurnasirpal. And then the moment passed, but not before thinking about what kind of wine would pair best with small rodents.  

Though it may surprise you, I’ve only been to Paris twice. Both times were on the same trip in the fall of 1987 when my wife Carla and I went to Europe together for the first time. We stayed in the City of Lights at the beginning and end of our trek. Never having previously set foot on French soil, much less Paris, I utterly geeked out on art museums and cathedrals. Carla quickly had her fill of both, so we often split up for several hours at a time while I continued to gawk at incredible art in the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, and other museums.
 
We also saw a myriad of Parisian sights together. One of the most remarkable was Sainte Chapelle. If not familiar, Sainte Chapelle is a royal chapel built in the Gothic style. It’s located in the medieval Palais de la Cité, which is on the island of Île de la Cité in the River Seine. The palais was the residence of the Kings of France until the 14th century. Sainte Chapelle was built to house precious Christian relics including Christ's crown of thorns which had been acquired by Saint Louis. The chapel was constructed in just seven short years. It’s filled with 15 stunning floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows over 45 feet tall. The panes comprise over a thousand biblical scenes from the Old and New Testaments depicting the history of the world until the time when the relics were placed in the chapel.
 
I remember the day we saw the chapel. It was a sunny fall afternoon with the leaves on the trees showing shades of yellow and gold. I recall stepping inside the chapel and immediately stopping in my tracks, completely stunned. The interplay of light filtering through the majestically tall windows was dazzling to the point of almost being overwhelming. Trying to describe it fully is impossible. Words simply fail.
 
Sometimes words also fail with wine. To that point, I’ve spent the better part of the last three decades-plus trying to describe wine, both verbally and in written form. It’s a journey that’s involved a long, sometimes painfully slow process of building skill with olfactory perception and memory, not to mention pattern recognition--connecting the dots between impact compounds (a subset of the most important aromas and flavors), fruit character, and structure levels. It may sound like a lot—because it is. There is no hacking the process of becoming a professional taster. And one is never a great taster, but always in process of getting better at it. I’m reminded of the legendary cellist, Pablo Casals. When asked why he was still practicing daily at age 93 he said, “I’m beginning to see some improvement.” So it is with tasting.
 
Like many in the industry, my tasting notes are reductionist in nature. I break down a given wine into various components based on what it looks, smells, and tastes like. I learned this system over 30 years ago through the Court of Master Sommeliers and have used it countless times both in an internal context (when I think about and recall wines, which I do obsessively) and externally (when actually tasting and taking notes).
 
Some complain about using a reductionist grid, saying it coldly dissects wine. However, using any tasting grid is better than the previous old school philosophy of describing wines as “shy,” “insipid,” or “provocative.” Regardless, one needs a shopping list of sorts to evaluate wine in a meaningful way. Otherwise, being consistent in assessing a broad range of different styles would be a constant and daunting challenge. Regular use of a tasting grid also helps to establish benchmarks so future wines can be compared against a standard.
 
As good as any reductionist grid is, there are times when it fails--times when the combination of the wine in the bottle and context creates something that goes far beyond language. In this situation any attempt to describe what you’re smelling and tasting--either verbally or in writing—becomes difficult, if not impossible.
 
One of these “wordless wines” immediately comes to mind: the 1990 Domaine Ponsot Bonnes Mares. All great Red Burgundy is transcendent. Putting your nose in the glass is to be gently assaulted by a tsunami of aromas so complex it’s impossible to describe. The ’90 Ponsot was just that. The experience reminded me of standing in the nave of St. Chapelle and being inundated by brilliantly faceted light in infinite shades and colors that changed constantly with the slightest shift in atmospheric light outside.
 
Likewise, when I tasted the Ponsot, the aromas changed every time I put my nose in the glass. The wine showed extraordinarily complex layers of fruit, spices, sauvage, earth, and oak. The sum total shimmered like the surface of a quickly moving stream. After each time I smelled and tasted the wine, I’d put the glass down, smile, shake my head, and utter a quiet but emphatic wow.
 
The wine also had remarkable depth and concentration, but without being heavy. In effect, it was weightless. I’ve come to think that most great wines are just that—weightless. They show great intensity and concentration but without being heavy.
 
Scientists tell us that the left hemisphere of our brains specializes in reading, writing, speech, abstraction, and numbers. Regarding language, this area of our brain is where we put together concepts piecemeal by reading groups of individual words in sequence. The right, more ancient hemisphere of our brains perceives images as a whole, solves spatial problems, recognizes faces, and appreciates music. In thinking about the Ponsot Bonnes Mares, perhaps the overwhelming amount of sensory information presented to me in the moment confounded my left brain, forcing me to use my more ancient imaging/feeling right brain. Hence the difficulty in describing the wine.
 
There have been other wordless wine experiences over the years. Tasting five Goldkapsul Auslesen from the Saarburger Rausch vineyard made by the brilliant Hanno Zilliken was like sipping five variations of ethereal nectar. A magnum of 61 Krug was a perfect yet indescribable combination of aged fruit, dried exotic flowers, and truffled-earth, gently cradled by delicate bubbles. Over a dozen of Steven Henschke’s offerings tasted at the winery was a theme and variations on perfectly textured red wine made from ancient vine sources.
 
