Half Grateful
Everybody thinks they can run a restaurant. If you’ve made a bazillion dollars in a rock and roll band, it seems like a sure thing to leverage your fame and your obvious genius by opening an eatery. It doesn’t really work all that often, but people keep trying.
In San Rafael, Phil Lesh, one of the founders of the Grateful Dead, has opened a place called Terrapin Crossroads along the waterfront on the southeast of town. It includes a performance space, where he appears regularly with one of the 3 or 4 bands he is currently involved in, a great idea that feeds customers into the restaurant before and after the shows.
We ate there tonight, and I have two completely different opinions. The food was excellent, the service sucked the big one.
We got there about 6:30, and there were a ton of people lined up outside, but they were in line for a show. The dining room was not crowded, and we were shown to a table promptly.
The building has been there for ages–this is not the first time I’ve eaten in that room, but the first in this incarnation. There doesn’t seem to have been any remodeling–this restaurant looks just like hundreds of others built in the 70’s and 80’s, lots of wood, a vaguely nautical theme, large bar along one side.
The menu is California modern–lots of fish and pastas, plates both small and large, a few salads and a daily soup. The waiter found us, stumbled through the specials and took our order.
Burrata Crostini
Here’s my starter–the burrata crostini. I’ve become a burrata addict, and this was a particularly good presentation. The cheese was spread on warm toast, not some shingle hard piece of stale crust, napped with olive oil and topped with flash fried basil.
My iced tea came, with at least 2 ice cubes. Small ones. I thought I was in Paris. I only had to ask twice to get some sweetener. Gail and Brad had a bottle of wine, and asked for some ice to go with it.
Pappardelle with duck ragu
The entrees came. I love pasta, I love duck, I loved this dish.
My ice tea need refilling. The bus boy brought me a fresh glass, with all tea and no ice whatsoever. I mentioned that it needed ice, so he poured the new glass of tea into my old glass, with it’s tiny pebbles of ice remaining. He promised to return with more ice.
Gail and Brad asked for ice for their wine, again.
Brad wanted a burger.
Why Brad wanted a burger, I have no idea. But he did, so he had one. It was a good burger. The fries were crispy, but they needed catsup. There was no catsup. There was no waiter to ask for any.
I got tired of waiting, got up, went to the bar and got two glasses of ice. I may have mentioned to the bar manager that we had no waiter and no busboy.
Gail and Kate had the salmon, which they both pronounced excellent and finished every scrap. Their plates included Yukon gold potatoes fried in duck fat, sort of a heart attack on a plate. Sadly, there were the weakest link in the entire meal–they seemed to be excessively salty.
Eventually, the waiter reappeared to ask if we wanted dessert. We didn’t. He brought us a check, and I left one of the smaller tips of my life.
This is really sad–I like the food here. I like the things on the menu that I didn’t order, but might order the next time, if next time there should be. But there won’t be a next time, because of the dreadful service.
When the food is bad, you figure the chef isn’t very good and it won’t get better. When the service is bad, you don’t know if it is systemic or just the waiter you had who will be fired next week anyway. So while I think you would have a very good dinner at Terrapin Crossroads, I have no idea if you would have good or bad service.
Eating here is sort of like the denouement of a Dirty Harry movie–“Do you feel lucky?”
Requiem for an Oak tree
The Bancroft Garden Oak tree
The one thing we know for certain in life is that all things must die. A mayfly lives but 1 day, a man live 80 years or so, and an oak tree might live 300 years, but death is inevitable for all of us.
On the ground of the Ruth Bancroft Garden stands an oak that was there when the first Spanish explorers came through in the late 1700’s. It was there when Kit Carson came through the Diablo Valley in the 1830’s, and when Corporal Pacheco got his land grant. It was there when the Bancrofts first planted pears and walnuts, and was already mature 42 years ago when Mrs. Bancroft started her garden.
Now, it is time for that tree to join it’s ancestors. Too much happening, too many people walking on its root structure, too many years of standing tall have taken their toll and the tree is no longer safe–it must be taken down before it falls down.
But this is California, so a ceremony honoring the tree and its history was in order last Sunday.
About 30 of us came together for what can only be considered a funeral for a tree. We sang, we prayed, we burned herbs and banged drums. It might seem strange in Kansas, but it was completely appropriate here.
