Too Long...

It's been a while since I last tapped on these pages, never a good thing to be away for long. Life tends to get in the way when we let it. In the meantime summer has sped past, with it went many good meals had in the garden; one of the very few benefits to come from the draught that has settled upon California. Yeah, Berkeley pulled over it's foggy blanket most evenings, but the days proved consistenly clear and sunny. The plots grew well, gave readily. It's always good when you find it difficult to keep up with eating as much as your garden is offering.

"Jaune Flamme"

 Sipping the morning's coffee, watching "Squirley", the slender dusty chestnut squirrel who shares my yard shimmy down through a thatch of bamboo, persimmon thievery no doubt in mind, the first real feel of season's change sets in with a sun seemingly a bit more soft peeking through morning clouds. He/she tends to take as many as able, stashes them about various spots to get good soft and rotten. They've been uncovered every where from inside potted roses to tucked along the herb patch to simply resting in the crown of lavender plants. Suits me fine that this quest results in the figs being left alone, which now litter the turned earth, ground coffee brown and moist from last night's precious rain, where tomato plants once stood. No where near the luscious gifts from Mnsr. Jean's tree down the white lane behind Charmé's church, those being perhaps the best figs this one's ever eaten; the way something so perfect stays with you when eaten at it's best, your best. But, these small black figs, that for much of my time living here at the cottage have been dry and pulpy, are shaping up so well that the need arose to hunt down some Jamon Ibérico. Just a bit, paper thin, a lovely sheen of fatty oil on the flesh.

Les radis.

 As for the tomatoes, they weren't pretty, foliage a little thin and reedy. But they produced in a fine way, "Black Krim" and "Jaune Flamme" standing out in quantity as well as on the plate; the one place it really matters. Seldom, if ever, have the good people at Berkeley Horticulture been stumped, and stumped they appeared when presented the sad little leaves. Found myself one weekday morning with a handful of some of the smartest there are in the trade, who finally summed it up with a shrug and suggestion to "Just change tomato location next year." That and, along with the usual winter "amending", do an off-season of something like... favas. Still, didn't want for tomatoes this year though, the plants all gave abundantly. 

Garden pesto and friends.

 With most everything in except some lingering Kale and Swiss chard, there's a wait on that last push of Indian Summer heat that tends to arrive in the Bay Area about this time to encourage the rows of chilli plants now flowering. Four types: Calabrian, Jimmy Nardello, and two heirlooms scavenged from a friends previous harvest whose names escape me. My first year for this, and optimism is high despite a late start from seed. Come oooooon heat wave! Will probably happen when back in France to wrap up the house for winter. Oh, well... They won't go to waste. Wonder if Squirley has a taste for the épicé?!

Bye Joe's...

A quick note on change: It ain't easy. The year just past presented more than a little in the way of this, profound life changes to be sure. We've all seen them, dealt with them. "It's part of life", as they say. Maybe the only constant. Still, this past calendar tested me, made me earn it.

 So it was a couple of weeks back that I dragged a friend out to the fringe of San Francisco, to a quiet residential neighborhood known primarily for it's preserved "little boxes", perfect examples of the mid-century modern signature work of architect Henry Doelger. Joe's of Westlake, true to all the lines and angles of the surrounding neighborhood, along with heaping plates of Italian food was soon to close. Already full 15 minutes after it's 11:30 opening, the lines we're said to have begun an hour before. Squeezing in to the packed bar, Steve greeted me like a true pro, shook my hand, took my order of Manhattans Up, and spat out without hesitation the bar (Harry's on Fillmore) where I'd poured drinks some 25 years earlier. The cool bourbon struck a note just shy of noon, appropriate for a send-off. Packed like 9:00 on a Friday night, nearly everyone with cocktail in hand, Mad Men would have been proud of the booze being lifted to mouth.

 Somehow despite the hour quote, we were soon called to the podium, a preferred corner of the counter was available. We pulled ourselves away from the warm and inclusive group, handshakes all around,  with the admission from patron Mike of having eaten lunch at Joe's "everyday for 35 years." I didn't doubt him. Navigating through to the main dining room, there was no hesitation when offered the far seat right beside the "pass" by a departing silver haired man of 70-something. "Best seat in the house. Can see everything from that angle", he said, clutching a sack of fried shrimp and ravioli to go. Tight and fit, skin weathered like a fisherman, wet eyes were all he could offer in the way of goodbye when I responded to his lament of the eminent closing with, "At least we're here today."

 The angle was as good as he'd said, the charcoal grill beside us shooting flame with each slab of meat added, a parade of people lined along the Formica surface, the din of the busy room making ordering seem more like a shout. But order we did:  Chicken Caccitore with Rigatoni, Veal Piccata with Ravioli. Cheap wine of unknown origin hit the glass, and tasted just fine. The food came plentiful and it came fast, little mounds of zucchini, carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower wedged in with the rest. In this golden age of Italian food taking place around the Bay Area, Joe's is more like the "other" place in Big Night. There's no salumi program on premises, no reference to "artisanal" technique. Instead, just brimming plates of hot food, and people spilling through the doorway. Quiet set in as it does when eating is the focus, smiles and nods shared easily with others beside us also dredging their plates clean with the moist slabs of sour dough that kept appearing. Butter wasn't needed, but it was there none the less, foil wrapped at the ready in case. Being well full didn't stop us from tearing into an order of tiramisu, tasting as good as the last time I'd had it, which had been quite a long while back. The coffee was weak and hot, topped off promptly before either cup got beyond half way. Lingering would have been as easy as the conversations that were started, an added benefit of being at the end of the counter where "take-out" was initiated and also picked up. No let up in the still surging crowd though had us call for the check. It came with a firm hand shake and look in the eye from the seasoned server, who thanked us and meant it. His smile never faded as he turned to top off water glasses, a prodigious middle peaking from the starched white waste cut jacket.

 Snaking my way through the throng to the cashier, the owner freely held court with two employees, explaining how they could expect their tips the following Monday, the day after closing. No secrets, no pretense. This was family, where countless birthday, anniversary, graduation, and christening feasts had taken place. I'd even been to two wakes there. Assurances were given to a couple of regulars over the sink in the Men's Room that the new owners would do a thorough and respectful job to re-create what existed now. (Rumors had recently been confirmed that there would be a reunion with Original Joe's in North Beach, once a connected entity before a split.) "Yeah, but it'll come at a price," one said, and went on to speak of how many of the older patrons would come in for a meal then eat for days after on  the left overs. "Beats cat food," added his friend. Remembering the $3.85 Manhattans, their point hit home.
 Still, we shook clean hands as they made way for their final meal, and we waded through to the door; everyone seemingly warm and happy, trying to catch your attention, no greeting was to missed today.
 Once in the quiet outside, we headed down a side street, the lot being untouchable earlier. Nothing was said until seat belts came into play, and achingly full bellies had us laughing. We sat for a beat, caught our breaths, groaned a bit more. Yeah, change does come, but may it not be at the price of spirit. You can find a better plate of pasta perhaps, but Joe's and places like it are about so much more than that. 

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com