Living in the shadows of "Mother Nature"

In the hip and modern area ironically named "Old Town" Pasadena, amidst the big named designer retail stores and saturation of restaurants, cafes and bistros lies a little gem living in the shadows poking its head trying to get noticed. I being in culinary school was looking for some lunch one Monday afternoon. I looked and looked and all I saw was restaurants. "That will took too long" I thought. I walked a little more and saw a café. "That's too expensive" I snickered and continued my search for the perfect lunch food for a poor culinary student. I felt like Goldilocks looking for that perfect porridge. As I stand waiting for the light to turn green and criss cross my way diagonally to the other side of the street I noticed a dull muted color, wooden sign of the beaten path as they say, that read “Father Nature”. I walked towards it thinking maybe it was some sort of yoga studio I didn’t know about. “How convenient” I thought “right next to my school”. As I walk closer to the almost disappeared sign I noticed it wasn’t a yoga studio at all it was a Wrap Place. Like a little kid waiting in line for ice cream I excitedly ran towards the dare I say café and walked in. I slowly walked in not sure what I was going to expect. One foot slowly in front of the other I looked around as If I had discovered unchartered territories. The café was simple, demure and fresh in its style. Wooden chairs and tables filled the space. The inside of the café really had no charm at all. I was pretty sure I saw a “Target “style 9.99 wall clock hanging proudly next to a "Los Angeles Times" review on the wall. Not very much to hold your attention but an awkward tall and hairy gentleman with a thick black moustache that resembled “Borat” from Kazakhstan standing in front of an 80’s style cash register and what might have been his mother Mrs. “Borat” from Kazakhstan with a smile the size of the I-40 across her face and large, thick dark rimmed, coke bottle glasses that slipped off her bedewed nose every time she looked down. I was all by myself in this little café and like in an elevator looking up at the numbers so as to avoid any sort of awkward greeting or conversation I smiled and quickly looked up at the menu. They both stared at me as I curiously began to take a gander at what was soon going to become my meal.

It took me a second to figure out what I was in the mood for. For such a small and tasteless place there were a lot of tasteful things to chose from, like the black bean hummus, Neptune’s Catch their signature tuna salad wrapped in homemade lavash bread and their “Gourmet Wraps” that consisted of “The Turkey Burger Wrap” which sounded appetizing to me because I love a good old fashioned turkey burger but a Wrap? “Brilliant” I thought as I began to narrow down my decision. With so many fresh and flavorful ingredients like fresh house tubule, parsley and pickled turnip my mouth salivated with the idea of all those guilt free items on one menu that I couldn’t make a decision as quickly as I thought. Then like a ton of bricks it hit me I saw it!! I’ll have “The Father Nature”, of course, why didn’t I see that amongst all the delectable and savory Mediterranean items? As if my stomach was yanking at me saying “get that get that” I couldn’t help but want to taste the goodness that is “The Father Nature”, boneless skinless chicken cooked on a vertical broiler, wrapped in fresh lavash bread with homemade garlic sauce and hummus, fresh romaine lettuce, tomato, onion, parsley and pickled turnip. Nowhere else in Pasadena are you going to find such fresh and simple items. “I’ll have The Father Nature please” Mrs. Borat looked up at me, slipped her glasses back on her nose and said to me in a very thick Middle Eastern accent “awwww goot choice”. Clearly picking their signature dish was the way to go for my first time at this little hole in the wall. Almost as if choreographed she began to make my wrap. As she added each ingredient and placed every item with care I could tell even with my culinary knowledge still in the state of infancy that this was going to be an experience. She wrapped my lunch in tin foil and stuck it in a brown paper bag, taking me back to a time when my mom used to wrap my lunch in paper bags only in this memory I was on a sandy Mediterranean beach wearing nothing but a sarong and running to the nearest bit of shade to enjoy my wrap. As Mrs. Borat handed me the bag Borat Jr. broke his awkwardness and smiled and said "Enjoy", and like in my memory I ran to the nearest bit of shade which was four walls and a desk to enjoy what soon became an everyday ritual.

As I walk toward the train...

It's kind of a methaphor I guess when I say "as I walk to the train" Litterally and figuratively. I wake up in the morning about 7 am I lay there a for a good half hour, and with one eye half way open I reach for my inhaler, I give a good strong squeeze to let out the chemical spray that is going to open up my lungs like a new born baby taking his first breath of fresh air. I then grab for my brand new BlackBerry by this time my one eye is fully open and ready to get to work. Like a one eyed pirate I look to see that I have a TON of messages from last nights debauchery, and since I dont drink anymore and am focusing all my attention on school I have been missing out on all of the social events happening around town. So I make sure I let my social circle let me know whats going on, like a play by play in the last quarter of the Super Bowl. So and so fell with drink still in hand, So and so is making out with what's his name from that one movie and so on and so forth. I get a kick out of hearing all the goings on, its entertaining to hear it these days and not "be" it per se. I finally finish my last text message back to my friends and get up out of bed. In my own head I begin a ritual that is some what militaristic. I take a shower, put on my school uniform. My ugly Bob's Big Boy checkered pants, my heavy steel toe construction style kitchen shoes that are so heavy I can market them as weights for your legs and promote strength and agility and reverse the signs of atrophy in an age of indolence. I then roll up my freshly pressed neckerchief, put it on with care just like any lawyer or banker would, the "Windosor" yes, the Windsor knot. My crisp gleeming white chef coat shrouds my body as if I'm putting on my armor for a battle, or in this case a battle in the kitchen.