A bundle of sage was burned.
Rebecca Ynez led the group in a song of praise.
Doc spoke of the history of the native people
We couldn’t form a circle around the tree, so a line was stretched that we could all hold onto as a symbolic connection.
We were connected to the tree, and to each other.
Becky Rice Harrington came out of retirement to speak.
Billie Hopper and Rebecca Ynez
The ceremony lasted perhaps 30 minutes. It was gentle, contemplative and reassuring. Death is a part of the circle of life, and we must accept it. I’m glad the garden took the time and effort to honor this tree rather than just knock it down, and I’m glad I went.
==========
The tree cut down to just its trunk.
That was Sunday. On Monday, I went by to see the result.
A large professional crew came, took down the limbs and then removed the trunk. Many of the large limbs will be saved to be turned into seating and borders for the garden–so the tree will continue to serve.
Amour
Jean-Louis Trintingnant stars in Amour
Writing about a movie you love is easy. Writing about a movie you hate is even easier. Writing about a movie you mostly like but can’t really rave about is the hard one, and that’s where I find myself today. I’ll try to muddle through, but it won’t be easy.
We went to the Albany theater to see Amour, the Academy-Award nominated French film starring Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva. It is a love story, as the comfortable lives of a pair of retired music teachers, Anne and Georges, are destroyed by the wife’s failing health and the husbands unfailing love continues until the very end.
A series of strokes leaves Anne at first unable to walk, then incontinent and unable to communicate. Georges is forced to spend all of his time and emotional energy caring for her, watching in pain as the love of his life deteriorates before him.
The acting is wonderful–two very experienced actors giving wonderful performances. The pace of the movie is slow, very slow. French movies in general move at what might be called a measured pace, and a story of slow deterioration could hardly clip along in any case.
So why was I not crazy about this touching love story? It gets weird. Dream sequences for no reason. An enigmatic ending. Odd questions, like why do two music teachers never have any music playing in their home. Some strange symbolism with a pigeon. I felt like the director wanted to dress up a beautiful simple story with all the film school tchotchkes rather than keep it pure.
So this is a pretty good movie, with marvelous performances in a story we are all afraid we may be living some day. If only I could figure out what happens at the end.
Say hello to Gabby
Or Gizmo. Or Cosmo. Nobody is quite sure yet.
Margaret has a new puppy, a 4 month old chihuahua/ teacup poodle mix. He’s keeping her first love, fourteen year old wiener dog Louie, company while we take their mommy out to dinner.
Dedication
I must like this. It’s Sunday afternoon, I’m sick, Gail’s sick, the Niners are struggling and here I am, typing furiously. Did Hemingway really start this way?
Last weekend, we played in the Regional on Saturday, then hightailed it home (which is decidedly easier due to the 7 pm start. Yet another reason we lose room nights). Sunday morning, we unpacked, repacked, met our friends Jeannie and Bill Ryan and drove to Yosemite.
Both Apple and Google maps say you get to Yosemite by driving to Merced and taking Hwy 140. They’re both wrong, at least in good weather. It’s much faster to go straight out through Manteca and take, oh, YOSEMITE avenue, which becomes Hwy 120, drive directly to the park. The roads might not be well cleared if it’s snowing, but we had clear skies and 40 minutes less travel time.
(And I’m back. Had to go to a funeral for a tree. You’ll read about it in the next post. Meanwhile, the Niners pulled out a win and are going to the Super Bowl. Hurray, I guess.)
One of the great things about going somewhere cold is that I get to dig out my hat. Not just any hat, THE hat. The one I bought in China more than 20 years ago. They told me it was “wolf”, but mangy German Shepherd seems more likely. Gail hates my hat and thinks it is silly looking, but an endless stream of people stop me to tell me how cool it is. To prove her point, Gail put on the hat. What do you think? Silly, or fabulous?
How could anyone not love that hat?
The reason for our trip was to attend one of their famous Chef’s Holidays. They import excellent, noted chefs who provide cooking demonstrations twice a day, then have a fancy gourmet dinner as farewell. There is simply nobody in Yosemite this time of year, and they need to sell some rooms. It’s a pretty perfect solution.
