Published by Michael in General on January 28, 2009 at 5:08 pm
For those outside the region, our little bout with Winter consisted of 6 inches of snow Monday night and Tuesday morning, followed by sleet, freezing rain and rain Tuesday afternoon and overnight, and topped off with another 4 inches of snow this morning.† The roads were a complete mess; the weight of the ice is taking down power lines and trees; the trees are taking down more power lines as they fall.
Here are some views of the woods behind our home.† I wish the sun had come out some this afternoon.† The sparkle of the ice encrusted branches would have been spectacular.
Published by Michael in The past on January 27, 2009 at 5:25 pm
It snowed a bit over a half foot in Cincinnati overnight and this morning.† It has stopped for now; but more snow, along with some sleet or other wintry mix, is expected tonight and tomorrow morning.† The city is essentially shut down with schools, universities and businesses closed for the day.† I am babysitting the warehouse waiting for my landlord’s delivery of chicken and beef while he makes deliveries to his customers.
The neighborhood is quiet today, the warehouse silent but for the roar of the florescent lights.† I can’t help thinking of the first big snow of my working career.† That day was not so quiet.† (Readers uninterested in “walked five miles in the snow each day, both ways uphill” may exit the page now.† You’ve been warned.)
Today also happens to be the 31st anniversary of the Blizzard of 1978.† I was in college and also working for one of the Big 8 accounting firms.† School was out of session for the between-semester break.
The night the blizzard arrived, I had a late racquetball game on the north side of town.† It was raining steadily with temperatures in the low 40s when I arrived at the club.† When I left, the temperature had dropped to just above freezing and it was still raining.† As I drove home on I-75, the rain turned to freezing rain, then sleet and finally snow.† The temperature dropped 10 or so degrees over just a few minutes.† The stuff on the road began to freeze and the winds howled from the west.† One strong gust blew my car across two lanes of the highway.
The radio station to which I had tuned suspended its normal programming to focus on the weather.† I recall the shock in the voice of the newsman who took over for the DJ as he reported unheard of drops in the temperature and barometric pressure.† It was clear we were in for something big.† These were the days before doppler weather radar, sophisticated weather satellites and extensive computer generated weather models.† We simply didn’t get the four or five days of ominous warnings from the television weather geeks to which we have become so accustomed.† By the time I reached Newport, the rain and mixed precipitation had frozen solid and the snow was accumulating atop the ice.† The hill past St. Luke Hospital was littered with cars and trucks stuck at crazy angles to the road.† I managed to zig and zag my way around them without slowing and made it to the top of the hill.† I may have been the last car to navigate that hill; as I reached the top, police cruisers with flashing lights were blocking access to the hill.
When I awoke a few hours later, my father quizzed me on the road conditions.† I reported that they were bad, but not, in my opinion, dangerous or impassable. He decided that we could (and should) go to our respective offices.† And so, we drove together into downtown without incident.† Traffic was not an issue — we didn’t see a single other vehicle.† We were the crazy ones.† The roads were covered with 10 inches or so of new snow overlaying an inch or more of solid ice.
When I arrived at the accounting firm’s office, the phone system night bell was clanging.† For those too young to remember, 1978 straddled some important technology shifts.† We used 10-key adding machines; pocket calculators existed, but were prohibitively expensive.† Electronic word processing was in its infancy; reports were produced using MAG card typewriters.† We had a print shop in the office where reports were printed on an offset press.† We prepared tax returns by filling out large data input sheets that we sent for computer processing to a service in Texas (I believe). And only the most technologically advanced companies had direct inward dial phone systems.† Our firm had a modern (by the standards of the day) switchboard operated by the receptionist.† When the office was closed, she activated a “night line.”† The night line could handle one incoming call at a time; you couldn’t place the call on hold; and even a transferred call blocked the line until the call terminated.† The system could, however, queue calls for that single line.† Oh, and the night bell sounded like the klaxon on a naval vessel.