In the end, I know I’m not the first to struggle with words sometimes when it comes to describing what’s the in glass. And I won’t be the last. There will be times—and wines--when words will fail. In a way, it reminds me of how wine makes for a good life. And to always be on the lookout for the next wordless wine. 

The restaurant business. You may leave it at some point, but it never leaves you. And working in the business for any length of time will inevitably curse you for life with restaurant nightmares. Most of them have to do with being in the weeds—overwhelmed—sometimes to the extent that there is no hope, much less survival. I’ve had more than my share of restaurant nightmares over the years. I still do. But one of them was particularly malicious because it added an element of performance anxiety from my years of playing the trumpet.

The dream took place at Bix restaurant in the City. The scene was a variation of the very first Labor Day Sunday night I worked solo behind the bar there, which can be only described as an utter disaster. The restaurant had only been open for a couple of months at the time, and the press—all very positive—had started to achieve critical mass. Add to that the fact that it was a holiday weekend with a lot of people in the city. Finally, for whatever reason, we were understaffed for a typical Sunday night.

The dream took full advantage of what was one of the worst shifts behind a bar I would ever experience. Mind you, at the time I was an exceptionally fast service bartender and could keep up with just about anything. I could get weeded--but rarely ever overwhelmed.

In the dream, I was working the shift with another bartender. He and I enjoyed a pre-shift Fernet behind the bar as per usual. Then the evening started start off slowly. Everything was just ducky. But in no time we got slammed with a tsunami of people, and in short order we were both completely screwed. In the middle of it, a couple sitting at the bar waiting for their table ordered a bottle of Champagne from me. I think it was a bottle of Bollinger Grande Année. I quickly opened and served it to them and then put the bottle in my ice at the service end. I then raced off trying to put out various fires while the service register printer was out of control spitting out cocktail tickets like a cartoon.

At some point I went to pour more Champagne for the couple and the bottle was gone. I had a moment of utter panic thinking I had poured the rest of the bottle off for an order of house sparkling wine by the glass. I was stunned. It was like one of those wildlife shows on TV where the wildebeest is at the water hole and suddenly a crocodile the size of Buick rises up out of the water and takes it down. At that moment I looked down to the end of the bar only to see the other bartender about to go under for the last time too. Suddenly, he raced up to me and said something like, “Aren’t you supposed to go on now? Don’t you have to play?” I looked at him completely mystified.

Instead of answering, he pointed to the backbar which had somehow transformed into floor-to-ceiling black curtains. When I finally found the part in the curtains and opened it, there was a stage with an audience of hundreds of people staring at me. I looked over to see a grand piano with a woman wearing a formal black dress seated and also looking at me. She was irritated and pointing to her watch. Next to the piano was a music stand and a chair with my C-trumpet on it. I walked over to the stand much like the aforementioned wildebeest and picked up my trumpet. Suddenly, I realized there was no mouthpiece in my horn. And there was no music on the stand. Then I realized I hadn’t touched the horn for over six years. How could I possibly play anything? I looked out at the audience and then back at the woman at the piano. The silence was menacing. At this point I woke up in a sweat with my heart racing.
​
The restaurant business. You may leave it, but it never leaves you. 

One of my more memorable sommelier experiences happened early one Saturday evening at the Cypress Club. I was working with the late and great Randy Goodman that night. It was early in the shift and a party of four had just been seated on the main floor. The two couples were clearly friends and looking forward to sharing a night out. I immediately noted that one of the guys was carrying a magnum of red wine, which he placed in the middle of the table with a great flourish. No doubt he would attempt to impress-bore-torture his wife and friends with the wine. One more important detail: His wife was sitting across from him. And she was wearing a white linen dress.

The stage has now been set.

I approached the table, said hello, and offered the bottle owner’s assistance with opening and serving the magnum. The wine turned out to be a current release of a popular Napa Valley Cabernet. I also gently reminded him that there would be a corkage fee on the bottle. He said corkage was no problem and that he didn’t need help. He had things under control and would take care of opening and pouring the bottle for his wife and friends. I nodded and returned quickly and placed glassware and an underliner for the bottle on the table. I again politely offered to open the wine for him. Bottle guy again said he had everything under control. I clearly remember him using that phrase twice.

I then ambled over to the other side of the restaurant and stood next to Randy, who had watched the initial exchange with great interest. He turned to me and said something along the lines of “this is going to be rich.” What happened next can only be described as worst-case scenario.

Bottle guy retrieved a fancy corkscrew from his pocket. With a grand flourish he stripped the magnum of its capsule, demolishing it in the process. He then almost turned the bottle on its side as he inserted the auger of the corkscrew. Next, with enthusiasm not unlike a Jehovah’s witness approaching the first doorstep of the day, bottle guy quickly removed the cork from the bottle. He then removed cork from the auger of the corkscrew and placed it in the middle of the table so everyone could be as impressed as he was. Then, with what can only be described as deadly intent, he grabbed the magnum by the bottom of the bottle with his right hand to pour the wine.

I have to stop for a moment and note that pouring wine using this grip—holding the bottom of the bottle--is problematic at best, especially with a magnum. Unless you have huge Jesse Ventura hands, the likelihood of sloppy pouring, drips on the table, or other more catastrophic mishaps always loom. Moving on.