The event is held in the Ahwahnee Lodge, that great temple of American expansionism built in 1927 to bring people to the park. I still think it is one of the most beautiful buildings in the country. We began with a reception the night we arrived.
Jeannie, Gail and Bill inside one of the mammoth fireplaces.
Gail with Chef Brian Streeter, from Cakebread Cellars.
Chef Streeter’s 6 year old son. I just thought he was cute with no front teeth.
Monday dawned clear and frigid. It was cold. Damn cold. Alaska cold. I like that kind of thing. We were staying in the cabins, 75 yards or so from the main hotel. The rooms are a little larger, considerably quieter, and if you reserve far enough in advance you can get a fireplace (but we weren’t that lucky). We had to bundle up to get to the big building, but then I had THE HAT, so how could I be cold?
Cooking demonstration with Jesse Cool, of Flea Street Cafe
The cooking demonstrations were wonderful. Some noted chef comes out and prepares a couple of dishes on the stage with a huge mirror above so you can see everything happening. The woman on the right is tConnie Barney, the emcee of the whole operation, describing what she sees, managing the questions, filling in the gaps and making it all flow flawlessly. I go to learn the techniques and concepts more than any one particular recipe, and came away happy.
Being at the Ahwahnee is like going back in time. There are couches in front of the large fireplaces, and they are filled with people just enjoying a day reading. Of course, half of them have books and half of them have iPads, but that’s the world today.
This is a polite way to say “behave yourself”
After a couple of lazy days of demonstrations, reading and napping, it was time for the gala gourmet dinner, held in the Ahwahnee dining room. I love this room:
Gala dinner in the grand hall
But if you let your mind drift just a bit, it can seem like the 1940’s:
Imagining the room 70 years ago.
It’s just a short step from there to believing you’re there in the days of Calvin Coolidge:
What the Ahwahnee looks like in my mind
On to the dinner. The tables were set with more tableware than I have ever seen–four knives, four forks, 2 dessert spoons, 4 wine glasses and a water glass. There wasn’t much room left, but it made a good first impression:
Jeannie, one of our tablemates. and a whole slew of glassware
Quite a place setting.
The meal started with a beef tartare that was, to me, seriously “over cheffed”–there was so much going on with beets and black garlic ketchup and sorrel and whatnot that it was hard to discern the beef. The meal was designed and prepared by Chef Joey Elenterio, a 27 year old boy wonder who is just stepping up to the big time in San Francisco, and he hasn’t learned that less is sometime more.
Potatao agnolotti
I’m an easy sell for anything that even seems like pasta, so I was predisposed to like this, but I sure wish it had been cooked a bit longer. There’s a line between al dente and just plain undercooked, and these were on the wrong side of it.
Extraordiarily rare salmon.
This salmon is the same dish that Chef Joey demonstrated the day before. His style is to just barely warm the fish through. I asked him what temperature he cooked to, but I noticed that he didn’t answer. Although the color is spectacular, most of the people at our table did not like the fish this raw. The preparation was excellent, but this fish was closer to sashimi than it was to cooked, and that doesn’t go over well.
Duck Breast
Okay, this was the hit. A perfectly cooked slice of duck breast, accompanied by roasted brussels sprouts and walnut puree. None of us had ever had walnut puree before, and it was fascinating.
Finally, the dessert.
Chocolate Soup
When I was a kid, I liked to make chocolate pudding. Just the package stuff, but I loved it, especially when it was still warm. The best part was scraping the pot. Well, that’s what this chocolate soup was like.
Except for the Orange pate de fruit and spicy granola, which were so spicy hot that I couldn’t eat anything after I had a small taste. When you see me handing my dessert to Gail to finish, you know that there is something wrong. A seriously great dish turned into inedible acid–I thought that this was a complete catastrophe.
There was wine with every course, but I don’t drink it so what can I say? We tried to get a glass of port with the dessert, but the waitress wasn’t interested in that idea at all, so I stuck with my iced tea.
Bridge Club temporary location
After a month of disasters, things are looking up for the Bridge Club.
The contractor is working on repairing the damaged walls, then there will be some paint and finally new carpeting.
Of course, we can’t be there while all this is going on, so the club has moved, for two weeks or so, to another building in the same complex.
