The Bear vs. Bouchon…

Creating the perfect meal is nearly impossible. Like opera, the most complex of the arts, something almost always goes wrong. Carmy gets locked in the walk-in freezer on opening night. Richie dumps a plate of pasta on a celebrity guest. Donna Barzatto creeps out Natalie while she’s in labor with Danny’s baby. Everyone loves The Bear, the true-to-life fictional TV drama about creating a fine dining restaurant with all its loose ends and tangled relationships.

I know how hard it is to deliver the perfect meal. I’m no Carmy, but in the 80s and 90s I owned, managed and made all the pasta for Piccolo, our small Italian bistro in Sun Valley. I loved it. And, it’s enormously satisfying to feed people – especially people who love food – but with all the moving pieces it’s hard to pull off a superior dining experience with grace and style.

Thomas Keller is a master chef/restauranteur in Yountville, California (and makes a guest appearance on The Bear). Before we left home for our annual trip to the Bay Area, M and I decided to go for the big Napa Valley splurge–dinner at Keller’s The French Laundry. What the hell; we’d rather eat well than save.

On an earlier bike trip to Napa we peeked through the window at the famous 3-starred Michelin restaurant. This time we wanted to see it from the inside, but we weren’t naïve. It’s almost impossible to get a reservation. We did our best but, alas, the window for reservations opened at 10 a.m. on a Monday, but we weren’t able to connect until 10:20 and by then everything was booked for the next 60 days. Back to the drawing board with new enthusiasm and motivation.

Having decided on a big splurge and been denied at The Laundry, we were even more determined to treat ourselves. There are dozens of high quality restaurants in the Napa Valley. We had tried several on earlier trips including Mustard’s, Tra Vigne, and Auberge du Soleil, but there was another Keller option—his one-star Bouchon Bistro just a block away from his flagship. It’s not exactly settling when the alternative also has a Michelin star.

Cutting to the chase…we took Lyft to Bouchon, so we weren’t worried about drinking and driving, and checked in with the hostess. The table in the far corner of this photo is where she seated us. A perfect place to watch everything and everyone.

Bouchon is a bistro. Hard surfaces. Tables close together. Mirrors. Noisy. Waiters. Busboys and more than one sommelier. Done right it’s magical. Like the Swiss-movement inside the steel case of a Rolex Submariner everything moves synchronously. Bouchon was like that.

I think Bouchon is unique among fine dining restaurants in that it offers carafe wine chosen by the sommelier as an alternative to its more expensive list of bottled wines. We liked the idea and opted in. We chose the Napa Valley grenache, a Rhone-style red that was light and full-flavored. When we asked, Braulio, our waiter, told us it was from Three Clicks, a winery that sells only to restaurants or online. Now we’re getting into the weeds, but that’s the way it is. Everything at Bouchon is handpicked and special.

When it came to ordering food it was easy. M wanted steak frites. Classic French bistro. She remembers how delicious the pan-seared flatiron steak with caramelized shallots and crispy, thin, fries were during our Paris days. But, I’d been waiting a long time to test Julia Child’s recommendation that the best way to assess a French restaurant’s quality is to order poulet roti—plain old roast chicken. So I did.

But, fine dining is more than just an entrée. Our food preferences are different but M and I are adventurous eaters. Her choice for the first course was a simple laitue, lightly dressed butter lettuce, but I wanted something out of the ordinary and chose the chilled corn soup with herbs and thinly sliced shallots. (see right).

Second course. Bingo. Julia nailed it. My roast chicken was brined and astonishingly moist with crispy skin surrounded by a sweet corn, mushroom, bacon lardons and Dijon jus, and M’s steak was so tender she cut it with her table knife.

But the perfect restaurant experience is more than the food, service or ambience. In my experience it’s also the serendipitous surprises that make it memorable—and ours came in conversation with the group at the next table. I don’t normally talk to strangers in a restaurant, but M talks to everyone. And, she usually finds interesting people. That was resoundingly true at Bouchon that night.

As we were finishing our entrées one of the women at the table next to ours leaned over and asked how we got the best table in the house. Were we important or just lucky? She told us that her tablemates wanted to know more about us. She said they had been talking about us since we sat down, because they liked the way we were engaged with each other. She wanted to know how long we had been married. She was surprised when we told her it was only 14 years but nonplussed when we told her we had known each other for 75.

