Just Cured - Experience Fine Foods

There was something in the air in my new work neighborhood yesterday, and in a good sort of way. It was hard for me to put my finger on anything specific, however, that made it seem that way.

It certainly wasn’t the morning of downpours that brightened anyone’s mood. And it could not have been the afternoon’s stifling humidity; the humidity only made the lower than forecast temperatures seem a lie. It wasn’t the air that was in the air.

Maybe I was struck by the sense of calm when I entered Tucker’s early in the lunch hour. The restaurant was packed, and Carla was off for the day attending to her mother’s knee replacement surgery. Perhaps the customers noticed her absence and were a little more patient and a lot less demanding. Certainly the staff stepped up to the short-handed challenge. They exuded that professional get-it-done attitude that I expect (but rarely actually experience) in restaurants with much greater aspirations. Well done, guys and gals; I was so proud of you –† you were certainly affected by that something special in the air.

Maybe it was the concentration of “good mornings,” “good afternoons,” nods and smiles that I received as I walked through my Over the Rhine neighborhood. Perhaps I am becoming accepted as part of the urban landscape. Or perhaps there was just something in the air.

Yesterday was National Night Out, and our local festivities were held at Findlay Market. Law enforcement arrived with police cruisers, a crime van, a horse mounted officer, bicycle riding officers, a D.A.R.E. vehicle and a fire engine from the Cincinnati police department, the Hamilton County sheriff’s office and the Cincinnati fire department.

The neighborhood turned out in force, families, kids, couples, singles, you-name-it. I enjoyed watching the kids climb on and around the fire engine, pet the horse and ask questions about him, and beg to borrow an officer’s bicycle “for a quick spin.” Even with something in the air, the answer to borrowing the bike was firm “no.”

I am not sure whether the neighbors visited for the education, the entertainment or the free dinner. When I turned my head to the food line, I saw T.O., the nominally full-time waiter at Tucker’s, manning the grill and in the weeds. The menu consisted of burgers and hot dogs from the grill, chips and pasta salad contributed by the Tucker family, plus soft drinks and bottled water. The food line was 20 deep; the guests were orderly and extremely polite. You see, there was something in the air, even if it was only the smell of grilling meat.

For the next 45 minutes or so, I helped T.O. at the grill, in charge of the hot dogs and putting burgers on buns. The line of guests never got shorter, but the tempers didn’t either. The grill was always packed with food, yet we barely kept pace. T.O. claimed this morning to have cooked 800 burgers and dogs in the two-plus hours of the party. I wouldn’t be surprised; the air was full of hungry, happy souls.

The most eye-opening part of my evening was T.O.’s running commentary on the people coming through our line — this transvestite hooker, that pimp, the other drug dealer all making nice to the cops, the absent father of many families, the inattentive mother, which kids were good citizens, which were already in trouble and those who were on their way there. Everyone was in such a congenial mood, it was almost easy to ignore the challenges that these people, these families, face every day — almost. Some things the air can only disguise.

Earlier in the day, as I do many days, I walked to and through downtown for a meeting there. As I passed the corner of Seventh and Walnut, I saw not the anonymous office building on the northwest corner; rather, I saw the imposing facade of the Schubert Theater that once inhabited that corner. Off and on throughout the afternoon, I reflected on the plays I attended in that space in the early and mid 1970s (for only a dollar or two a ticket) courtesy of a student program, the name of which I have long since forgotten, and of a girl who introduced me to the program.

As I left the Market mid-party, a song and a scene from one of those plays (that I am nearly certain I saw at the Schubert) popped into my head. I suppose that the sight of the neighborhood kids’ with few advantages gleefully playing at any opportunity reminded me in some way of Fagin’s gang in this scene. In any event, here is the scene from the glizty movie that I have never seen. My memory is of the lower production value, but higher energy, version of a touring company. As I said, it was something in the air.

(On another note, I just took a look at my LP copy (the big vinyl record with the little hole) of the original cast soundtrack from 1962. It contains a caution for those few listeners in stereo that voices may seem to move from side to side.)

As a small child, I was never much as a hopscotch player — a meaningful hand-eye-foot coordination problem at that age rendered me rather ineffective at the game. As I walked past this place this morning on my way to a meeting, however, I could see the five named players playing the game last evening as the sun set and the city streets cooled just a bit. I could hear their laughter and their good-natured bickering over an interpretation of the rules.

Some things simply never change.

I wonder who won?