Here’s the facility map, right where you enter the parking lot:
Where we were, where we will be
The facade of the new building. This is right in front of the complex, just to the right of the sign with the map.
Iris sent around a letter about the move, I think this is the paragraph you need to keep in mind:
There is only one bathroom — don’t drink much liquid during the game, please, and you’ll be okay. There is NO kitchen, and just a small basin where we can draw water to make coffee and tea. There is no dishwasher, no sink, no large refrigerator. We will be using paper hot cups, paper cold cups, paper plates, plastic utensils only. We brought the small refrigerator for soft drinks, and probably that is where we will put the half-n-half. The bridge clock is in the multi-purpose office, storage room, director’s pit, copy room. There is a large window separating this room from the largest playing area, and the clock will be visible through the glass. Directors will be running from one room to another to answer calls, so please be patient with all of us.
We’re camping out. Life will be a little more difficult until this is finished, but them’s the breaks. On the bright side, I don’t think it’s possible to drive a Cadillac into the room.
An Artisan in the house
Dinner last week at Artisan Bistro in Lafayette. No photos this time, because it’s just too darned dark in there. Which is a shame because what I could see of the food was excellent.
We had Gail’s son and his girlfriend with us, and they are vegetarian. That’s not a problem in a good restaurant; they started with a beet salad which I think I might have liked even with the beets, then the mushroom soup and finally segued into the mushroom risotto. Everything was pronounced excellent. This is the real reason I can’t become a vegetarian–it’s apparently impossible without mushrooms.
The key to any great restaurant is the chef, and is exceptionally fortunate to have John Marquez, a Danville boy who grew up and made good, starting his career at Bridges, moving to high end places in Las Vegas, being recruited back to the Bay Area by famed chef Daniel Patterson, moving on to The holy of holys, the French Laundry in Yountville, opening Per Se in New York, back to the French Laundry, back to Daniel Patterson and being chef de cuisine at Coi, then Fringale, now Artisan Bistro. This is a resume to die for, and we are lucky to be able to enjoy his skills.
Back to the dinner. I had the Kubota squash soup, great except for the mushroom topping. Then venison, which I always love. They serve a very generous portion, on carrots and peas. Gail had the John Dory, cooked to soft perfection. By odd coincidence, these are the same dishes we had a couple of weeks ago at the vastly fancier and more expensive Sonoma Mission Inn–only Artisan prepares and serves them much, much better.
We found the service to be the quality you would expect in a 2 star Michelin restaurant, which makes sense since Chef Marquez has been working in the 2 star Coi and the 3 star French Laundry–he knows what should be done and how to do it and how to train his staff.
Having a place like Artisan Bistro here in Lafayette is a treat; you get high quality food and service at local prices and you don’t have to make a reservation months in advance. I recommend you take advantage of our good fortune.
Free money in Monterey
This is what to look for in Costco
If you’re heading down to Monterey this weekend for the regional, and staying at the Portola, be sure to stop by Costco first.
You can buy two $100 gift cards for only $149.99. That’s $50 in your pocket for shopping where you go all the time anyway, and you can buy as many as you need for your stay.
You can buy me a drink anytime.
You can’t like ’em all
I like dance. I like modern ballet, jazz, folk, all kinds of dance.
I’ve seen and enjoyed folk dancing, in particular, in Germany, France, Austria, Kentucky, Cambodia, Indonesia and Vietnam.
Having thus established my multicultural terpsichorean bona fides, I hope you’ll trust me when I say: I did not like Shen Yun, the Chinese performing company I saw in San Jose Saturday night. At least I saw the first act, because we were out of there like a shot at intermission. I had already texted Mike (during the performance) to ask how long I would be in prison for shouting “fire” and running, but he advised against it.
They advertise this as “Chinese Ballet”, but there is no ballet. Plenty of Chinese–this show is really aimed at Chinese people. The program (which is $5, not given to every seatholder), is in Chinese. The announcements before the show are in English and Chinese. The announcements during the show are in English and Chinese. I think they’d be better off to just skip the English and market the show exclusively to native speakers, who would enjoy it better in any case.