Bottle guy went to pour for his wife and guests. What happened next was like watching a Sam Peckinpah movie when it goes into super slow motion and all the cowboys get shot. As bottle guy reached across to pour for his wife, she of the white linen dress, he lost control of the magnum and dropped the bottle on the table, right in front of her. Wine immediately started sloshing out of the bottle at high velocity on to the table and glugging relentlessly into her lap.

As the bottle hit the table every head in the restaurant whipped around to see what was going on. Service came to a screeching halt. Instantly, Randy and I were across the room at the table. I grabbed the bottle, put my hand over the top, and set it upright on the table. Randy—and two other bussers who had appeared at the table out of nowhere—immediately started triage, cleaning up the table with cloth napkins. They also helped the poor woman sop up what must have been at least six ounces of bright purple Cabernet that had made its way into her lap.

The incident happened so quickly that she was stunned and could barely move, much less breathe. Bottle guy was also frozen. The other couple was horrified. With Randy and the busser’s help, clean up was quick. I then offered the four of them a glass of Champagne at the bar while we reset the table. After several awkward seconds, the other couple said something like “why don’t you give us a few moments.” We did, retreating a safe distance away awaiting further instructions.

The four of them sat in stony silence for about a minute. Suddenly, bottle guy’s wife stood up and forcibly threw her napkin in his face. She then grabbed her purse and stormed out of the restaurant. The other couple watched in shock as she left. They spent the next couple of minutes staring down at their cover plates. Then they looked at each other, stood up, wished their friend god speed, and left. Bottle guy sat in stunned silence looking at the comet trail of Cabernet that now adorned a goodly portion of the table top. I walked up quietly, put the cork back in the bottle, and handed it to him. Then I said, “we got this.” He nodded, got up, and left the restaurant.

​As the curtains of the front door billowed with bottle guy’s hasty retreat, dining in the restaurant resumed but with a great buzz over what had just happened. The cleanup and reset of the table took longer than usual. The rest of the evening went without incident.
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After the shift, Randy and I were downstairs having a Fernet Branca in our office. We replayed the accident multiple times poring over every detail. We then pondered bottle guy’s fate, and whether he would be sleeping on the couch--or in the garage--and for how long. We also wondered if his wife would hound or even humiliate him every time he went to open a bottle of wine, especially in front of friends. Would she would forever remind him of the “incident,” and rightly so? In the end, we agreed that the matter was really simple. If the sommelier offers to help you, let them. And don’t be a schlemiel. 

Many reading this post will clearly remember their first restaurant job. Mine was bussing tables and washing dishes at the now long defunct Uncle John’s Pancake House in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was the summer of 1971 and I had just finished my sophomore year of high school. I was 16 at the time and my goal of working for the man was to save enough coin to buy my first professional trumpet.

Truth be told, it wasn’t my first job. That job would have been the summer before when my older brother Tom and I chopped cotton for a week on my Grandma’s farm. I’m not sure whose idea it was to enlist the two of us for five days of slave labor. Regardless, we earned a whopping $12 a day totaling to $60 for the week. But the job kept us out of everyone’s hair. We also got a wicked farmer’s tan.

Even though $60 seemed like a windfall at the time, it didn’t begin to cover the cost of a new trumpet. Any pitch I made for the parents helping me buy a new ax—which would have cost between $500 and $600--failed to launch. They simply didn’t have the money. After school let out in May the following year, I applied for and got the job at Uncle John’s. But there was a slight catch: the hours were Wednesdays through Saturdays, 6:00 PM to 4:00 AM. That’s right, ten hour shifts for four consecutive days.

It goes without saying that this kind of nonsense wouldn’t legally be tolerated now. Today, the state labor board would slap the owners of the restaurant sideways into tomorrow if they caught wind of anything remotely resembling such skewed scheduling practices. But this was 1971 and indentured pancake servitude wasn’t unusual.

The restaurant’s manager was a woman named Darlene, a skinny, hard-edged, aging cowgirl who looked like she’d seen a lot of bad pavement. She was also a chain smoker, with a lit cigarette in hand sometimes even when on floor during service. Darlene had a serious case of helmet hair styled with enough Aqua Net to waterproof a dinghy. The finishing touches were enough cake makeup to fix the dented fender on a ‘59 Buick and a force field of some cheap screeching floral perfume. The sum total was that Darlene looked like Tammy Wynette’s evil twin. But she was an absolute shark in the restaurant, barking orders to the staff in both the front and the back of the house.

The waitresses were all lifers, older women who had worked at the restaurant for years. They constantly bitched about their tips, their feet, and Darlene. At first, they treated me like a mutt some relative had suddenly foisted on them. But in short order they discovered that I could make life at Uncle John’s much easier for them. And that, dear friends, was because I quickly discovered everything about bussing tables was squarely in my wheelhouse.

Allow me to explain.