It took me a minute or two to determine I was the only person in the office.† I answered three calls in succession off the night line, shouting to be heard over the klaxon’s insistent reminder of another call in the queue.† All were from fellow employees calling off.† I knew this wasn’t going to work.† I couldn’t answer calls fast enough using the night line and couldn’t perform my actual work with the night line blaring at me.† I walked to the receptionist’s desk and stared at the console.† I had watched her play her fingers over the keys, buttons and switches; she made it all look so easy.† After all, how hard could it be to operate a switchboard, I thought.
I reached out and flipped the switch marked “Night.”† The klaxon went silent — good.† The console sprang to life, a dozen or more lights indicating incoming calls† — not so good.† I grabbed an operator’s headset, said a little prayer and began pressing buttons.† I disconnected a few callers, but soon got the hang of answering calls.† Most of the initial calls were from staff members either announcing they wouldn’t be in or asking if the office was open.† For the latter, my answering the phone was clue enough; I didn’t sound much like Betty, the receptionist.† I started a legal tablet of the names of those who called off.† One of the callers was the woman who is now my wife, lamenting that she would have carried more work home had she known she would not be able to get out of her driveway.† Some things never change.
The rest of the world was unaware of our weather plight.† Soon I began answering calls involving the real business of the firm.† It was the heart of the audit busy season, and partners and managers from around the world were calling to inquire about, or update the status of, multi-office projects.† I explained our weather situation to people who couldn’t fathom a little snow’s shutting down a city (a partner from Vienna comes immediately to mind) and took messages for the intended recipients to return the calls.† I burned through two pads of pink “While You Were Out” slips.† I was fortunate that I didn’t have to transfer any calls as there was no one else around to take them.† I am sure to this day that task was beyond my ability as an operator.
Eventually, the phones quieted down, two others (a young partner and the office accountant), out of more than 100 employees, arrived and I got a bit of work done.† Around 2:00 p.m. my father called and suggested that we call it a day.† Because the governors of all three local states had declared the roads closed to all but four wheel drive, public transport and emergency vehicles, we decided to take the bus home.† I packed a large audit bag of work for the evening and (likely) the next day.† We met at the bus terminal, my father also in possession of an enormous briefcase.
We waited only a few moments for a bus of the line that stopped within a block of our home. A bit under half way home, the driver stopped the bus (at 10th and Washington in Newport) and told us to get off the bus.† When we informed him that we were going further, he told us we were at the end of the line for today.† When we said that we would just ride back downtown, he laughed and told us his was the last bus of the day and he was going to the garage (neither closer to home nor downtown).
We were out on the street, each carrying a heavy briefcase in the bitter cold dressed in what is now known as business casual and light winter coats, with nary a hat nor glove between us.† We certainly didn’t want to face a two mile hike through deep snow to a downtown hotel; the walk home was longer and more treacherous.† In those days, there was a little neighborhood grocery/deli on that corner.† The manager agreed to let us use the phone for 50¢ a call (when a pay phone call was a dime).† We gave her $5 against our usage.† The first call was to home to advise of our predicament.† The next calls were to two doctor friends who had recently acquired the latest in physician chic — original Jeeps outfitted with oversize tires, snow plows and winches.† Both were out showing off their new toys to other friends.† We left messages with a family member at each home as well as at the homes of several of the usual suspects they might have been visiting.
I honestly cannot remember how long we waited at that store.† It seemed like hours, but was likely only one or so.† We did have to bribe the manager to stay open a bit longer than she planned.† Eventually, one of the docs showed up and dropped us at our front door.
We decided to stay home the next day, along with all the other sane people.
A storm of the magnitude of the 1978 Blizzard would create nowhere near the chaos — or adventure — today.† This morning, just after 6:00 am, my wife received an email message on her BlackBerry that the company’s office would be closed today (as we were walking out the door, she decided to go in anyway; some things never change).† In addition, the company maintains a dial-in hotline for situations such as this.† Calls to empty offices are automatically routed immediately to voice mail, to be picked up from home or anywhere in the world.† Urgent messages are transmitted by email to BlackBerries and iPhones or by text message.† Who needs a big briefcase when the corporate VPN is but a broadband connection or WiFi hotspot away?† The emergency alteration of the bus schedules would appear prominently on the transit authority’s home page, accessible from office, home or smart phone.† And once stranded, help is but a cell phone call, text message or voice mail message to any of hundreds (or thousands) of stored contacts.