The dances all entail a large identically costumed cast twirling around the stage. In most of the scenes, the key part of the costuming is sleeves that are 3 feet too long, draping on the floor when not rapidly spinning around. It’s showy, it just isn’t ballet. Sometimes there are acrobatics, which mostly consist of flying cartwheels. They are also inordinately fond of rapidly taking tiny steps as a means of locomotion.
There is no scenery, but the back of the stage in a very large screen upon which is projected animation. Sometimes there is a character onstage who jumps off a small riser in back into a pit, then magically starts flying on the screen. Sometimes a character flies in on the screen, then jumps up from the pit and joins the cast.
The lighting is non-existent. They just turned on the stage lights and went at it. No spotlight, no lighting cues, no changes.
Between scenes, a couple come out to introduce the next event. A man who looks like he belongs on top of a wedding cake, who announces in English, and a woman in Chinese dress who announces in Chinese. I don’t think they were saying the same thing, because he would tell a joke and get a laugh, but nobody laughed at whatever the woman said.
One becomes accustomed to “no photography” signs, but it was amazing to me that the before the show the ushers were all carrying 3 foot high “no photos” signs, and then there was an announcement in English, then one in Chinese, then the identical announcement again in English and then again in Chinese. I guess they’re really worked up about it, but who the heck cares? Everyone is carrying a cell phone with a camera, and there isn’t a darned thing they can do about it.
During the half we saw, there were two scenes in which a soprano came onstage, accompanied by a grand piano, and sang something. Gail sort of liked it, I thought she was terribly screechy.
In the middle of all the historic folk dancing, there was one narrative scene about a couple on vacation who interject themselves into a Falun Gong protest (they use the name Falun Dafa, but they are the same thing as far as I can research). They are arrested, beaten up and imprisoned by the bad guys, who are wearing shirts with a hammer and sickle on the back. The announcers made a very weak statement about how this is happening today, then let the issue drop. I’m sure that there is a lot more politics here than I understand, but they weren’t there to educate the likes of me. Too bad, that might have been more interesting.
The dances were reputedly from various areas of China, from Mongolia to Tibet. Still, everyone had those long, long sleeves. Quite a coincidence, I should think.
A few of the scenes were narrative, but featured caricatures rather than characterizations. This wasn’t delicate, interpretive art, it was rank buffonery, which would be considered racist if anyone else did it.
The show is put on by the Shen Yun Performing Arts, a New York company with 3 touring troupes and a couple of schools, one in San Francisco. They had tables in the lobby flogging CD’s, books, photos, those $5 programs, and their dance school.
I guess you could say we didn’t like it. Your mileage may vary.
Les Miserables
Anne Hathaway steals the movie as Fantine
The critics haven’t been kind to Les Miserables; it only has a 70 on the tomatometer. They say it’s bloated, histrionic, overdone, and Russell Crowe can’t sing worth a damn. They are right.
Nonetheless, go see it. This is one great movie, and if you aren’t crying at the end you have no soul.
The story you know–Jean Valjean, Javert, Cosette, Fantine, all the usual suspects in Victor Hugo’s epic you read in high school. Or had to read in the original in French 3 in college.
The glory of this is in the execution. The music, of course, is wonderful. Director Tom Hooper broke with tradition and had the actors sing their songs live during the filming, lending an immediacy and presence that is ordinarily lost in movie musicals. Most of the cast are excellent singers, with the noted exception of Crowe, who looks and acts the part, he just sounds bad.
The standout is Anne Hathaway, who I think is a shoo-in for an Academy Award in the role of a lifetime. Thin as actresses are, she lost 25 pounds to play the emaciated Fantine and will rip you heart out with her rendition of I Dreamed a Dream.
Hugh Jackman, as Jean Valjean, is the rock Les Miserables is founded on. His singing is epic, his acting is excellent, he’s good looking, too.
Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter provide brilliant comic relief as M. and Mme. Thenardier, although I had difficulty understanding Carter in her first lyrics.
This is an epic of old: you’ll laugh!!! you’ll cry!!! Mostly cry. It’s a colossal tearjerker, yanking your emotions from pillar to post and back again. I left the auditorium exhausted.
I guess if you never saw Les Miz onstage, don’t like theatrics and have a heart of stone you might not like this film. But that’s 2.175% of the population I don’t care about. Everyone else, go see it.
Totally Unauthorized 