I look in the mirror and try and pep myself up to have a day filled with knowledge and give it my all, as I lean in the mirror I notice a slight indention near my right eye, almost crease looking. "Eh its a pillow mark" I thought. As I leaned in closer I began to unwrinkle the "crease" as if my face was an unironed shirt, as if my stretching out the wrinkle in my face was gonna smooth it out. To no avail, I take a deep breath and give up. That is no pillow wrinkle that is a natural, mother earth, ozone layer wrinkle. I quickly remember seeing a commercial on television selling this "wonder cream" the cream of all creams or should I say this fountain of youth in a bottle. I gave in and bought it for such an occasion. I knew one day this was going to happen; and it did. This was the moment I wasn't waiting for. I opened the small container with this magical potion of youth, creamy white and silky with a slight scent of ambrosia fruit salad, how a' propos I thought nectar of the gods. As in the commercial I used my ring finger, god forbid I use my index finger, the most used finger on the hand, the finger with the srongest muscles. I was told by what I like to call a "youth whore" (def: a person that is obsessed with being young and will go to great measures to stay young) to use my ring finger because its the least used finger on the hand, the muscles are undeveloped as if it was a tenderloin on a beef rack? I never thought of it that way? This one finger was supposed to place the cream on my face in such a gentle way as to not disrupt the cream and let it go to work. So here I am a 33 year old culinary student, ring finger in my face trying to stay young one morning at a time.

As I walk out the door to start my day I close the door behind me, as I like to see it, shutting my life behind me and taking one more step to becoming the culinarian I so longed to be. With my poor underdeveloped ring finger throbbing from the strenouous activity I had just put it through I put on my ear phones and turn on my "walkman" or as the kids call it these days the ipod. Such a funny little gadget the ipod? No need for lugging around tapes or CD's in a fanny pac anymore. Just "download" some songs on this device and away you go, any type of music at your fingertips! How novel.

My Self-Full filling Prophecy

The phone rings loudly as I finish my last down dog and sun salutation. I snap out of my Zen like state to regroup my thoughts and put on my masks, one that is “Sammy” and I mean that in the most Jungian way, and one that is made of herbs and petrified grains found in ancient Aztec ruins, ground to a fine powder and activated it with a couple tablespoons of apple cider vinegar. I smear it on my face as I knew the person on the other line can talk for days; I figure kill two birds with one stone. I insert my Bluetooth headset and focus my zen like energy on what is going to be a long winded conversation or so I thought. As I run the water in my Jacuzzi bath tub to cleanse away any impurities my body migt have excreted in my practice, I am told to put on my “careless” best so as to not look like I am trying too hard to look good. God forbid I look like I’m trying to pass as a person who cared to much what I look like. I had just been put on a VIP list to sit at the chefs table at the new restaurant opening event that our celebrity friend had just invested money in. I, of course being in my twenties and in the height of my superficially driven, idealistic phase my mission and goal was to not only maintain and keep my stature in a circle incredibly hard to penetrate but also to “secretly” try the food before “everyone” else did so as to bring it up in conversation purposely in a social setting and made sure everyone at the table knew that I had already not only met the chef, ate his food but was assured that the chef and I were “tight”. If you’re not picking up what I’m putting down, my goal here it to be envied by those with a goal to be envied as well. That was the game.
As I look in the mirror and put on the finishing touches to an outfit that took me two hours to put together, just to make it look like I always look like this, like I just threw it on. I get a text that my car is waiting for me outside. I walk into a cloud of designer cologne because putting it on directly, I might run the risk of being compared to a Persian taxi driver and not be let in to the restaurant at all. I couldn’t afford the embarrassment, so a light mist was sufficient. I arrive to the carnival and paparazzi madness that is ensuing outside of the restaurant. I look in the midnight tinted town car windows for last looks before the door opens and flash burns our freshly masked faces on our way into the restaurant. I look over at the lines to get in and make sure that everyone in line knows that “I” don’t have to wait in line and can get right in.

A I enter the restaurant I am transfixed by the pure excitement of the place. Waiters running feverishly trying to get their barrings, hostesses awkwardly gawking at celebrities when they should be trying to figure out ourtable situation. Lights dimmly lit so as to hide the faces ever so of the people inside enjoying a night or celebrity gawking. Customary at these establishments is to stop what you are doing and look towards the entrance of the restaurant when someone walks in the door to see if it's someone worth looking at or making a big to do to invite them to our table. Night after night thereis a new club openening, a new bar and or club. Being a socialite has its perks but it also has it downfalls.

