Lisa K. Nakamura

First and foremost, this is MY blog, so this is an expression of my opinions.

What I am about to write may not sit well on every one’s plate, and that is okay with me.  I do feel that I need to say this, so thank you in advance for reading.  I apologize if I offend any of you; please note that is NOT my intent.

Here goes:

Small businesses are just that.  SMALL businesses.

They are started by people who are brave (read: foolhardy with a touch of the dreamer in them) as their livelihood, their extensions of themselves, their attempts to make a fortune, their desire to be independent.  Any and all of those reasons, plus numerous more, are why we open our shops, hang our shingles.

I cannot speak for other kinds of businesses such as retail, but I can tell you this about restaurants.  90% of them will fail in the first year. NINETY.

They will shut their doors, roll over and die, cease to exist.  If a restaurant is successful, they can expect to see maybe a 10% profit for every dollar they receive as revenue, and that’s if they are really really good.  That probably will not happen in the first, second or even third year of the restaurant’s existence.

It is a Hard Ugly Truth.

Here’s another hard ugly truth.  We get bombarded with requests for charitable donations.  And I mean BOMBARDED.

When I opened Allium, I made the decision to be as supportive as I could be to non-profit organizations.  I think I have been.  I have given as amply as I can in a time when there are less donors around, and the need for a hand up has increased.  All this has been in the restaurant’s first year, when it is not going to make a profit.  This is how important I think it is to be a part of the community, to give others a helping hand.

Now, however, reality has set in, and I am much more selective about to whom I give.  I support the Farm to Cafeteria program, the local fireworks fund, the pre-schools and animal welfare organizations.  I wish I could do more, but that is about the limit of my pocket book.

What I don’t appreciate is complete strangers and organizations sending me a form letter asking for a donation of a gift certificate for their upcoming auction.

Please understand this:  every time I give out a gift certificate, that is money out of my revenue.  Remember what I said about restaurants maybe, MAYBE reaching a 10% profit?  Okay, add to that equation a very seasonal business and a small local community. Get the picture?  Every week, I field about five letters, emails or calls asking for a donation. Five times fifty-two equals two hundred and sixty requests.  If I gave each one a $50 gift certificate donation, that would be $13,000.00 yearly.  To put that into perspective, in our winter months, that would be a nice sales figure.  Oh, winters here are long.

You may say in the summer I do great.  And you would be correct.  But the money I make in the summer is used in the winter to keep my staff employed, my rent paid, my taxes, licenses and insurance current.  Also, as the owner, I do not get paid.  My expenses are taken care of, and that’s about it.

It galls me to no end that people I have never met, who have never eaten at the restaurant and have no intention of doing so, have the nerve to go down a list of potential donors and hold out their hand.  It’s like trying to find a date on a Saturday night by going down the list in a little black book.  This is not Dial a Date, okay?

Here’s an idea:  why don’t they offer to buy a gift certificate from me at a discount?  Can’t afford to do that?  Then why don’t they volunteer something in return?  Barter with me, trade with me for, I don’t know, window or dish washing, floor cleaning, planting my deck.  The local high school football team will move you for a $50 donation. See how it works? Help me help you.

I don’t believe the American way is to get something for nothing; at least, it wasn’t that way with my upbringing.  I earned my allowance, I did chores, I learned the value of a dollar, and more importantly, the value of my work.

Don’t tell me I’ll get free advertisement and exposure to the kind of clientele that will patronize my restaurant.  That smacks of trying to get me to do a discount deal thing.  I tried that.  It didn’t work either.

You want me to donate?  Support my business.  COME IN TO EAT.  You don’t have to spend a lot, but show me some moral support.

Right now I feel like a sponge being wrung, and I am wrung out.  This is my livelihood.  Please, if you can do nothing else, be respectful of that.

PS.. there are those here who come in and we thank you for that.  It is not just your patronage, but your moral support that gives us wings to make it through the quiet months.  THANK YOU~

Once upon a time, in a Small Town in Small Town, America, there lived a dollar bill named Bucky.

Bucky was not an extraordinary dollar bill; he did not have Brad Pitt looks, a Billy Idol snarl, the Mick Jagger too-cool-for-school attitude, or the genius of Albert Einstein.  No, Bucky spent his days folded securely in the billfold of his owner, Joe Small Town.

It seemed Bucky was destined for the ordinary, a fact that he lamented often and loudly to the other dollar bills residing in the billfold.