And yet, as much as I would have appreciated a cell phone that afternoon, I wouldn’t trade the experience of that day for one — or anything else for that matter.† Life was simpler, less predictable and infinitely more exciting.
I discovered this morning that I have been avoiding my home desk and the computer at that desk — the place I write most of my blog posts.† There’s something missing at that desk, a little cat searching for attention.† For the past year (as long as the computer has been so situated), any time I sat there during the day, Boris was immediately at my side, poking at my lap, jumping up, and assisting with my work at hand.† His paws competed with my fingers on the keys, slowing down my typing.† The competition for the keys allowed me to draft and edit in my head while I waited my turn at the keyboard.† It is disconcerting to work at this place without his assistance.† I’ll get past this and develop a new rhythm to my time at this desk.† In the meantime, I am going to savor Boris’s memory and his absence.
On a more positive note, if you are free on Friday night for dinner, join me for the wine dinner I am cooking at City Cellars.† For information, visit the City Cellars website, and for reservations, call 513.621.WINE
Published by Michael in General on January 24, 2009 at 2:00 pm
With this article and this follow-on piece, the Cincinnati Enquirer announced the imminent closing of Jean-Robert at Pigall’s and Jean-Robert de Cavel’s resignation from the restaurant group heretofore bearing his name.† As much as I mourn the closure of Pigall’s, I mourn the end of an era of fine dining in Cincinnati yet more.
For the record, I define “fine dining” much more strictly than most others.† I use the term to refer to a restaurant that would merit serious consideration as a Michelin two or three star restaurant or as deserving a four star review from the New York Times.† As an additional reference, Relais & Chateaux uses the worthy of two Michelin stars standard for designating a Relais Gourmands restaurant, a designation held by Pigall’s for several years.
I know I will offend some (including several friends) when I state categorically that no other restaurant in our city meets that definition of fine dining.† That is not to say that those other restaurants are are not fine places, deserving of your patronage and dining dollars; those places simply do not have every element required to meet the fine dining standard.† They also do not carry on Cincinnati’s long and significant history of fine dining restaurants.
Most Cincinnati residents who are interest in food know that the Maisonette held Mobil’s five star designation longer than any other restaurant in the country.† Many can recount that Cincinnati had three Mobil five star restaurants for a year or two in the 1970s (the Maisonette, old Pigall’s and the Gourmet Room in the Terrace Hilton hotel).† Almost no one remembers that one year in the mid-1960s Cincinnati was home to three of the eight five star recipients or that the third restaurant (after Maisonette and Pigall’s) was the La Ronde restaurant in the Carousel Hotel on Reading Road.† New York City boasted only two five star restaurants that year.† (I wish one of the Adrian sisters would remind me which year this was by looking at their father’s scrapbook they so graciously shared with me a few years ago.)
Outside the regimented world of kitchens implementing the brigade system, the name of Pierre Adrian is virtually unknown.† But a generation of chefs working in America and throughout the world considered Chef Adrian a mentor and role model.† Chef Adrian was chef of the Maisonette through the 1960s and was the chef when the Maisonette began its run of consecutive five star honors.† Chef Adrian would likely be a household name along with the great chefs of history but for his death at an all-too-early age.
How does a city go from supporting three or more fine dining restaurants to none in just a bit over a generation, you ask?† Is the economy to blame?† The decline of downtown?† Changed dining habits?
All the above, yet none of the above.† I place responsibility in roughly chronological order on shopping malls, multiplexes, chain restaurants, cheap air travel, specialty catalogs, and e-commerce.
When I was young, Cincinnati was the commercial and cultural engine for a region extending to a 200 mile radius from the city.† The residents of the small cities and towns in that region flocked to Cincinnati.† The doctors, lawyers, accountants, merchants and teachers traveled here three or four times a year.† In the summer, they brought their children for a baseball game and a trip to Coney Island and in the winter to visit Santa and see the decorations.† In the spring and fall, they came as couples with friends.
