Family Sunday Dinner

Okay, so we aren't exactly Italian. Right now I am reading Blood, Bones and Butter, by Gabrielle Hamilton and if I am ever to have a crush on an author - on her way with words and sentence structure - then, this is it.

Trying to save money somewhere in my life, I have been checking out newly released books at the Santa Monica library. I reserved BB&B at the library. After a few weeks of waiting, it was my turn to checked it out. On the back of my hard copy, Mario Batali wrote a review of her book:

"Gabrielle Hamilton has changed the potential and raised the bar for all books about eating and cooking. Her nearly rabid love for all real food experience and her completely vulnerable, unprotected yet pure point of view unveils itself in both truth and inspiration. I will read this book to my children and then burn all the books I have written for pretending to be anything even close to this. After that I will apply for the dishwasher job at Prune to learn from my new queen."

Batali's review made me laugh, reminding me of my first job in New York at his restaurant, Babbo. Mario is smart, cutting, articulate, and possibly part genius (if you use the term liberally like I do). I worked at Babbo just after it received it's three-star rating from the New York Times. I had been in New York less than one week when I was hired, and my experience there has shaped me in countless ways that I could not possibly recognize at the time. Ultimately, after two rounds of working at Babbo as a "backwaiter" (aka: busboy, busgirl or bus person - whatever) and "food runner," I was fired by a manager whom I secretly called Semifreddo, which means "half cold" in Italian. This word refers to a class of semi-frozen desserts, typically ice-cream cakes, semi-frozen custards, and certain fruit tarts. Babbo serves a Pistachio and Chocolate Semifreddo. It was one of the most often ordered desserts that I frequently ran up the double-flight of stairs to the foodies, celebrities and "bridge and tunnels" (an industry name for people from New Jersey who make the pilgrimage into the city for a Saturday night meal). Semifreddo amply summed up my manager's demeanor.

When I got fired from Babbo, it was just before my shift. I think it was at 3:15 in the afternoon, sometime in June of 2001. I was elated at the time. On my way home, I stopped at a vintage thrift store and bought a dress to wear in Italy at my dear friend's wedding. On that summer afternoon, I didn't realize that this work place, which I had grown to detest, had silently yet tightly clenched hold of my spirit in a way I would later come to appreciate and to reflect upon with fondness despite the sore muscles, ego and bank account I endured during my employment there.

On the topic of getting fired: I believed that Mario Batali didn't know that I had been fired, because somehow I was convinced that he respected me as one of the girls who was strong enough to handle the steaming hot plates, which burned my skin when I carried them out of his swinging kitchen door. And if the plates were steaming, the sarcasm from the his hot line was scathing. Most of the girls who were hired to "run food" wound up, mid shift, drying their eyes with pressed white linen napkins, kneeling down near the espresso machine and hot tea boxes. I too, was scared of the demeaning commentary which was verbally served as a side dish to the bowls of beef-cheek ravioli and whole roasted goat, but mostly I was awed by the theatrics of Babbo and the caliber of food being plated. Looking back, I realize that Batali's "family meals," which were often accompanied by his lessons on obscure ingredients and historical/geographical tidbits about the regions of Italy, were - on so many levels- an education that I could never come by in college.

Hamilton's book traveled with me for two weeks and then it became overdue. I was reading each page at the pace one might slow-braise an entire baby calf. I had to return the book in as to not pay for it in the form of a hefty overdue fine. (I exchanged BB&B from Tina Fey's Bossypants, which did make me chuckle, but even still, I found myself checking my email to see if the library had sent me notification that BB&B was waiting for me on the "reserved shelf.") Sorry Tina!

I am pleased to announce that the book is back in my possession, the book has returned to me and I am at the part where Hamilton is about to start her restaurant, Prune. Her restaurant opened when I was living in NYC, and I never ate there because I didn't really eat out (unless you count my free "shift meals" as eating out, which I sort of do). Prune served and still does serve an amazing brunch, but I have yet to try it since I usually worked the brunch shift at 'ino. Prune's food was talked about by chefs and foodies alike. And because it was adorable inside (Yes, I have peaked through the window numerous times), I felt that Hamilton had blown all the meat-and-lardo-lovin' boys out of the water. Hamilton was my hero.

At the time when Prune opened, I was living with the sous chef of Lupa, and working at Jason Denton's 'ino in the Village. People around me lived for meat - more simply put: any animal that could be cured, stuffed into intestinebased casing, aged to perfection, then thinly sliced, and served delicately with Italian wine - as it was a tactile symbol of all that is purely Italian. On a hot summer afternoon in the city, sharing a carafe of wine, some olives and a plate of this meat with fine company is the most tangible way to transport oneself into a bucolic Italian postcard.

At this point, I have stopped carrying BB&B around with me. I want to read it from home, where I can focus. So, on my way to the nail salon, I picked up Bon Appetite magazine and was tickled pink (Prune Pink) to discover that the editor had mentioned BB&B in his opening note. Then, he went on to say that Hamilton had written an essay titled "Blood Bones and Baked Eggplant." I was in the midst of a mani-pedi when I read Hamilton's article. Again, I savored every word and my crush on her grew exponentially. Before the end of the "pedi" part of my treatment, I had ripped out the essay, folded in quarters and slipped it in my purse.

Later that night, tucked into my covers with the fan blowing, an "ocean sounds" tape playing, and retainers in place, I read a passage in which Hamilton describes her realization regarding one of her "mentors." The passage moved me because it eloquently stated that you do not always recognize who is influencing you until you reach a point in your life when you actuality reflect on that experience shared with that particular person. (Now, if you are interested, this passage appears in the last two paragraphs of page 111. I would be happy to type them out if you would like, but I do fear this is becoming a long blog.)

I started to think about my life in New York in my early twenties. Although I would have spit at the suggestion that I was in someway being "mentored," I have no problem admitting NOW, that those experiences did influence me. Hamilton's book has inspired me to write more often, more honestly and toward publication. She has also - in the same way one of those Match-Lite tools easily lite a camp fire - reignited my interest to work in the realm of food. But, sadly that's where this spark stop as I am not sure which realm I desire since I do not want to be a food server or restaurant manager. I want my own thing, but that thing has not taken shape. I long to be back in some space where I am, unbeknownst to myself, being squished and stretched like a piece of puddy into something I can't possible recognize in the midst of the process.

The family meals that Hamilton mentions in her essay in the Bon Appetite are something I, too, share a version of with my own family. Only, my family gets ingredients from places places like, ugh, let's say ... Costco and Trader Joe's - not from an exchange with neighbors who own an organic farms. We also do have rituals - ridiculous rituals like heating of the jacuzzi and throwing balls at loved ones as they jump off the diving board. Last week we officially named the game "Two Balls" and we are looking forward to another round. My grandmother comes over, but not with ragged apron stings and a cooking agenda. She wears comfy sweaters and lose pants (sometimes a cute vest or a cat pin). She enters the front door with a small box of empty Tupperware, and my mom makes sure she takes home leftovers so that she does not have to worry about cooking for the next meal or two. Clearly, we are not Italian. We are Californian. We have wine, but it's a random medley of Charles Shaw and a few already-opened bottles that we have pulled from our fridges because we needed "just a glass" the night before.

Enough with my ramblings: Here's to family gatherings in whatever shape they take. Let's hold our glasses high to the mentors that influence us - even when we are blinded by their magical shaping methods.