We were curious about them too and learned that she and two of her tablemates were chefs who were in Napa to film an episode of Guy Fieri’s Tournament of Champions Top Chef competition. Her name is Antonia Lofaso and she has three acclaimed restaurants in Los Angeles including Scopa in Venice, CA.

We finished dinner with an espresso and split a lemon tart—the perfect palate cleanser. And finally…when we asked Braulio, our waiter, for the check he noticed the Navy wings on my ID bracelet and asked if I was military. I answered, “Once upon a time,” and when he returned the check included a $35 “military discount” bringing the total, with tip, to just under $200.

No question…everything about the Bouchon experience was memorable. The Swiss-movement operated flawlessly, and though we would gladly have paid the going rate of $390 per person at The French Laundry we ended up having “perfect” meal with the same chef for less than a quarter of the cost. We Lyft-ed back to the hotel and slept like babies.

Carmy is out of the walk-in now and just picked up another Emmy. We can’t wait for Season 4 next fall, but in the meantime we’re looking forward to Food Network’s Tournament of Champions and hoping Antonia walks off with Top Chef honors. Sante’.

Our swing through Napa knocked it out of the park. Thanks, Chef…

Where’s My Walter Cronkite?

It takes reliable information to make good decisions whether you’re buying a new car or deciding who you’ll vote for. But, election cycles always heighten questions of trust and the reliability of news sources. Who can we believe? Who can we trust? Who is most insightful?

In the 4th Century BC, the Greek philosopher, Diogenes, famously carried a lantern around daytime Athens “looking for an honest man.” History doesn’t tell us if he was successful, but wandering around town with a lantern isn’t going to do the job these days.

When the avalanche of information available on the Internet came, I felt that education’s primary purpose was to teach lifelong critical thinking skills, especially the assessment and credibility of  information sources.

Last week a friend asked why I hadn’t posted a blog lately. The only answer I could offer was a case of PTSD caused by the dismal state of political discourse. It felt like we were condemned to watch two old dogs scratching at each other for position in the doghouse, one hobbled and dissembling, the other sclerotic overfed and whining about how unfairly he was being treated. With four months to go, the prospect of that stale fare was beyond depressing.

Even though I knew the 2024 presidential election would be critically important for the future of American democracy, I couldn’t overcome the torpor of the campaigns. Blogging about it would just be a repeat of my earlier expressions of disappointment. It looked like America’s future was going end up in the hands of a doddering octogenarian—one well-meaning, the other malevolent.

Then, miracle of miracle, close friends, political operatives and advisors prevailed on President Biden to step aside and let his younger more vigorous Vice President prosecute the case.

I can’t guarantee my PTSD is completely gone. It was eight years in the making and deeply ingrained, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Kamala Harris and Tim Walz look like the America I want going forward. It’s early, but their enthusiasm and growing momentum have helped revive the spirit and energy I felt during the Obama years. Their “joy” is refreshing and seems to be contagious.

***

I’m probably exposed to too much news. I wake up to NPR or BBC then watch CBS Mornings. In the evening M and I get a mixed menu of MSNBC, CNN, and Fox. And while there are a couple of personalities I’d miss, my life would probably be better if our TV went dark until after the election.

What I would miss, however, are the satirists. Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, SNL, Bill Maher, and John Oliver along with print folks like The Borowitz Report, The Onion (now coming back with a print version), and Maureen Dowd.

Lately, wehave started our day by watching last night’s The Daily Show rather than CBS Mornings. It makes us smile rather than frown and fret. Jon Stewart is back on Monday night, and we’ve developed a liking for the rest of the cast – Desi Lydic, Jordan Klepper, and Ronnie Chieng – as well. Stewart’s take on politics is refreshing, funny, and entertaining. But he’s also a serious journalist. I remind myself, and you, that he’s devoted 23 years to making sure first responders are compensated for the health consequences of their service on 9/11. And while the cast of The Daily Show may lean left, they have a take no prisoners approach when political stupidity presents itself. Right or left.

Fox also has a “satirical” off-beat take on the news, but it feels more mean-spirited. Greg Gutfeld is the smirking host of Gutfeld, but his panel of experts, lounging in easy chairs, looks more like Jimmy Buffett’s Gypsies in the Palace than serious journalists or a comedy ensemble. They include a snarky pro-wrestler (Tyrus), a former NFL sideline reporter (Michelle Tafoya) and an aspiring libertarian comedienne (Kat Timpf) charged with making political commentary in a talk show format. I haven’t figured out if they’re a sideshow act or a trashy new version of The Talk.