Hopscotch Court

Location: Elm Street, north of 14th, Over the Rhine

One day after my very long day Tuesday, we were invited to a Wednesday night dinner party. The directions were cryptic to say the least. “Turn south on a particular road; after about a mile, turn right into the lane just before the railroad tracks; keeping the tracks to your left, cross the gravel lot heading toward the large steel building; at the building cross over the tracks then make a hard right and hard left turn around the side of the building; at the end of the building, park in the lot just past the fence gate.”

What the directions didn’t tell me were that the path along the side of the building was about 11 feet wide with a huge fall off to the right and with grade level rails in the center of the path, and that the lot was a tiny alcove bordered by the building and many railcars.

Yes, we were in the center of a large railroad yard. We walked a hundred yards or so down the path between two rows of railcars parked nose to tail. At the end of the path was our destination — the beautifully restored 1922 private railcar known as the Chapel Hill.

The Chapel Hill was built in 1922 as the private mode of transport for cereal heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post and her then husband E. F. Hutton. In those days, the private railcar was the equivalent of today’s Gulfstream, Canadair or Falcon jet for the rich and famous. The Chapel Hill’s owners have restored her to a fantastic, near original condition. And you may charter her for the private journey of a lifetime.

Our journey was a mere stroll from the lounge to the dining room. A friend and colleague bid on and won this evening in an auction benefiting 7 Days for SIDS. The owners contributed an evening in the stationary railcar, and Jean-Robert de Cavel contributed food and wine for a dinner party of six. We were luck enough to be invited as one of the two guest couples.

Once we stepped into the Chapel Hill, it didn’t matter whether we were in a crowded rail yard or traveling to Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach or Camp Topridge in the Adirondacks (two of Ms. Post’s homes and frequent destinations of this railcar). We were ensconced in the simple, elegant luxury that was the 1920s. Our host for the evening was Jeff, one of the Chapel Hill’s owners; and Jean-Robert and his wife, Annette, were our staff. Later, Jean-Robert and Annette were joined by the sous chef and the sommelier from Pigall’s.

We had cocktails and canapes in the lounge. After an hour or so, a series of chimes called us to the dining room. What followed was a jewel of a meal — seven courses paired with wines, mostly from Jean-Robert’s personal cellar (with one contribution from mine). The food, wine, setting and company made for a night I will remember for a long time.

I am supposed to be receiving a copy of the menu and wine pairings. I’ll edit the post to include it.

The menu and pairings:

Maine Lobster and Jonah Crab with pineapple, avocado, and bibb lettuce
Stephanie Tissot Vin Jaune 2004
*
Warm Indiana Goat Cheese with dried summer fruit and pistachio, duo of arugula,
verjus and fig vinaigrette
Chateau La Garde Pessac-Leognan 2003
*
Roasted Halibut with Local Zucchini Flower, roasted red onion, and a light truffle cream
Domaine Buisson Meursault 2005
*
Rilette of Cochon Maison with fresh chick peas and bayonne ham pipperade,
duo of Banyuls vinegar dressing
Domaine Jablot Clos De La Servoisine 1er Cru Givry 1995
*
Duck Leg Confit Risotto with corn, shitake mushroom, foie gras,
and a peppery grape compote
Chateau Gigonan Chateauneuf 2004
*
Rack of Lamb with braised tomato, sweet garlic blue cheese flan, mountain rose potato, roulade of eggplant and Merguez, sauce Bordelaise
Chateau Lynch Bages Grand Cru Paulliac 1983
download make it happen free
*
Assorted Sweets
Stephanie Tissot Spirale 2004

Many thanks to Jeff, Jean-Robert and Annette for their hospitality, and even more thanks to the party hosts, Ruth and Fred, for including us.

The following is in celebration of our little train ride to nowhere. Can you tell I am hooked on this embedded video feature?

In this city, the highlight of the summer social season for most of the population is not the Opera; rather, it is the run of Church Festivals. I have met people who plan their summer travels around the festivals of the parishes they grew up in or those festivals of the parishes to which their friends belong.

The format is fairly uniform — cheap beer and picnic foods, carnival rides, raffles, bake and other sales and games of skill and chance. Note that this description is from a festival ignoramus. I have spent perhaps six hours total at church festivals over the past 30 years.

And of those six hours, three of them occurred last evening. I attended the performance of the band Snidely Whiplash at the St. Martin of Tours Festival held at Harvest Home Park, Cheviot. For those of you too young to remember, Snidely Whiplash was the arch villain in the Dudley Do-Right series of cartoons on the Rocky & Bullwinkle Show from my youth.