The very definition of the job required speed, repetition, and thoroughness—all capabilities that, for whatever reason, I had in excess. But there was one more important element. After the first couple of shifts I realized that I had “restaurant eyes,” a sixth sense of sorts that meant I could walk through a section of the restaurant and instantly see what needed to be done on every table in the moment. To this day I can still walk through a restaurant and experience the same thing. It’s a curse at this point.
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I also discovered I could easily keep at least a half-dozen things in mind that needed to be done in the next few minutes. More importantly, I could also prioritize them in regard to whatever needed to be done first. My list constantly changed, with things done going off and things needing to be done constantly added. Finally, my recipe for bussing success included the fact that I was a skinny piece of sushi who could move fast. More often than not I found myself refilling coffees or waters because I was out of things to do in the moment. Thus, in no time the aging wrecking crew of waitresses, who just days before would have chased me into rush hour traffic without a second thought, adopted me as their idiot bastard son. 

Once the gig at Uncle John’s was secured, it was a matter of figuring out the commute. Getting there was no problem. I could ride the aging green Murray ten speed bike that Mom and Dad had given me some years before. The jaunt was less than 4.5 miles (or so Google tells me). I could stick to riding on neighborhood streets for most of it. But the last stretch had me riding on the always-busy Wyoming Blvd. to cross over the freeway. The ride took less than 20 minutes and I usually arrived sweaty but ready for a ten-hour shift.

Getting home after finishing up at 4:00 AM, however, was another matter. For the first week or so Dad insisted on picking me up, bike and all. However, Martin was 48 at the time and the last thing he wanted to do was get up at 3:30 in the morning and drive anywhere, much less retrieve me. After a short time I convinced him it would be OK. And frankly it was. I don’t recall any incident ever happening other than being chased by random stray dogs. I also marvel at the fact that I was never stopped by a police car. I chalk it all up to luck.

Like many 24-hour restaurants, Uncle John’s was a cross between a chameleon and a community theater for aliens at the edge of the universe. That is to say, its personality changed multiple times throughout the course of a day. At breakfast it was a greasy hash-slinging pancake-waffle joint serving up breakfast at light speed. That would change only slightly at lunch when regulars, who worked at nearby offices, had less than an hour to hoover sandwiches and the like.

Dinner was the slowest meal service of the day. Fortunately, location helped as the restaurant was on Central Avenue, part of the old Route 66 which traversed the entire length of the city. A good deal of dinner business was made up of hungry tourists passing through town not wanting to wait until Clines Corners on the other side of the mountains or the remotely distant Tucumcari to stop. Then there were the tour buses. Many times, one or more buses pulled up in front of the restaurant filled with Baptists headed to a convention somewhere in the deep south or army guys headed to a base in Texas. Then it was all hands on deck as half the restaurant would instantly get seated. In minutes the place would get slammed. First, the waitresses would be overwhelmed and then the kitchen would groan and creak under the weight of getting 20 or more orders at once.

At tour bus times I would take on the role of a rabid chihuahua busser, moving as fast as I could and trying to cover drinks, get sides, and clear plates as needed with the usual refilling of coffee, sodas, and water. In no time the checks would be paid and the hordes would reboard their buses bound for highway glory. Then the real work would begin with a massive cleanup and resetting of tables, not to mention the restrooms. Yes, busboys had to monitor the restrooms during their shift—even the ladies’ room. I got my first taste of cleaning public restrooms there, a curse that would follow me into college when I was a janitor at a Lutheran church for the better part of three years. But that’s another story.

If breakfast, lunch, and dinner were the first three acts of a psycho-waffle drama, the post-bar rush that started shortly after 1:30 AM was a bizarre Fellini-esque finale in which the babysitter turns into an evil clown, the aging banker suddenly disappears with all the potted plants, and the tragic anti-hero is pulled down to hell by the commendatore, who’s dressed in drag.

​The cruel irony of it all was that the busiest—and craziest—part of the 10-hour shift happened after I’d been on my feet for almost eight hours. As soon as the clock struck 1:30 AM all the bars that dotted Central Ave. would start to give last call. Within minutes, the restaurant would be crammed to the gills with denizens of drink in every shape, size, and persuasion: sloppy businessmen, guys on a rowdy night out, college types, prostitutes, and much more. The noise was deafening and the cigarette and cigar smoke was thick. No surprise that after a night of boozing it up everyone was famished, and people wanted their steak and eggs, omelets, and strawberry pancakes RIGHT NOW.
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Months later, when school started back up and my schedule was relegated to weekend mornings, I experienced the breakneck pace of breakfast service with its own flavor of triage. Bar rush service was all that and more because of the chaos created by a bunch of drunk, unruly customers. The amount of coffee I poured was astonishing. I could barely keep ahead of demand by brewing fresh pots. “These people are drunk,” I would think, “what the hell is all this coffee going to do?” In reality, the coffee served to create a much-needed buzz and metabolic momentum that would last just long enough for people to eat and then drive home, hopefully without getting into an accident. 

Two regulars of the bar crowd stand out in memory. First, a sinister ruddy-faced man, who I came to call “Red.” He always wore expensive suits and was accompanied by three or four young guys. At first he was overly polite with me, offering profuse thanks any time I cleared a plate or refilled his coffee. Then, after seeing him a few times he kept me at the table to chat me up. “They don’t appreciate how good your work is here. They probably don’t pay you enough either. I can offer you a job that’s much easier and will pay twice as much.” I thanked him but was uncommitted. After all, it’s not every day you get offered a job at 2:00 in the morning. “Meet me on such-and-such corner on Monday at 3:00 PM. I’ll tell you about the job then.” I murmured some kind of answer but then never went back to table.