No one has that problem with SNL or Late Night with Stephen Colbert. Their skits and monologues are plain old political satire. Make no mistake, satire is serious, but it’s tongue-in-cheek serious not mean-spirited serious.

Everyone gets the Borowitz headlines, “RFK Jr. Brings Much Needed Sanity to Trump Campaign” or “George Santos Declares Jim Jordan’s Identity Not Worth Stealing.” Everyone knows Colin Jost and Michael Che are being satirical on SNL’s Weekend Update (but I do miss Stephan). What makes satire so effective is irony, humor and exaggeration. It’s often an effective way to understand a society and provide insights into its collective psyche.

But, even I know we can’t just rely on political satire for our news. We need to figure out the serious side of the news as well. Who’s giving it to us straight? Who is today’s Walter Cronkite? Who’s going to tell us we’re losing the war—or our democracy? I don’t think there is a Cronkite or Huntley/Brinkley. Today’s network news is a series of sound bites that tease but don’t satisfy, and the PBS News Hour that used to be great when Jim Lehrer and Robin MacNeil were hosting now puts me to sleep. I still like NPR for daily reporting, but when I want serious opinion with historical context I like Heather Cox Richardson’s daily newsletter (available on Facebook) and Jill Lepore’s long form articles in the New Yorker.

There are 71 days until Election Day. This may be the last election I’ll see. I want a positive outcome so I can pass the baton to my children and grandchildren with hope for a bright future. Let’s do the right thing and elect the responsible grown up—who happens to be a woman and person of color. That’s an America for the future. Let’s get it right on November 5, 2024.

Shame on Boeing…

Seattle used to be a company town. One company. Boeing. The names were almost synonymous. But in 2001, under new leadership, the company relocated its headquarters to Chicago with the disingenuous explanation that it was closer to the big financial centers. In truth, it was a renegade takeover by executives from McDonnell Douglas, the financially troubled company Boeing had rescued and purchased three years earlier. It was a case of corporate sleight of hand. Overnight an aircraft manufacturing juggernaut was transformed into a financial services company slavishly pandering to Wall Street’s emphasis on shareholder value.

I grew up in Seattle. I worked at Boeing when I was in college. I flew three Boeing airplanes as a Pan Am pilot. Later on, I became friends with the Chief Administrative Officer, the Sr. VP for Manufacturing, the VP for Government and Community Relations and had a handshake relationship with the CEO of Commercial Airplanes (who, when he was passed over for CEO at Boeing, took the helm at Ford and saved it from bankruptcy). Boeing was a company town and Seattleites felt like stakeholders in its success.

But Boeing, like other companies had its ups and downs. In 1970 when the US economy tanked, its fortunes dipped and it was forced to lay off 60% of its workforce to survive. That was the year some wag purchased a billboard saying, “Will the last person leaving SEATTLE – Turn out the lights.”

But, the company did survive, rehired its employees and later that year delivered what is probably its greatest airplane—the 747.

But financial services companies do not know how to build airplanes.

When the company headquarters moved to Chicago, airplane manufacturing remained behind in Seattle, but its culture suffered. Morale dipped. Senior management nickel-dimed its unions and withdrew benefits. Parts were outsourced to China and Russia, and leaders were recruited from outside instead of promoted from within.

The new leadership team watched shareholder value climb. But financial wizardry can’t keep an airplane safe and in 2019 the wheels started to come off. And then a door flew off…

In 2019 and 2020, a runaway trim system caused two 737 MAX 8s to crash within a year. 349 passengers died. Then, in January of this year, an unsecured door plug on a Max 9 blew out the side of a flight departing Portland. Recently, other malfunctions including a Dutch Roll excursion drew attention to company failures. Then three whistleblowers came forward to inform the FAA concerning unresolved quality control issues. Now, Congress is investigating and criminal prosecution is possible. 

On Monday David Calhoun, Boeing’s $33million a year, soon to retire CEO testified to the Senate Governmental Affairs Subcommittee on Investigations. It was not pretty. Senators from both sides recited a litany of company failures, malfeasance, criminal neglect, and retaliation against whistleblowers.

There are only two major airplane manufacturers in the world. Boeing has 5,700 airplane orders on the books for delivery in the next ten years, but in 2023 Airbus for the fifth consecutive year delivered more aircraft and landed more orders–a reflection of the aviation world’s concern with Boeing’s quality control and leadership problems.