In the present time, Snidely Whiplash is a cover band performing as a hobby of the members, each of whom has another full time gig. The band leader, guitarist and co-lead vocalist is my across-the-street neighbor Tony Scalia. His son, Pete, plays the keyboards and shares vocal duties. For a gang that performs perhaps a half dozen times a year, they are quite in synch with each other and are enormously entertaining.

That’s Pete on the far left and Tony next to him.

The crowd at the festival spanned all categories, from young to old, from hale to infirm, and included people of virtually every economic means. By the second set, the crowd had played enough games and drunk enough beer to be more interested in the live music. People started dancing in place, they way they do when they want to hit the dance floor but no one else has yet headed there.

It took a bit of encouragement from her mother, but one young lady hit the floor before any others. And she wore the asphalt dance floor out. She hit the stage, played tambourine, sang backup vocals and lead a dance troupe of her friends. She was unknown to the band members and virtually all of the crowd when the evening started. By the end of the night, we all knew Caitlin — and will remember her for some time.

Caitlin, keeping time for the band:

Here she is singing a duet with Pete:

When I last saw Caitlin, the band had rolled into a slow medley of Jackson Browne’s Load Out and Stay (Just a Little Bit Longer) and she had asked her mother for the last dance. Caitlin had her head tucked onto her mother’s shoulder, and was sound asleep.

This is for all the Caitlins out there who know how to have fun on a Friday night.

“Tell him you will call him back in an hour,” I told the young colleague as I gestured for her to terminate the call. She was into hour four of a call with her counterpart at <insert mega New York firm here> discussing the placement of qualifiers, commas and cross references in a set of disclosure schedules for the deal that was closing in 33 or so hours. It was 11 pm on day 5 of 7 that started at dawn and ended sometime after 3 am, and our flight to the closing location was leaving in 9 hours. Plenty of time for the two of them to negotiate the commas to my satisfaction.

I, however, was hungry. I hadn’t really eaten since dinner late the night before. And the latest open kitchen in downtown would close in 30 or so minutes.

“We are driving, right?” she asked.

“Three and a half blocks on a beautiful late spring evening? No, of course, we are walking.”

“But it is dark and dangerous and there are scary people on the streets,” she complained.

I told her she could walk or not eat. Reluctantly, she agreed to walk.

We passed nary a soul, scary or otherwise, on our walk to dinner. An hour later, hunger sated with really good burgers and fries, we left the hotel bar for the office. As we turned out of the hotel entrance, she yelped and began swiveling her head this way and that. “That drug addict behind us is going to mug us for his next fix,” she whispered urgently.

At the first corner, the “druggie” turned left as we continued across the street. I offered that I recognized the man, that his name was James, and that he managed the stationery store in the arcade nearby. In fact, I had his business card in my pocket. She protested that he was scary (meaning young, black and not like her) and was babbling incoherently. What he was doing was singing to himself.

We walked the next two blocks without incident. As we made the turn south, I stopped her from crossing the street and explained that she would be more comfortable on this side of the street and I wanted to show her something. In the middle of that block is a major bus stop for lines to the city’s less fashionable neighborhoods. The sidewalk was crowded, as it always was that time of night.

I directed her attention across the street and asked what was so frightening to her about those people waiting for the bus. “They aren’t like us and are looking for trouble,” was her reply.

“And that’s where you are so wrong,” I responded, disappointed and intent on making our walk a lesson. “I recognize a quarter of those people, not by name but by face; and they are

• x files i want to believe the dvd

like us. They are working hard to support their families, many working two jobs. They have no interest in hassling you; their thoughts are consumed with getting home and kissing their sleeping babies on the forehead, with getting a few hours sleep before getting their kids off to school or themselves off to their other jobs. They are the dishwashers at the restaurants you dine in; the doormen, bell men and housekeepers at the hotels our clients stay in; and the cleaning crews of the high rise office buildings we work in. They may be invisible to you as you go through your day; but they are, just like us, working hard to get ahead or get by.”

This little lesson took place several years ago. I find that I am reminding myself of it often, however, as I frequent my new work neighborhood. One where it is more difficult to remember my lesson. Where the passers-by often are dealers or addicts. Where the woman talking to herself hears the demons talking back. Where the response I overhear to “where ya been” is frequently “a stretch in the county jail.”

Remember, Michael, I repeat, we are all just doing the best we can, as best we know how.