One day, like all the days before it, Bucky sighed again out loud, knowing that he would spend the long hours in his wallet house.  Joe had been extra careful with his spending, what with the way the economists fluttered around, predicting dire times to continue.  There did not seem to be an end in sight for the long gloomy days of austerity.

But on THIS day, Bucky was going to see the light, and change lives.

(I know, I know, save the drams for your moms.)

Seriously, though, on this day, Joe decided to go to a local bookstore and spend a few dollars.

As Bucky emerged from his dank den, he breathed in the fresh air, and relished in the smell of crisp dollar bills.  He was excited at the thought of a new home in the cash register! He would have new friends to make, a new school to discover, maybe even a better school  lunch to eat!  Oh, the possibilities loomed before him in Technicolor!

But then a funny thing happened.  Before Bucky could find a comfortable spot and nestle down for a nap, he was grabbed by the ear, and given to an employee of this bookstore who was being sent on an errand.

“My goodness, good things happen in multiples!  First, a new home, and then, a road trip!” thought Bucky.   He was ecstatic!  He couldn’t wait to write in his diary, er, ledger, an accounting of his day.

Bucky’s next home was at the grocery store.  This time, there were dollar bills from an even wider circle of America in the drawer.  One dollar bill had a soft Southern drawl, another tawked like a New Yawker, a third was busting out Pidgin English like he was still on the shores of Waikiki.

“This is the life!” thought Bucky, as he settled his back against a roll of quarters to take a nap.

Bucky had just dozed off when he was once again tapped to play, this time to be part of Team Paycheck.  Team Paycheck seemed to be so glamorous.  Bucky had visions of him scoring the winning goal, of quarterbacking the team all the way to the Quarter Bowl, of signing a new multimillion Bucky contract.  Oh, it could happen!

Bucky rode home in a new wallet, this time belonging to Roseanne, one of the cashiers of the grocery store.  He took in the smell of perfume, chewing gum, face powder and car keys; all so different from Joe’s wallet.  He decided then and there he preferred Double Mint to Juicy Fruit gum.

As Bucky was preening himself in Roseanne’s compact mirror, he felt himself being pinched again.  This time, he was lifted out of Roseanne’s wallet, and placed on a little tray in a restaurant. Roseanne had been enjoying Happy Hours with friends, and  Bucky had just become part of Team Restaurant Tab! Michelin stars appeared before his eyes, top numerical Zagat scores, glowing Yelp reviews, it seemed so real! Bucky was beginning to think his life was the stuff of which dreams are made.

Bucky rode home in Nadine the server’s purse that night.  Nadine did not have a wallet proper, but instead kept her money in a old candy tin.  As the coins and dollar bills jangled over the potholes on their way home, Bucky tried to get used to the uncomfortable metal walls that had become his new home, even though he had a sneaky suspicion this new home would not last long.  He was actually looking forward to leaving the walls of the metal box; it was just too minimalist for his tastes.

The next day, Bucky was fished out of the tin, and handed over in a rumpled wad to the town hairdresser.  Team Coiffure had just acquired a new member.  Bucky looked around at the rollers, dye and bottles of magic potions.  He wondered for what all that foil was used.  He thought about asking Darlene, the hairdresser, if she could straighten him.

As Bucky was working up his courage, the phone jangled, and Darlene answered.  It was one of the town charities, seeking a donation for their next fund drive.

Darlene sighed, as the last few years had been rough on the economy, and in some ways, disastrous in this little town.  But she also knew that this little town did not have a big government security net to take care of things that official agencies handle in the bigger cities.  She was a gracious and kind woman, and promised to give them a donation.  And thus Bucky became part of Team Social Outreach.

In Bucky’s next chapter, he helped pay for clothes for the children, put food on the table, and made sure the heat stayed on that cold winter.  Bucky became an integral member of Team Household Budget, his most important role yet.

So what will Bucky’s next chapter bring?

Well, that depends on you.  You get to continue the story.

You see, it’s NOT a Trickle Down Theory that works.  It more of a Spread It Around theory.

When you support your local businesses, you give to yourself in the end.  And Bucky would like that.

Lisa’s note: If you have read this all the way to the end, thank you.  This was my first attempt at fiction.  I hope that you can see how spending locally really does help us.  You don’t have to spend hundred of dollars.  Just a few of them would really boost the economy of many a small town.  I’m not pointing fingers, and I know many of you do shop locally.  Thank you for that.  Please help keep the cycle going.