And, it’s not just airplanes. Last week Boeing’s Starliner, America’s first rocket launch with astronauts since 2011, was canceled when a helium leak was detected. It was the Starliner’s third such cancelation this month. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos have been launching private rockets for a decade and recovering them to use again. Why can’t Boeing do it?

Seattle is no longer a one company town. Microsoft, Amazon, Adobe, Starbucks, Costco, Nordstrom, Expedia and Alaska Airlines are all headquartered here, and we no longer worry about having to turn the lights out when the economy goes south. Boeing is still has a big presence here with 737 and 787 plants in Everett and Renton, but the bean counters continue to run things from Chicago.

Yesterday Jim Morris, the former Senior VP for Manufacturing, told me he thought “the management team now understands the importance of a highly engineered and high quality product.” He believes they will recover “but it will take several years.” I hope he’s right. I no longer have a stake in its success, but I hate to see what’s happened to one of America’s great companies. Boeing was founded in 1916 and was profitable for more than five decades because its dedicated engineers and line workers manufactured high quality state of the art aircraft. Those profits were not achieved by manipulating the stock price. Let’s hope the next generation of leaders knows more about building airplanes than fiddling with the balance sheet. Fingers crossed.

 

What Goes Around…

On August 1, 1999 Robert Gottlieb, the esteemed editor-in-chief at Simon and Schuster, reviewed Speaking of Diaghilev in the New York Times Book Review. The book is John Drummond’s definitive biography of Serge Diaghilev, the famous/infamous ballet impresario. Gottlieb is best known as the editor for Toni Morrison, Joseph Heller, Nora Ephron, John LeCarre and Robert Caro–but he was also a lifelong balletomane and wrote frequently on the subject.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because last week when I was feeling overwhelmed and reflecting on both the good and bad news associated with moving a household, I noticed a yellowed corner of newsprint sticking out of a book in our new bookcase. The book was Speaking of Diaghilev and the clipping was Gottlieb’s review.

The bad news about moving is you have to deal with all the extraneous stuff you’ve accumulated over the years. The good news is you sometimes run across a treasure tucked away and overlooked during those same years. I know it’s not original to talk about “six-degrees of separation” or “what goes around comes around,” but when I unfolded and read Gottlieb’s review I was reminded of how haunting that experience can be. 

I bought the Drummond biography 25 years ago, because I wanted to know more about the history of ballet. Like Gottlieb, I’ve always  been a fan—partly because what dancers do with their bodies is so beyond anything mortals, like me, might be able to do and partly because I admire the marriage of art, music, dance and theater that is embodied in the discipline.

This particular “what goes around comes around” story began in 1998 when I moved back to Seattle. I didn’t have a job but felt it was the right place for me. I rented an extended stay hotel room and started job hunting. Within a couple of months, I ran across a newspaper ad (remember those?) recruiting employees for a new bookstore. Amazon was killing independent bookstores, but Third Place Books was setting itself up to be the anchor tenant in the revamped Lake Forest Park Mall. As an English major I’ve always been a sucker for books. In college I worked at the University of Washington Bookstore and in Salt Lake City I moonlighted a couple of nights a week at The King’s English. So, Third Place wasn’t out of my wheelhouse. I got the job at Third Place and started working there the day it opened. And that’s where I bought the Diaghilev biography.

Fast forward 25 years… In January, we sold our condo and moved to a new apartment in Edmonds. In March our floor to ceiling bookcase was installed, and by the end of April we had unpacked the 40 cartons of books we brought along and the bookcase was full. That’s when I re-discovered the book and the Gottlieb review.

A by-product of my discovery was to feel the absence of ballet in our lives. For several years, pre-Covid, we were Pacific Northwest Ballet subscribers, and even in year-one of the pandemic we committed for the digital season. But we missed the up close and personal experience, and though we felt guilty about dropping it we couldn’t risk mingling with a large crowd in an enclosed space. The arts suffered because of people like us and haven’t fully recovered but things are changing. We’re still careful about crowds but in May M and I went to our first post-Covid ballet and this week we renewed our subscription for the 24-25 season.

One of the new season’s offerings is Romeo and Juliet, and I can’t wait to see it. M and I saw the PNB version in 2008 and it was exceptional. But my indelible first experience was seeing Rudolf Nureyev and Dame Margot Fonteyn in 1967 at the Opera House in San Francisco. It was a once in a lifetime event. Still… even without that incandescent star power, PNB’s is a heart-wrenching treat.

Diaghilev, Nureyev, Fonteyn and Gottlieb are all gone now. But they’re still in our bookcase. 