The next day I told my Mom about Red and his job offer. “He sounds like a criminal and the last thing you should do is meet up with him.” I didn’t know about the criminal part but agreed with her about skipping the meeting. As always, her advice was spot-on and I didn’t give it another thought.

It was only a matter of time before Red made another appearance at the restaurant. When I approached the table to pour coffee he berated me, saying, “where the hell were you? Why didn’t you show up?” I explained that my Mom thought he was a dangerous criminal. Actually, I just told him I was happy with the current job and wasn’t looking for anything else. Then I scooted away from the table before he could say anything else. But every time I looked his way Red was glaring at me, giving me the evil eye, as were the young guys who were with him.

When I was leaving the restaurant that night I asked one of the cooks, a burly guy who’d just finished up a stint in the Navy, to walk outside with me to make sure Red and the boys weren’t waiting. Fortunately, the parking lot was empty. That was the last time I saw Red and his entourage. God only knows what he did. My sense was that he was into dealing drugs, stolen cars, or something even more unsavory.

Then there was Curley. By day he was a mechanic. By weekend night he raced cars on a dirt track. More than anything, Curley was a large mutant slob of a human with just enough intelligence to be annoying and/or dangerous. He was also a stereotypical bully who surrounded himself several miscreants who were even bigger losers. But Curley was also Darlene’s nephew, so he could do no wrong.

I only saw Curley and his gang after he raced on Friday and Saturday nights and after they had had too much cheap beer. Then Curley would come in, dirty racing gear and all, and hold court with his slackers at a large booth at the back of the restaurant. Approaching the table was dicey, to say the least. Pouring coffee was met with insults, jeers, and having crumpled paper napkins bounced off the side of your head. All the while Curley, covered in dried sweat and smears of grease, laughed like a donkey, showing off his two missing front teeth.

I quickly adapted the boxing strategy called “stick and move” whenever having to deal with Curley’s table. Meaning I would go in quickly while the lot of them were distracted, get done what I had to get done as quickly as possible, and then get the hell away from the table. It usually worked—but not always.

I thought I’d seen the last of Curley when I moved to weekend breakfast shifts months later. Sadly, not true. While washing dishes one Sunday morning I heard Curley’s donkey laugh outside in the restaurant. “Dear god, please don’t let that idiot back here,” I silently pleaded. But the almighty must have been busy with the church thing, it being Sunday morning and all. Minutes later Curley’s ugly toothless mug made its appearance. At that moment the other guy washing dishes and I were in the middle of cracking hundreds of eggs into a huge metal bowl that would be ferried to the cooks for omelets. After uttering several unintelligible insults, Curley spotted the tall stack of full egg cartoons. Instantly he grabbed eggs in both hands and started firing them at us, laughing hysterically. We had no recourse but to run out the back kitchen door in defense, only to have Curley go tell Darlene we were screwing around on the job. She immediately found us and read us the riot act, saying we would be fired the next time it happened. We tried to tell her what had happened but she refused to listen. I silently cursed her helmet hair--and Curley’s dumbass mug too.

I wasn’t long for Uncle John’s after the egg incident. I’d saved enough money to buy a trumpet and was getting too busy with school. But the place, with its brutal hours and wack-job cast of characters, was the quintessential first restaurant job. The first job where you learn if you can hack the work and if you’re properly wired for success in the business. During my time at Uncle John’s I discovered that I possessed the first and excelled at the second. Working there also gave me restaurant eyes and taught me how to move quickly and efficiently on the floor. Finally, bussing tables taught me how to store, prioritize, and accomplish tasks quickly and efficiently, something that continued to benefit me in every future restaurant gig and beyond.
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As for Uncle John’s, at some point much later it closed down and the building was razed. But I still have fond and janky memories about the joint. It makes me think that there are two great equalizers in life: one is parenthood and the other is the restaurant business. Where anyone, regardless of skill or experience, can go down in flames. But where one can also be a star, especially between the hours of 6:00 PM and 4:00 AM on weekends.

I’m a big fan of the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray. As of late, it feels like we’re living it. Yes, I know it’s not February (yet), but it seems like we’ve been stuck in pandemic mode forever. However, I still take comfort in the fact that we can always hide in plain sight with a good book. With that in mind, here are over a dozen recommendations of books I’ve read this past year. Happy holidays and enjoy!

The Lion Tracker's Guide to Life, by Boyd Varty​

Boyd Varty is South African and an actual lion tracker by profession. He's also a certified life coach, TED Talk guy, and lecturer. The book--all 136 pages of it--covers a single day during which he and two comrades track a pride of lions across his family's property, the Londolozi Game Preserve located near Eswatini. Varty's account is riveting. Throughout he describes the process of searching for tracks and other lion evidence in detail, comparing it to trying to find one’s way in life. Also, how we have become separated from our true wild selves, and need to find our tracks and follow them. A delightful read that can be done in one sitting. 

First Person Singular: Stories, by Haruki Murakami

​The best collection of short stories I've read in a long time. From the opening pages you know you're in the hands of a great writer. Each of the eight stories is told in first person (hence the title). All have an element of the odd, bizarre, or slightly science fiction. I devoured the book in two sittings. 