Early in my cooking career, I worked in Washington DC for a fancy restaurant.  The chef there was French, and, as we say in the business, a “Screamer”.  Read:  he expressed his displeasure loudly, colorfully and emphatically.

This was The Era of the Molten Chocolate Cake, the bane of pastry chefs and garde manger cooks everywhere.  This cake required EXACTLY seventeen minutes to reach lava-like perfection.  Thirty seconds under and it was “sheeet, Miss”.  Thirty seconds OVER and it was “merde, Miss!” Got the picture?

Incidentally, Chef called me “Miss”, directly translated from Mademoiselle, and if any of you think to call me that, I will avenge myself.

Here’s the background story you need.

The clock on our kitchen wall died the week before.  I was commissioned to get a replacement.  I was still a naive young cook who believed one’s work environment was important (I still do, by the way).  So I hied myself off to Bed Bath and Beyond, and bought what I thought was the perfect clock.  It had no numbers.  Twelve, three, six and nine o’clock were represented by an eggplant, a radish, a cabbage and carrot respectively.  The hours betwixt were marked by little cherry tomatoes.  It was the perfect kitchen clock.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Chef had hired a new garde manger cook, TT.  TT was a nice enough guy with a strong bond to his father.  I mean a bond in which he and Daddy would hit the bong together, a bonging bond.  Now, what one does in one’s own time, that’s their choice.  I, however, would not recommend partaking of Mary Jane before coming to work, especially when work means a high-stress environment overseen by a Screamer (see above for definition of a Screamer).

TT stumbled through the service that night.  Chef looked over at me several times during the evening, the unspoken question in his eyes, “Is this dude going to make it?” After showing TT how do something really complicated (add snarky voice here) like plate a salad, and watching him fumble it up, I quietly stepped away and left him to the wrath of Khan.

Being in a kitchen is like traveling in a pack of animals.  We sense weakness and sickness in a pack member, and abandon them to the forces of nature.  Okay, not really, but kinda….

The moment of truth arrived, in case the 400 moments of failure that passed before were not proof enough.  A Molten Chocolate Cake was ordered.

TT put it into the oven.  He looked at the clock, timed it (I think) and pulled it out when the requisite seventeen minutes had expired.

Fuck….the cake was “Sheeet”.

Chef, by this time, was so worn down with his constant kicking of TT’s butt.  Chef turned a strange shade of purple in the face, and in a dead calm voice, which is scarier than the screaming, asked TT WHEN did the cake go into the oven.

TT gulped, and said, “Halfway between the tomato and cabbage”.

You know those moments when time stands still, when you can watch in slow motion a drop of water running out of the tap, when life goes by in multiple frames, when you hear the sound of your blood in your ears?  It was one of those. Even the dishwasher stopped working.

Chef breathed in deeply, stabbed TT with his eyes, looked at me, and said, “Miss, next time you buy a clock with numbers!”

Moral of the story:  professional kitchen clocks should have numbers on them, and the Molten Chocolate Cake should be relegated to the annals of history and left there.

TT never came back.

I started my twitter account about three years ago. It was a closed account, and at one point and time, two weeks into it, I actually closed it out of paranoia that PEOPLE MIGHT SEE WHAT I WAS DOING, and how weird/awkward might that be. Yes, I was a Twitter Chicken.  (They say admission is the first step to recovery.)

When I opened Allium, social media took on a whole new meaning for me.  Lovely Janna had to explain to me how it all worked, and it still was a fuzzy mystery to me.

But then, it became, in many ways, a life line to the outside world.  It kept potential guests informed about our latest happenings, flirted with them, brought them up to the island to see us and try our fare.  It helped us connect in a personal way with people who might otherwise remain faceless diners or potential, not actual, guests.

It also kept me sane(r) on a personal level.  I did not feel isolated on my little island, not with a constant Twitter feed or incessant Facebook postings by everyone, anyone and many I do not know about their fabulous lives.

Or did it?

I say this because there are times that the more “connected” we are, the more isolated I feel.  EVERYONE ELSE has all these great things happening to them, like seeing the world, discovering previously unknown species of truffles, and, gasp, curing the common cold.

Me?  I have my head up in the hood, cleaning it again.

Or: I have the toilet brush in my hands, scrubbing out the bowl.  And let’s not forget my challenges with the mop.