Earlier this week Alice Munro died and there was a long obituary in the New York Times. When I finished reading it, I pulled one of her short story collections out of the bookcase, folded the article neatly and placed it inside the cover. Maybe my daughter will see its torn, crinkled, yellowing edge peeking out from Too Much Happiness 25 years from now. Nothing would please me more. It’s part of the good news that comes with the “what goes around comes around” about moving. There are treasures hiding in the stuff we accumulate. It’s good to remember that and not be too eager to Marie Kondo everything before the movers pack it up. RIP Alice Munro!

Do the Right Thing…

I haven’t been here – on the page – since early January. It’s the longest break I’ve taken in 15 years. There are several reasons. M and I sold our condo and moved from the edge of Lake Washington to an apartment overlooking Puget Sound. Moving is not for the lazy or the weak. 

The University of Washington has a life events scale that rates the impact and stress of certain changes—the death of a parent, sibling or spouse, a serious medical problem, etc. Moving, it turns out, is near the top of the scale. Now I know why. 

Nevertheless, it was a great decision for us, and now that we’ve settled in we know it was the right thing to do. We pared down and cleaned out 25 years’ worth of stuff but are grieving the loss of the garden court M worked so hard to populate. We’ll also miss the pool, the park and the bike path, but Edmonds is a tight little town where we can walk everywhere. Lots of restaurants and bars, two blocks from the Kingston ferry, two blocks from the Center for the Arts where we have tickets to see The Wallflowers next month and our apartment is in a building with a wine bar downstairs. Almost perfect.

The other reason for my absence is that I’m 2/3 of the way through year-one of a two-year non-residential novel writing program at Stanford. I knew it would be challenging, but it’s also time consuming. Much harder to make up stuff than write about Trump’s failings or the last movie I saw. I’ve missed writing essays for the blog and it will be hit and miss for a while since I’m committed to the Stanford program. But I don’t want to stop completely, especially with the election looming in November. I plan to post more here in the near future…hopefully.

But the real reason I’m here now is to talk about failure. My own. I like to think of myself as a reasonable person, someone who is chill and above petty grievances. But lately I’ve let myself down and it’s not pretty. I think there’s a lesson to take away.

For almost 25 years I’ve played tennis with a group of guys on Monday nights. That’s right. Twenty-five years. It’s a long time. The group waxes and wanes. New people come in, some move on, and one or two have died. Earlier we fielded some good seasonal USTA teams in the various age groupings, and we were competitive as a 4.0 rated group. Over the years we slipped down to 3.5 and now we’re mostly 3.0. I stopped playing USTA around the time the pandemic changed everything else.

But, this isn’t about the quality of my tennis. It’s about letting myself get petty about something as stupid as a line call. Just writing about it is embarrassing. Here’s the backstory. One of the guys in the Monday night group cheats. He’s cheated for 25 years. Everyone knows he cheats. Anything close to the line he calls in his favor and he misremembers the score that way too. When it’s egregious we draw the line and he concedes. He is to tennis what Trump is to golf. Mostly we overlook it and go on to the next point, but for some reason I let it get under my skin last week. He’s been pissing me off for years and it’s been smoldering under the surface. Last week it boiled over. I’d had it and after a couple of bad line calls I called him an asshole and stalked off the court. How small is that? Two old guys playing recreational tennis having a shit-fit over a line call.

I know it’s a stretch, but it’s a tiny example of how everything seems to be going globally. The deaths of George Floyd. Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, and locally of Manuel Ellis and Native American woodcarver John T. Williams stand out. People are shooting and stabbing each other over trivialities. Cops are shooting jaywalkers and jaywalkers are shooting cops. National politics is a blood sport. Putin is killing thousands in an effort to restore the Soviet Union. Netanyahu has killed 32,000 Palestinians to avenge the death of 1200 Israelis, and Trump is calling for violence against anyone (except Aileen Cannon) that has anything to do with the justice system.

This  past Monday I sucked it up and apologized for losing it. He’s not evil, just a cheat. The apology probably wasn’t very convincing, but I needed to do it–for me if not for him. Do the right thing, as Spike Lee would say. I believe in cycles and maybe this one will pass but, like writing a novel, it’s hard to see the future from here. It comes down to personal responsibility. In a few years Trump, Biden, Netanyahu, Putin and I will all be gone. I hope the new blood will right the ship. Until then I’ll do my best to follow Spike Lee’s dictum. In fact, let’s all “Do the right thing.”