Project Hail Mary, by Andy Weir

Andy Weir’s latest novel, even at almost 500 pages, is a page-turner Sci-Fi thriller. Like both his previous efforts (The Martian and Artemis), there's plenty of the protagonist having to “science the shit out of things.” In this case, it's Ryland Grace, who wakes up out of a medically-induced coma aboard an interstellar space ship. His two colleagues lying next to him are quite dead to the point of decomposing, their comas (not commas) also having failed. Initially, he has no memory of who he is or how he got there. I’ll stop there with the spoilers and finish by saying the book is filled with unexpected plot turns, aliens, and more. It’s a great read and lots of fun.

The Bedside Book of Birds: An Avian Miscellany, by Graeme Gibson

Graeme Gibson is the late husband of celebrated poet, Margaret Atwood. He was an accomplished author in his own right and also was an avid birder. His Bedside Book is a delightful compendium of stories, poems, and anecdotes about birds throughout history, dating back to antiquity. It's also filled with beautiful illustrations and paintings of birds from different times and cultures. 

The Memory Code, by Lynne Kelly

Dr. Lynne Kelly, of La Trobe University in Melbourne, is a writer, researcher, and science educator. Over the last two-plus decades, she’s done considerable research on how ruins like Stonehenge were used as memory devices and teaching spaces to help ancient peoples store and share remarkable amounts of information concerning genealogies, astronomy, and more. Her companion book Memory Craft, presents several memory strategies learned while researching this book. Both are fun reads.

The Perfume Collector, by Kathleen Tessaro
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One of the most enjoyable novels of the year, the Perfume Collector is set in two time periods—New York in the 20s and Paris in the 50s. It’s the story of a young, just-married London woman who is suddenly and quite mysteriously alerted to the fact that she is the sole heiress to a large apartment and considerable stock portfolio in Paris. She travels there to uncover the real story of her past--and to find out that she is not who she has been led to believe. The perfume world and sensory language play a major role in the book and the author excels at writing about both. 

Dreyer's English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, by Benjamin Dreyer

Benjamin Dreyer is the copy chief for Random House publishing. His book is the best guide on style and writing I've ever come across. It was also one of two books that I actually re-read during the calendar year. I’ll admit to being completely schooled many times while reading it, especially in regards to often-misspelled words and easily confused pairs of terms. If you do any writing at all, Dreyer’s English is a delightful if not slightly snarky way to hone your chops. 

Fuzz, by Mary Roach

Science writer Mary Roach’s books are among my personal favorites. Her new book should have been called “when animals go bad.” It’s about when animals commit crimes, and kill or maim humans. As with all Mary’s books, Fuzz is well-researched, funny, and superbly written.

About Time: A History of Civilization in Twelve Clocks, by David Rooney

Rooney is the former timekeeper at the Greenwich Observatory. His new book shows the connection between clocks and various civilizations throughout history, and how time has been used to control and even oppress the masses. A very curious and thoughtful read.

Taste: My Life Through Food, by Stanley Tucci

I’m sure many reading this post watched Tucci’s series on Italy this past year on CNN. After viewing a couple of episodes, I’m convinced that there is no better place on earth to eat and drink than Italy. Tucci's new book is a memoire presenting his life through the lens of growing up in a New York Italian family with its complex--and out-loud—emotions. Most of all, it’s about food. Stanley is more than a capable writer and his great love of food shines through like a beacon. After finishing it, I sent several copies of the book out to friends. You may end up doing likewise. 

A Carnival of Snackery, by David Sedaris

Sedaris's new book is a compendium of his personal diary entries between 2003 and 2020. As usual, it’s Sedaris as his wickedly funny self. Planes, trains, automobiles, and book signings have never been this entertaining. 

His Dark Matters Trilogy, by Phillip Pullman
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Guilty as charged! I am at least a couple of decades late on this one. I remember seeing a copy of The Golden Compass (American title for book one of the trilogy) on my daughter Maria’s book shelf when she was in high school. Like over 10 years ago. That said, Pullman’s trilogy is a thing of genius. Few writers beyond Tolkien have been able to craft such a complex, strange, and wonderful world(s). I downloaded all three books to my iPad and read them—1,600 pages-plus—in less than two weeks. Above all, I enjoyed Pullman’s ability to tell a story and to craft language. He is superb at both. Highly recommended. 

The Lyrics, by Paul McCartney
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Sir Paul’s new beautifully-produced two-volume set is filled with detailed information on the writing of over 150 of his songs. His notes on the creative process and insights into each of the songs makes for a very good read. McCartney also writes of his life, from the earliest days in Liverpool to the breakup of the Beatles and beyond. There's also hundreds of never before seen photos. For the Beatles fan, these books are a must read.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows
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My favorite read of the entire year—and the only other book I re-read. “Guernsey Pie,” as I like to call it, is comprised completely of correspondence between a woman in London named Juliet Ashton just after WWII, and members of a group who formed a literary society on the Isle of Guernsey during the German occupation. The book is by turns utterly charming, endearing, and sad. A surprising and impressive amount of WWII history is woven into the tale. By story’s end, it’s wonderful how much one comes to care about all the quirky characters in the book. Highest recommendation.