Yeah, bring on the glamor, baby.

The curious thing is, we all feel this way:  disenfranchised, isolated, uncool, alone.  If you say “Not me”, you should probably get the ZIP code for your State of Denial.

The Hard Ugly Truth is that these mediums let us see just what others want us to see; they tell us only select stories.  No one, not even the superstars of our dream worlds, be they singers, chefs, writers, politicians have it easy all the time.  Yup, they all sit in their bathrobes every morning, starting their days one sock at a time.  Okay, they may be designer socks, but still, one sock at a time, Sweet Jesus, one sock at a time.

What I am trying to say is don’t be fooled by everyone else’s seemingly beautiful life.  Your life is  beautiful, irregardless of how much bling it has.  The fact that you’re breathing, eating, sleeping is a thing of beauty all in itself.  Think about it.

This race you think you’re in, to post more outrageous and fantastical stories of your life, to be better and more glamorous than you were the day before, to achieve achieve achieve?  This race you run alone, by yourself, with only you as your real competition.  Others may join you for a lap or two, but ultimately, you are the only contestant that matters to you.  And you are your harshest judge.  Be kind to yourself.  No one else will do so, unless you start first.

I like social media for what it SHOULD do:  connect me to real people, real ideas, real topics.  My best interactions are just that, interactions.  There is a give and take of chatter, talk, banter, snark and humor.  Maybe not everyone likes my sense of humor, but I can tell you its genuine, not canned, contrived or posed.

Yes, I DO try to put my best foot forward, therefore I am loath to admit I am typing this in my pajamas at 12:39 pm.  But that is reality.

Naw, you don’t have to tell us your best/worst moments of the day.  Let that be a secret between you and your bunny bedroom slippers.  Just remember NO ONE has that perfect of a life, and if they did, how boring that would be.

I recently had, to my mind, a traumatic experience.

Now there will be those who say I am over dramatizing, I am making more of something than I should.  You may be right, this may qualify as an Oscar-worthy performance at its worst.

At best, it may make us re-think how we think about ourselves.

SO, drum roll please:  I had to buy a swimsuit, for the first time in over TEN years.

And that’s when it hit me, the fact that I am aging.

“Wow”, you may say, “big (not) news flash.  We are all aging.”  You would be right.

But have you ever thought about how much effort we go through unconsciously on a daily basis to deny that simple fact?  Make-up, facial creams, hair dye, the clothes we wear; it’s all part of our daily routine.  We work out with a vengeance.  We try to beat clocks, records, our bodies into submission.

Don’t get me wrong.  I think a good diet and exercise regimen are essential to staying healthy.  I think it is important that we look our best, as it helps us to feel our best.

But what if you look in the mirror and despite all the exercise, dieting and effort, you, horror of horrors, LOOK YOUR AGE?

Yeah, to put it succinctly, it sucks.

Herein lies the paradox:  while your body is aging, so is your mind and spirit, and that, my friends, can be a thing of beauty.

I have gathered from talking with other women who are in their wonderful 40′s and 50′s that NOW is the time when we feel more empowered, freer, wiser, more confident than any other time in our lives.  Aging has tamed down the rough tannins in us, mellowed the fruity light-headedness, allowed our acidic fiery core to become a strong backbone for the rest of our character.  We are coming into proportion.

It is a painful admission to have to buy a swim suit in a size you never thought would need, that much is true, but…

It is wonderful to be evolving into a kinder, wiser person, an evolution that can only happen with the passing of time.

Ownership.

I’ve been  mulling this over in my mind for a long time now. My mind is like a stock pot, starting with bare bones, a few aromatics for interest and depth, and water.  Let that stock pot simmer for a long time, and reduce down the resulting liquid, and one ends up with (glorious) sauce.

Here’s my “sauce” on ownership.

We try to own the wrong things:  people, things, uncontrollable events.  We try to avoid owning our own thoughts, feelings and attitudes, which, oddly enough, are the only things we can truly own.  The rest is just an illusion.

In our quest for happiness, we tell ourselves, “If only this were that way…If I only do this, If they only did that.”  We do too much for too little with no real understanding of why we are doing it.

Guess what?  We can’t control the circumstances around us, and yes, sometimes what surrounds us sucks.  The world will throw obstacles, arguments, disarray, chaos our way.  It will never be perfect.

We CAN control how we react to it.