They stayed in the hotels.† The Netherland Hilton and the Sheraton Gibson were packed on the weekends.† They shopped.† Their children were clothed from the racks of the four full service department stores within a three block radius of the hotels.† The women bought their finery at the likes of Giddings Jenny and Henry Harris.† The men purchased suits, shirts, ties and overcoats at Brooks Brothers, Burkharts, Dunlaps and the “hipper” place next door (Mr. T, please remind me of the name of the men’s store that is now JeanRo).
They attended the symphony, ballet and opera at Music Hall.† They watched acts at the Taft and the Emery and plays at the Schubert.† They went to first run movies at the Albee, the Keith’s, the RKO Palace, the Grand and the Capitol. azulfidine
And they dined, oh how they dined.† They ate at restaurants large and small for every meal of their visits.† The city was replete with choices unavailable in their towns at that time – from tea house to steakhouse to oyster house.† And at dinner, they splurged, the Maisonette, Pigall’s, or the Gourmet Room, how did one choose?† Well, each of these visitors had a favorite.† My maternal grandfather was partial to Pigalls, the original location at Fifth and Pike, thank you very much.
As the 60s became the 70s and the 80s, this version of the world went away.† Developers built shopping malls near these smaller cities.† The malls brought mutiplex theatres and sit-down chain restaurants.† Suddenly the gentry of these places didn’t need to travel for staples or even for luxuries.† And for the true treat, New York, Chicago, San Francisco and London were but a plane ticket away.† The places that relied on this regional business began to close.
I am not sure why, but the fine dining restaurants held on longer than any of the others — the hotels of that era are long torn down or substantially altered, the theatres are essentially gone, Music Hall hosts half empty concerts, the department and specialty stores are but a memory.† Fine dining restaurants struggled and survived as the others failed around them, yet finally succumbed.
Why did fine dining hang on longer than the others?† I have long espoused that fine dining represents the best value in restaurant meals.† The small price premium that one pays over the lesser competition pales in comparison to the effort, artistry and surroundings provided in the fine dining environment.† In this week’s New York Times review of Restaurant Daniel, Frank Bruni summarized my conviction well:
At restaurants considered much less exclusive, you could spend only $30 less on a similar amount of food, and you wouldnít get anything approaching Danielís bells and whistles. These flourishes make you feel that youíve slipped into a monarchís robes, if only for a night, and turn an evening into an event.
A fine dining meal is the equivalent of a two or three hour vacation — at a fraction of the price of the real thing.† The food nourishes the body, and the surroundings and service sooth the soul.
It is ironic that the Times effexor reaffirmed its four star rating of Daniel the day before the Pigall’s announcement.† In temperament and cuisine, Daniel is the New York four star most resembling Pigall’s.† Before Jean-Robert ventured out on his own from under the fame of the Comisar family and Maisonette, Daniel Boulud left Le Cirque and the shadow of the Maccioni family.† And it was Daniel’s departure from the Plaza AthÈnÈe to join Le Cirque that created a position for Jean-Robert to begin working in the United States.
The Timesreview is worth reading.† It is an informed look into fine dining in New York and represents some of Bruni’s best writing.† After March 1, dining on this scale will be a airline flight away rather than a short drive or walk.
Published by Michael in The business on January 22, 2009 at 10:14 am
As part of the recent “Art of Food” exhibition, local photographer Kelly Kruthaupt spent a few days at Tucker’s Restaurant, shooting tens of thousands of images.† She then edited the photos, set them to music and produced a music video-like montage of a day in the life of this restaurant.
Published by Michael in The business on January 21, 2009 at 9:58 am
The current issue of the Soapbox newsletter contains a video profile of Powerhouse Factories Design and its owners, Ben Nunery and Pat Jones.† Powerhouse is the creative genius behind Just Cured’s branding.
So, why did they decide to show the Coast brand packaging rather than Just Cured’s?
Eleanor Roosevelt once said “Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”† I have seen this statement quoted — and misquoted — many times over the past six months or so, usually in the context of the presidential election or the writer’s view of one political party or the other.