*A final note about the lead photo. It's from Christmas 1959. Your humble author is seated at left, my older sister Tina center, and older brother Tom standing, holding the spiffy aircraft model. Cheers!  

Many of my earliest memories from childhood, before we moved from the South Texas tropics to the high desert of New Mexico, are images of my maternal Grandma Wade’s farm. It was a sprawling 2,000-acre expanse of cotton fields that surrounded her house, several barns holding farm equipment, a machine shop, and multiple garages. A paved semi-circular driveway went around the house, linking to Farm Road 1, which led to the nearby village of La Villa (population 500). Towering ebony trees, filled with nesting birds during the spring, lined the drive. Just across the drive from the front porch was Grandma’s flower garden, a screen-enclosed sanctuary to hundreds of exotic plants she had collected on her travels. Rumor had it that she had even been to Cuba at some point in the early 1950s before the advent of the Castro era.

Just a stone’s throw away from the house were several sizeable corrals that once held cattle. By the time I was old enough to clamber over the fences, the corrals were covered in burlap and filled with acres of aloe vera plants that Grandma sold to a company that processed them for medicinal purposes. No surprise that she was a staunch believer in the healing properties of aloe vera. Every day she slathered her skin in clear aloe gel until shiny, and then applied a generous powdering of Jungle Gardenia, which always screamed floral in her wake. Grandma even drank watered down aloe gel for her digestive tract. She kept it in quart Mason jars in the fridge. Only problem was that she also kept drinking water in the same kind of jars. Many times I reached into the fridge for a jar of water only to pour a tall glass, tale a huge gulp, and realize that is was aloe. Gack!

Inside the house several refrigerated air units that were mounted in the windows continually hummed. Originally Grandpa had central AC installed when the house was built in 1950, which was revolutionary for the time. However, after he passed several years later, Grandma had the window units installed because she didn’t trust central air conditioning. With refrigerated air being constantly on, a musty smell pervaded the house. Enter the middle bedroom, which was stacked floor to ceiling with old newspapers and magazines, and the musty smell became a force field. Yes, Grandma was a hoarder, long before it became fashionable TV. As for the musty smell, only many years later was I to learn that it was trichloranisole—or TCA—the same compound that taints wine corks. And to think that I was inundated with it at times as a child.

At some point Grandma started to use a single crutch to get around. That crutch served as an instrument of discipline, often used to keep the mangy lot of us kids in line. Many times a sudden whack across the butt would put an end to the tomfoolery of the moment. Then there was the time when Grandma caught my sister Tina and me trying on her wigs in the bathroom. Many whacks were instantly issued.

When Grandma wasn’t whacking us with her crutch, she was in the kitchen at the stove or at the counter prepping something for the stove. My memories of Grandma’s cooking involve a lot of breaded protein deep-fried in butter or lard. Vegetables from the multi-acre garden just beyond the aloe corrals were summarily shot on sight and cooked until rendered inorganic. Anything in the green vegetable universe was khaki by the time it was served. Boiled okra, one of Granny’s favorites, had the texture (and color) of snot. When the okra was breaded with cornmeal and fried, it had a crunchy outer crust but still the same mucous inner layer.

Aside from deep fried beast and khaki veggies, the true staple of Grandma’s cooking was her applesauce cake. It was—and still is—the stuff of family culinary legend. I remember watching her standing at the counter, crutch at the ready, mixing the cake directly into an enormous rectangular baking pan. It goes without saying that Grandma didn’t need a recipe, having previously made the cake from scratch hundreds of times. As she mixed up the batter, she talked non-stop in her raspy/whiny voice telling me what ingredients were being flung into the pan at the moment.

Truth be told, cake assembly was so fast that it was hard to keep up. But the last step before putting the pan into the oven was the best. Then, to get all the air bubbles out of the batter, Grandma picked up the pan and dropped it back on the counter with a deafening smack. Granny did this repeatedly until she was satisfied that all the hidden bubbles in the batter were gone. To me it was a thrilling moment of full-contact baking.

Some 45 minutes later, the cake was taken out of the oven and left to cool. Finally, after several preemptive cake strikes on our part had been warded off by the evil crutch, slices of warm, almost gooey cake were cut and served with ice cream. The first bite was beyond delicious.

In the first few years after we moved to New Mexico Grandma would visit always bringing a sizable portion of a cake in her luggage. It was a treat beyond compare. Grandma also taught Mom how to make her applesauce cake. But try as she might, Mom’s version was never quite as good. I’m sure the high altitude and dry climate of Albuquerque were to blame. However, I also have to think that it was a matter of Grandma being the source, urtext, and author of great applesauce cakes.  
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In the many years since, I’ve never tasted another applesauce cake remotely as good as Grandma’s. Her glorious applesauce cakes will live forever in my memory, along with cotton fields, ebony trees, and acres of aloe vera plants. And that’s how it should be.

It was April of 2001 and my second trip to Germany. I had been there the year before with the same importer. During that first trip we traversed through most of the wine regions in the country for over a week, visiting as many as four wineries a day. Lest you think a trip like this is a picnic, let me point out that tasting over 400 young high-acid Rieslings in eight days is utterly brutal on one’s teeth and gums. After returning, I had to reschedule cleaning my teeth for a couple of months. Otherwise, my dentist—and dental hygienist—would have been appalled. The scolding would have been legendary. There’s nothing like dental shaming.