I have observed that the two requirements for a kaffee klatsch are good conversation, usually featuring a healthy dose of gossip, and pastry. Interestingly, actual coffee is optional.

And so, each Saturday at Findlay Market, I observe a group of men slightly older than I am get together to review the week’s events. During the colder months, they gather at the small tables inside the main Market House. The rest of the time, they sit outside along the south side of the Market. Some days the group is small, perhaps three or four. Other times, the gang approaches a dozen. I have noticed a correlation between the size of the gathering and the pastry offering. When the group is small, the men buy their own pastries from one of the Market vendors. When one of their number supplies the pastry, the group expands. Rarely is there even a single cup of coffee on the table.

When I first walked past their table yesterday morning, I suspected a large turnout — someone brought a large box of offerings from Servatii’s. True to form, when I next approached them, the group had grown to ten tackling the issues du jour.

Their conversations range from the global to the local, from the effect of the devalued dollar on the price of oil to the condition of a nearby building. Not surprisingly in this season, national and local politics play a prominent role in their discussions. This week, there was a great deal of interest in some intrigue or another in the county government.

It is clear that these men have been friends for decades or longer. They speak with an easy banter formed only after years of familiarity. Their words are punctuated with snippets and code that are incomprehensible to an outsider. They have progressed beyond finishing each others’ sentences; they start thoughts for each other.

As is the case on many Saturdays, yesterday I accepted their entreaties and stopped a couple of times to chat for a few minutes. One day I will unlock their code and understand both the obvious and the subtle in their conversations. Until then, I will appreciate their offers of inclusion and stop by from time to time.

Enjoy the coffee-optional times guys. I wonder, does smoked salmon go with sweet breakfast pastries?

Congratulations. As a result of your diligent efforts, Over the Rhine is a much safer place than it was a few short hours ago. What, you ask, acts of heroism did you perform?

Well, you didn’t prevent the neighborhood punk from shooting a late-middle aged woman near 17th and Vine a week or so ago.

And you didn’t stop the deranged man who was verbally abusive and physically threatening to mothers walking their young children to school near Findlay Market last week.

Nor did you stop the two boys from the neighborhood two days ago when they took their fight over a wall and into Vine Street as they strangled each other.

You did drive right past two obvious crack or heroin transactions this afternoon while you were in hot pursuit of two hardened criminals — who were driving every bit of 15 miles an hour.

I know you thought those two were up to no good, buying drugs or looking for hookers. In fact, you were sure they were already high. After all, what sober person turns the wrong way onto a one-way alley, especially one that displays no sign announcing such fact? Or travels an additional block on another one-way street because he now has to avoid oncoming traffic and a street closure for construction?

If you paid any attention whatsoever on your beat, you’d have recognized the car as belong to a prominent citizen and a huge proponent of the renaissance of Over the Rhine. In fact, ask Chief Streicher who drives the yellow Corvette with green racing stripes. There is only one in town. Ask any twenty of your fellow officers who has always driven yellow Corvettes with the license plate IM4FUN. All twenty will probably be able to tell you the answer — and speak kindly of the man.

This citizen in question chose to headquarter his internationally recognized consulting firm in Over the Rhine back in the dark days. He also owned and operated another business across the street from that headquarters.

This citizen continues to support those who invest in Over the Rhine. That yellow Corvette is parked in front of Lavomatic Cafe virtually ever day while its owner enjoys his lunch inside. Most Saturdays, it is also parked opposite Tucker’s Restaurant and in a lot at Findlay Market while its owner visits Joe and Carla (thank you kind sir for introducing me to Joe and Carla) and buys from the Market vendors.

Your somber pronouncement of “multiple one-way violations” was almost laughable. The man acknowledged his error as you approached the car. He made a mistake, acknowledged it, and apologized for it before you ever opened your mouth. I guess you have never made an honest mistake. No one was endangered by his actions. Yours was the only other vehicle on either street.

Did your little traffic stop really require the reinforcements who came to your aid? Where does one draw the line of overkill? Two additional cruisers? Plus two bicycle-riding officers? And a motorcycle mounted officer? The horse mounted patrols in the area must have been on their lunch break. It’s a good thing they filled in the Erie Canal a century ago. Were it still here, you would have had to call for the police boat as well. I wonder how close you came to calling out Sheriff Leis’s helicopter. A K-9 unit would have been a nice touch, but a feline unit would have produced more results (see Note below).