I could quibble with Ms. Roosevelt’s grammar; minds don’t discuss anything, people with minds discuss.† We sometimes refer to a person possessing a great mind as being simply “a great mind.”† I have never, however, seen one of small mind similarly denominated.† Rather, we refer to him or her as “small minded.”† I will assume that Ms. Roosevelt intended each sentence to begin with an understood “those with.”
The statement has an elitist tone to it.† It conjures up visions of the great minds (see?) of the Enlightenment spending their days in the coffee houses of London thinking and discussing Great Thoughts such as the perfect form of government, the intersection of science and religion or how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.† Based on my recent experiences, discussion of ideas encompasses much more.
I had the recent luxury of spending several days with friends I see too infrequently.† This week when I read Ms. Roosevelt’s words for the almost-one-too-many-eth-time, I reflected on the conversations we had with these friends.† Those conversations were filled with ideas — not Great Thoughts or Big Ideas, simply a collection of little thoughts, ideas and observations about our lives and the world around us.† I realized that the difference between gossip and a discussion full of ideas is one of degree and nuance.† Are people and events the focus, or are they the jumping off point for something less tangible, yet more real?
I returned from my time with these friends rested both physically and mentally.† That’s the power of ideas, to invigorate and refresh.† One of my resolutions for 2009?† I will spend more time with people who think.
Published by Michael in People on January 15, 2009 at 5:42 pm
We were a party of eight in an upscale restaurant on a Saturday night in a resort city. Well, not exactly a resort city, more like the world’s largest retirement center. Although it was in season, the restaurant was not quite full at 7:30. That was simply one more sign to me of the troubled economy — as if mile-after-mile of “For Sale” signs on expensive beach homes wasn’t clue enough.
Our party ranged in age from 40 to 60. One couple were year round residents of the area, he a prominent public official; one snowbirds in residence from January 1 to April 30; two northerners escaping for a long weekend in the sun. Our table lowered the average age of guests by many years; every other table I saw was populated with octogenarians.
We were in festive moods. My wife and I only get to see the Snowbirds and the Other Escapees a few times a year. We were meeting the Year Rounds for the first time. The Other Escapees and Year Rounds have been friends for decades but hadn’t seen each other in several years. The Snowbirds and Year Rounds have become friends through their mutual friendship with the Other Escapees.
Our time at the restaurant started pleasantly enough. Our server took the drink order of the last arriving couple who were not served in the lounge and presented the wine list to one of the other men in the party.
As the server left, he announced loudly to the holder of the list, but directed to the entire table (and anyone else on that side of the dining room), “if you need any assistance with the list, I am fairly familiar with it.” What? This joint doesn’t have a sommelier. Isn’t his job to be quitesnow angels dvdrip download familiar with the list? As I replayed his announcement in my head, I studied the words less and the tone more. There was something dark, almost malevolent about that tone. Uh, oh, I thought.
And sure enough, he re-appeared a few minutes later, nearly pouncing between two of the women who were in full catch-up conversation. Shouting to obtain the attention of the table. Shushing two others who did not stop their conversation immediately. And told us that when he had our full attention, he would then recite the specials of the evening. I felt like one of the nuns had rapped me across the knuckles for talking in class. And as I looked around the table, so did everyone else; seven pairs of confused eyes returned my glances.
The interval from dressing down to his return to take our orders seemed interminable. We were getting the cold shoulder for no reason I could discern. It was just as well, we had a chance to recover a bit of our light moods. The order taking proceeded without incident. And then our server simply disappeared, not to be seen until our meal ended. Someone else delivered our food and took our pastry order. It was just as well; no telling what his next trick might have been.
This server did reappear to drop the check without incident. One of the other men and I split the tab. I should have shorted the tip. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My hosts have been fairly regular guests at this place, and I would never embarrass them.
On our way out the door, a manager complimented that she liked my new eyeglasses. I should have stopped and said something to her. As I was near the center of our group, I decided not to hold up our exit. I may still send a note to the restaurant about our experience.
I wasn’t sure the extent to which others in our party paid attention to the treatment we received from that server.† Because our hosts picked the restaurant, I certainly wasn’t going to say anything.† As soon as we got into the car for the ride home, the others commented on our server’s performance and the effect on our evening.† I needn’t have worried about embarrassing our hosts.† They were as appalled as I was.