The second trip started with three days in the Mosel, surely one of the most gorgeous wine places on the planet. The valley looks like someone decided to plant a section of the Grand Canyon with grape vines almost two millennia ago. The producers we visited in the Mosel were all stars including the likes of Mönchhof, Wegeler, Dr. F. Weins Prüm, J.J. Prüm, Fritz Haag, Schloss Lieser, and finally Rheinhold Haart in Piesport. At every stop we were tasting the 2000 vintage which had just been bottled. We also had the opportunity to taste a lot of older wines which was wonderful.

After our time in the Mosel we drove for several hours to Iphofen in Franken, traditionally called Franconia. Our one stop in region was at the Hans Wirsching winery. While the Mosel is the epicenter of Riesling, in Franken the Silvaner grape is king. Few, if any, do Silvaner better in Germany than Wirsching, much less anywhere else on the planet.

A note about Silvaner. More often than not, the grape (sometimes spelled Sylvaner) is about as thrilling as an old Toyota Camry. In other words, it gets you places but no one is excited. Not so with the Wirsching wines. Their top Grosses Gewächs Silvaner wines from the Iphofer Julius-Echter-Berg and  Iphofer Kronsberg vineyards are among the finest wines made from the grape anywhere.

After tasting the entire range of stellar Wirsching wines from the new vintage, we went next door for lunch. The meal was set up in a long, wood-paneled room with the walls filled with various trophies of small game animals that had met a sudden and tragic fate by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Lunch was comprised of a theme and variations on Vitamin P—pork. Platters of sausages of every shape and kind, some resembling Dr. Seuss creations, were passed. After I piled my plate high in an assortment of wurst I asked the woman serving us for some mustard. She didn’t speak English so I quickly turned to the son of the importer to translate. He rattled off something in German to her. She first stared in disbelief at him—and then me—before quickly turning on her heels and striding back into the kitchen. After many long minutes she returned with a small, ancient metal can of powered mustard. She then made a huge gesture out of showing me the can before sharply whacking it down on the table in front of me. I paused, thinking that if I asked for anything else my head would quickly join the others displayed on the room’s walls.

I was stunned. What was a kitchen in Germany without real mustard? I was also in a quandary. I had to use the mustard for the sake of appearances, if not survival. Using a table knife, I managed to pry the small lid off the top of the can and then scooped a mound of the yellow-brown powder on to my plate. For the record, it looked like rust from an old pipe. Then, using the skills of a four-year-old first encountering broccoli, I moved the mustard around my plate after eating the delectable sausages. Problem solved and international incident avoided.

Fast forward to the end of the trip. The second to the last day we were in the Pfalz region just across the Rhein from Alsace. The Pfalz, formerly the Rheinpfalz or the Palatinate, has historically been the sunniest and warmest region in Germany. The wines of the Pfalz, especially the Rieslings in both dry and sweet versions, are opulent, powerful, and utterly delicious. As for history, some two-thousand years ago the Romans conquered the area to take advantage of its thriving agriculture and strategic geographical location on an important trade route. I mention this because the entire region is literally strewn with Roman ruins and artifacts. I remember our car pulling up to a stop sign on a country road at one point and looking over to see a stone sarcophagus in someone’s front yard that had probably there for the better part of 2,000 years.

Lunch that day was in the town of Bad Durkheim at a famous restaurant called Dürkheimer Fass. Why famous? Because the restaurant is located in what is believed to be the world’s largest wine barrel. It’s nearly 50 feet in diameter and if filled with wine would hold almost 550,000 gallons. In other words, it’s a really big-ass barrel.

Victuals involved another huge plate of sausages (when in Rome) along with real honest-to-god Wiener Schnitzel. The latter was tender and juicy with a light crispy crust lathered in an artery-stopping cream sauce. No wonder so many of the older Germans seated at the tables around us were shaped like smaller versions of the restaurant.

On being served my plate of sausages I once again pined for mustard. After the previous episode I was hesitant about asking for anything. But I mustered the courage (ha!) and asked our waitress, who spoke perfect English, if I could have some mustard. She immediately smiled and said, “of course.” Within seconds she returned not with an ancient tin of caustic powder, but a large tray filled with various jars of locally produced mustard. It goes without saying that I was beside myself with condiment bliss.
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I thanked her profusely and then told her about my experience at Wirsching. She listened intently, her frown growing and her eyes narrowing the longer the story went on. When I finished the tale she looked at the floor for a long moment and then looked up at me hissing the phrase, “filthy barbarians.”

Later that afternoon in the car I thought about her response. In the olden days, the mustard provocation at Wirsching could easily have ignited an incident. If the exchange had happened with nobles around the table it could have been deadly. Someone’s face would have been roundly struck with a heavy glove and a challenge issued. Chairs would have been pushed back violently and a medieval version of the Jets and Sharks would have ensued sans dancing and snappy Leonard Bernstein soundtrack.

In the end, food regionalism—even of the mustard variety--runs deep. I think about sweet tea in the American south, what passes for chile in any other part of the U.S. outside New Mexico, and the vast and mysterious universe of BBQ. I’ll never be able to fathom the latter. Whatever the case, there’s just one thing:
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Never, ever, screw around with mustard. ​