Don’t look to me to make your life better.  Don’t expect me to give you the magic answer. Don’t try to carry all the burdens of the world, thinking that is what you are supposed to do.  Throw down that false guilt, it’s making you weigh more.

Just carry your own burden.  That is enough.

Carry it, nurse it, HEAL it.  Give yourself the love you wish your parents gave you, the love that no one else seems to have, the love for which you long.

I know, I know.  It seems so selfish, and you were always taught that selfish is bad bad bad.

But it is even more selfish of you to expect ME to heal you.

Ownership.  Own yourself, because in the end, that is all that you truly can own.  You are your most precious true possesion.

One of our own is heading to Chicago this week.  He heads out with high hopes, nervous heart, nothing to protect and fortify him but his belief in himself and the faith in him from those who know him.

As this young gentleman starts on this momentous leg of his culinary and life journey, I stand with my head in the kitchen hood, pulling down filters, wiping up grease, and reflecting on that day, oh a few years ago, when I got the call from a California chef, telling me I could spend two days in his kitchen. (Yes, it was a phone call, not an email.  Faxes were high tech back then.)

It is fitting.

Of course there are comparisons to be made.  Of the many cooks that have passed through those now almost-hallowed doors, some have gone on to great fame and accolades; most are quietly moving through their lives, and with any luck, are fortunate enough to be cleaning the hoods of their OWN restaurant, not for someone else.

It is patently obvious that those who have gained fame, praise and fortune are successful.  There is no dispute about that, not from most of our perspectives.

But what about The Others, those who clean their own toilets, mop their own floors, use weather stripping and duct tape to hold together aging equipment to which they silently beseech “Just one more season, okay, make it two!”?  What about us?

By that same measuring stick, we appear to be not so successful.

I disagree.

My food may never break the sound/taste barrier because it is not served with an iPod.  I will most likely not have my own restaurant magazine, or the finest porcelain plates made to my specifications.  My “wine cellar” is, oh, all of 50 bottles deep.

But when people are sitting in the dining room, laughing and sharing the convivial moments of life, all the other stuff just fades away, and what is left is the pure essence of a meal time: nourishing the body and soul.

Don’t get me wrong.  We NEED restaurants that push the envelope, that make us go “hmmm, I never thought of doing it that way”.  We need them like we do high fashion, because whether we like it or not, these gastronomical forerunners set the stage and standards for what is to follow for the next generation of cooks, diners, restaurants and trends.  They are our inspiration, our pie-in-the-sky ideals.

I admire, appreciate and revere the chefs that do this, that have the stamina, the resources, the genius to pull this off.

And yes, there is a twinge of envy in that sentence (just keeping it real, folks).

But there is also much to be said about the little restaurant down the street, the Little Kitchen that Could.

E, wherever your next leg of this journey leads you, I hope that this will not be lost on you.  Should you go on to conquer the gastronomic world and are lauded on people’s shoulders, GREAT!  Should you find yourself one day in a quiet kitchen with your head in the hood and grease under your nails, GREAT!  Either way, YOU WIN!

Hello!  Sorry for the Sounds of Silence (love love love Paul Simon) but I’ve been busy making hay.

I made the decision stay open seven days a week from June 18 until September 20.  82 days.  I know.  I counted.

See, the thing is, if the restaurant is open, I’m cooking. If I’m cooking, the restaurant is open.  One does not work without the other.  Maybe one day I will hire a chef to cook in my place, but that day is not today.

The decision was easy to make.  The exhaustion started to kick in at Week Three.  That’s when I would just put my head down on the prep table, just to feel the posture of sleep.  Numbness set in at Week Eight.  Numbness as in the body falls into autopilot and moves of it’s own accord.  At Week Ten, the feet started to hurt chronically, with bunions screaming at every step and soles still tingling as I lay in bed in the morning.

The hardest was the Last Week.  I had mentally pictured the Labor Day weekend as the point where things would slow down significantly.  When business was still thrumming away, I had a hard time building a bridge to find my final reserves and discipline.  I will admit, there were nights when I felt that my discipline could have used some disciplining.

It wasn’t only just cooking that I was doing.  The books still had to be kept current, payroll and other HR issues properly handled, orders made, day-to-day decisions on running the business part demanded my attention.

I came to the realization that no, I cannot do everything.

It was the healthiest decision I made.