I was, and still am, shocked at the contrast between the unprofessional conduct of this server and the service I wrote about in this post.† Perhaps the sole reason I decided to write about this experience was that I wrote about the other.† These two experiences occurred precisely one year apart in the same town.† Skeeter and Janet work in restaurants that can charitably described as dives.† And they deliver an unparalleled service experience to their guests.† On the other hand, a place with aspirations hires some jerk with an attitude to serve its guests.† Maybe I’ll suggest to the restaurant’s manager that he send his service staff to either Skeeter’s or Janet’s place for remedial training.† Or find a few employees who can find the word “hospitality” in the dictionary.
Postscript:† To close a loop from last year’s post, Skeeter did permit me to pick up the drinks tab at her place the previous night.
Published by Michael in The neighborhood on January 14, 2009 at 10:15 am
.!.
Although I have been around Over the Rhine as a guest, visitor and shopper for many years, I have been operating Just Cured from the neighborhood for just under a year now.† As a result, I am still becoming attuned to the changes in sights, sounds and smells of the area as the seasons change.† Regular readers of my musings on this blog will also understand my affinity for the neighborhood when all is quiet.
This morning, I walked the streets around Findlay Market shortly after daybreak and in a light drizzle.† The low overcast provided a diffused light, and the rain put the landscape into soft focus.† The rain evidently encouraged people to sleep in a bit this morning.† But for the cars parked along the streets, I could envision the neighborhood as it was 60, or 100, or 150 years ago.
The quiet, the rain, the soft morning light all conspired to place my attention on the signs of early spring.† Some of the flowering trees are in full bloom, or even a bit past their peak.† Others exhibit full buds, days from bursting forth.† Many of the mature, non-flowering trees are yet to show any sign of life, while others sport tips flecked with green.
Daffodils bloom in small garden plots and perennials are in various stages of sprouting around the early blooms.† It is too early in the season for building owners to have planted their window boxes; the risk of a late frost is still too great.
At Liberty and Vine, a parishioner opened the front doors of St. Francis Seraph church.† The air along the sidewalk was infused with the powerful, sweet scent of the Easter Lilies surrounding the church’s sanctuary.
By the end of my walk, the 21st century had returned to Over the Rhine.† The rain had stopped, and the clouds lifted a bit.† Images snapped into sharp focus.† Auto traffic picked up.† A few men, young and old, congregated along the sidewalks.† Mothers and grandmothers were walking youngsters to school and daycare.
I am smiling — both at the memories of my walk through the neighborhood and at the messages and images I received by email during the few minutes I composed this post.† Others are obviously thinking and seeing the same things I saw this morning:
The banner photo in today’s issue of Soapbox Cincinnati features Over the Rhine from a different Spring perspective.
In this week’s Cincy Chic, Julie Niesen extolls her favorites at Findlay Market.† Click the links for a few Spring images of the Market.
Published by Michael in The business on January 9, 2009 at 2:51 pm
As I posted a few days ago,† I will be the featured chef, and Just Cured the host, for the second monthly wine dinner at City Cellars on Friday, February 27, 2009 beginning at 7:00 p.m.† Make your reservations by calling City Cellars at 513.621.WINE; hurry, space is limited.† The price for the meal is $35; and you may purchase wine and beer from City Cellars at retail prices.
The theme for the meal is “Meatless Doesn’t Equal Sacrifice.”† I put together a meatless menu that is as indulgent as it is good for you.† I hope the menu tempts you to join me for dinner that evening.
The menu:
Roasted beet and goat cheese salad
Risotto with asparagus and asparagus puree
Just Cured half smoked salmon cooked sous vide, wild mushroom and cabbage sautÈ, pinot noir butter sauce
Milk chocolate pretzel tart
For the vegetarians among us, I will offer a vegetarian option for the salmon course.† (Please advise City Cellars when making your reservation.)† Given the kitchen facilities available at the shop, I will not be able to offer a vegan option.
I have some wine pairings in mind.† If you have any ideas, post them as comments.