You approached the car twice by yourself (albeit with your reinforcements close by). Was it really necessary to position the motorcycle officer two feet from the passenger door of the car when you came back to deliver the citation? What risk did you perceive in that passenger? Did he look ready to bolt? Was he threatening to you in some way? I’ll admit he comes off as one tough hombre — what with his Lacoste polo shirt, pressed khakis, business haircut and geeky eyeglasses (bifocals, no less). Imagine your surprise when he engaged your colleague in casual chitchat.

I am grateful for one thing — that neither you nor your colleague spotted the water bottle at the passenger’s feet. You see, the car owner-driver had just received a gift from Gus Miller, the proprietor of Batsake’s Hat Shop. Gus’s brother still owns a farm in Greece. Each year he sends Gus the best crop from his most prized mountaintop field of oregano. Gus packages the oregano and gives a quantity to his friends and best customers. Gus’s gift to the driver was a clear one liter bottle filled to the brim with this prized oregano. Had you spotted the bottle, you would certainly have confirmed your suspicion that these two criminals were users, dealers, or rubes having been taken by the local dealers.

For your incompetence in your overzealous enforcement of traffic protocol, I am relieved. I really didn’t want to call my wife this afternoon and ask her to post bail for my arrest for unlawful possession of a culinary herb. And my friend the driver didn’t particularly want to to make that call to his wife either.

Note: A cat trained to detect excessive fish contact would have immediately identified me as a dangerous slicer of smoked salmon.

Edit:† I have added photos taken shortly after noon on Monday, June 2 of the intersections from our perspective.† Note in each case the complete lack of signage.

Thirteenth and Republic:

Fourteenth and Republic (on Saturday access to 14th Street to the right was closed to traffic):

Sunday evening, my wife and I crashed someone’s graduation picnic. Well, we were invited to the party, just not by the hostess. Her brother, who was doing the heavy cooking, invited us by to pick up a spit-roasted chicken or two. Our intent was to grab our dinner, make a hasty exit, and leave the partying to the family and friends of the graduate. Typical of the hospitality of the hostess and her brother the pitmaster, they changed our plans.

Five minutes became two hours and a bottle of wine (mine) and a couple of bottles of champagne (the pitmaster’s brother’s). I made myself moderately useful as the pitmaster’s assistant. We did eventually head home with our chickens and made a late supper of one of them.

Kevin makes the best spit-roasted chicken I have had the privilege of eating. The roasting contraption is something special as well. This “small” version will roast 72 chickens at a time. Kevin did a mini batch for this party of 48 chickens (one spit removed just before I took this picture).

Is there anything better than unexpected time with friends, lively conversation and the smell of a charcoal fire?

Over the course of the last week or so, I have been privy to many conversations on the subject of respect. Invariably, it has been the speaker who deserves more or has been shown too little. I was not a part of any of these conversations; I was simply an observer. As a consequence, I was not in a position to give advice or render an opinion. This is my forum for doing so.

I wish I could have told each of the complainants this simple truth — the shortest path to receiving respect is by showing respect.

To the guy shouting his carryout order over the heads of the half-dozen guests in front of him: Please recognize the principle of “first come, first served.” The people in front of you in line are deserving of your respect, as is the woman taking your order and to whom you exhibit this behavior several times each month. Her demand that you abide by the rules is not disrespectful to you; it is a sign of respect to those you are mistreating.

To the woman talking on her cell phone while the store clerk attempted to wait on her: Just because the saleslady is not trained in mind- or mime-reading does not mean that she is both stupid and deaf. We all understood, however, the rolling of your eyes and your loud sighs. We also heard you tell your friend what an idiot the saleslady was. Funny, she got really smart and efficient when the man behind you made eye contact with her, smiled and (imagine this) spoke his requests clearly and concisely to her.

To the gentleman who upon arriving at the business lunch placed his BlackBerry on the table right in front of his potential client: No, I am not shocked that you didn’t get the contract. Do you have a clue what you told your client with that one gesture? You told him that the person calling or emailing was more important to you than he was, regardless who happened to call. Without a word you told him he was the least important person in the world to you. You could have made a show of turning it off. Better yet, you could have left it in your pocket or your briefcase.

To the person who hung up on the restaurant reservationist: Do you really think her job is to keep you from dining in that restaurant? Or that your bullying will magically make the dining room a hundred square feet larger just for Saturday night? In fact her job is to fill that restaurant to capacity as many nights as possible. And when you threaten to call your “good friend” the owner, you are more credible if you can correctly pronounce your good friend’s name.