I turned over the wine/beverage ordering to my new manager (I finally have a service manager who gets it, who understands what it takes to keep a restaurant orderly and running).  I hired a housekeeper to clean the restaurant for me, because one of my flaws is that I suck at mopping.  My dishwashers took over the schedule and filled in all the gaps, so that I would NOT have to worry about whether or not I would have someone to wash dishes. Anna kept me on track with general ordering, organizing, sanity checks.  She also kept me well-supplied in chocolate.

I found people I could trust, people I could rely on to do what needed to be done, who understood why I was doing what I was doing and who supported me in my decision, people who got behind me and pushed.

Maybe that was the most important lesson of this summer:  learning to let go.

I hope my/our efforts were enough.  We face a tough winter ahead.  The economy is not improving quickly.  Restaurants are still closing with far too much frequency.  The big question  is:  Did we harvest and store enough nuts to get us through the winter?

Will I do this again next summer?  Most likely.  There’s another harvest of hay to be brought in.

I love what I do.  This restaurant is a child whom I will fiercely defend.  We do make a difference in the lives of those who supply us, work for us, dine with us.

It counts.

Come on, you have one.  Everyone does.

Don’t want to admit? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.

I LOVE 1000 ISLAND DRESSING.

There, I said it.

Every now and then, one needs to have a certain kind of food, the kind one might not want to admit liking, the kind one mutters under one’s breath in a noisy crowded room.  Last night I needed to have 1000 Island dressing.

(Yes yes, I can make a fine vinaigrette, and will have any cook candidate make it as part of their interview process.  It tells me about their use of salt, their ability to balance flavors and their grasp of technique.  Trust me, it is harder than it sounds.)

For one hot second, I looked at the clock and wondered if I could make it to the market before nine, Closing Time.  Then Anna and I looked at each other, collectively smacked ourselves upside the head and went “Oh wow, we have everything we need to MAKE 1000 Island dressing, sorry, Wishbone).  Did you hear that thunking noise?

Excitement ensued, almost a joy in making an “illicit” item in this kitchen.  I mean, that’s like the equivalent of me bringing in a can of Spam.  Oh, to live on the dark side for just a little bit.

It was damn good dressing.  Regrettably it was not on iceberg lettuce, but we’ll let that little detail slide this time.

And yeah, I was back at the family dinner table, at least in my mind.

Here’s my recipe:

1 cup BEST FOODS mayonnaise

2 T HEINZ ketchup

2 T SWEET pickle relish

1 T prepared horseradish

Caveat: These measurements are guesstimates….

Mix it up, baby, and you are done!
Yes, you should use the brands I have indicated for the true Nakamura childhood experience, please and thank you.

Enjoy Memory Lane!

When I first started working at a restaurant in Napa Valley back in 1997, one of the things that made it so special was that the proprietor/chef had you come in for a complimentary dinner. He felt it was important for a staff member to get the whole picture of what dining at this restaurant was like.

December 8, 1997 was that special day for me. I had been working there for almost three months, felt reasonably secure in my existence as a cook there, and truth be told, was finally to a point where I was not running on sheer adrenaline/exhaustion mode. I had figured which way was up, and had my feet somewhat planted on the carpet runner (no rubber mats in THIS kitchen). I duly made my reservation and invited a friend to join me.

Whilst making my reservation, I learned that Robert Redford would also be dining at the same restaurant that evening. I asked if it would be at all possible to see him…just see him.

He can wash my hair anytime.

We arrived and were seated. We were happily in the midst of what was already a mind-blowing meal, when my friend, who was facing the dining room, got very quiet. Her eyes were as, what’s that expression, big as saucers. Oh, yes, Robert had arrived. Small detail. I had not told her that Mr. Redford would be sharing air molecules with us that evening. I wanted to surprise her. I think it worked.

The conversation between us came to a standstill. We were intent, instead, on listening to Mr. Redford’s voice, that magical mystical voice. You know, the voice that caresses Meryl Streep on the African plains, the voice that exchanges bravado and goes out swinging with Paul Newman, the voice that has wooed millions of female (and male) hearts for, what, three, four decades. The Voice. Sighhh.

I remember bits and pieces of that meal, like the lamb brains. I recollect the chef/owner towering over me asking me what I didn’t like about the meal (lamb brains). I recall the perfection of the food/service/ambiance.

But the most indelible memory was of Mr. Redford’s voice.

What a first dinner at that very wonderful restaurant!  Thank you, Mr. Redford.