This one particular night I sat at a table with a group of friends that I had always sat with, same exhausting mundane and insipid converstaion that really had nothing worth spending the evening talking about. It was a circle almost routine, I knew what came next afetr the sharing of who was wearing what and how much money they spent on the piece of string they called a dress and the guys whipering in each others ear and comparing otes who was a better lay Lohan or Paris Hilton. I of course sat bored trying to yake my self to a place in my head that made me get through the night at these stale and boring events. That was reading the menu.

I drowned out the sounds of this saxaphone cacaphony of sound like the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons and would beggin to read the menu with detail. The Canapes consisted of a burrata with pequillo peppers and a garlic crostini, the frog legs with a bbq coulis. I thought frog legs? Is it cool or is it gross? I was caught in a social debate within myself? I wasn't sure if ordering frogs legs was in the rule book at this socially concious table of friends? But I couldn't help but imagine the taste of the frog legs with a nice dry white wine, my mouth salivated just thinking about the moment the two would swim synergisticly together in my mouth. I took a chance and it came my turn to order the first course. "I'll have the frog legs with the bbq coulis please to start". Silence fell around my table like the type of silence you experience right before the tornado rips through your living room on a humid summer day in Kansas. I gulped in fright. Had I made a faux pas? Had I compleatly ruined my reputation of ordering what everyone else ordered, pommes frites with a garlic aioli? Sweat beads falling ever so down my face like Iron Eyes Cody in a "Keep America Clean" commercial. I took a deep breath looked around the table and made a stance "YES, I will be having the frogs legs"

As the waitress waked away there was somewhat of an awkward silence at the table. A whiper here and what I call the awkward sip, that's when something awkward happens at the table the first thing one does to break the awkwardness is they go for the glass as if the sip of the glass is going to make everyoe forget how awkward the moment was. So I sat there watching the "awkward sip" and I gave in I sipped along with them. I sat quietlt thinking how is it possible that frog legs were such a taboo item to order as a first course? How avant garde of me, I felt like such a libertine. I smiled at the decision I had made. It was as liberating as burning your bra in the sixties to make the point that I didn't have to be like everyone else and comform, I wanted frog legs and I oprder frog legs and here was nothing they could do about it and I didn't care!!

As the wine was being poured at the table I could see my hot sauteed frogs legs in the window. My mouth watered in anticipation. The waitress brought the plates one by one. Down went the pommes frites with aioli, then the bruschetta on toasted french bread, the beef carpaccio with a chive pancake...then came my frog legs. Slowly it was placed infront of my face like a cinematic exclamation, my company's head turned toward my frogs legs. They arrived just as I had imagined, juicy, and drizzled ever so with a satin like bbq sauce with herbs and aromatic spices carried over to the states via camel or tug boat, how romantic I thought.

As I sit excitedly in my plush Victorian wing chair, staring at these lucious appendages, steam rising up my face like my spa experience earlier that day sans Helenka my Russian esthetician.
I pick up my utensils and I notice my company slowly turning their heads and waiting in anticipation for my first bite of these tender morsels of goodness. As I cut into the first leg this savory juice falls out of the tender meat and rolls into the sauce, creating an unintentional fusion of flavors. I swirl the meat around in the sauce and just when I think I have just enough sauce smothering the meat I slowly bring it up to my mouth and look away as if in my own world, forgetting anyone else was around. I put the meat in my mouth and at the very moment of contact a sort of genesis happens, the birth to what is becoming a revelation in my life. My sensories had gone into a whirlwind. Have I stumbled upon a new path? Have I opened a new door to what is become my future? I fevereshly cut and prepared my next bite. I was lost in a world of smell, taste and color as if I had been lost in an unknown world after being dropped off by a tornado and accidently killing a witch and looking for a city made of emeralds.

Just then I look over at the swinging kitchen doors to see the chef peeking out the circular window, waiting for reactions from his honored guests. We locked eyes and slyly give him a thumbs up. The doors fling open and out comes the slightly rotund, middle aged, jovial chef the kinds you see in Humphrey Bogart movies, French accent and all. "You like?" he asked in a sort of insecure tone. I couldn't get the proper words to describe how delectible and savvory the frog legs were. My mouth was full and all I could do was nod and smile. He stood up in excitement and brought his hands together in gratitude and shook them vigurously as if he had just won an Oscar. As if I had the last say in critiquing his frog legs. Who was I? Why did he care so much to why I liked his frog legs or not? "Curious" I whispered in his ear, "Why do you care so much that I like your frog legs? I'm just a wanna be actor with his daddys credit card, I know nothing of food?" He earnestly replied in his thick French accent "Iz becoz no one has ever ogderegd zee Cuisses de grenouille"

Before I get started I'd like to say a few things...

First off I by NO means consider myself a "STUD" and I wanted to lay that right out!! Wah ha happen wuz!! I was trying to figure out a name to call my blog and it was supposed to say "The day in the life of a 30 year old CULINARY STUDENT" but how the universe works in my world which you will no doubt see by my adventures day to day if you so decide to stick around and read my shit!? Anyhow, I digress, I was gonna put student but I "accidently" pressed enter and just decided to keep the title as at the moment my ego needed to be stroked so I did it myself.



I am a culinary student on a mission to bring back the "Gentleman" I feel that part of our masculinity has been lost with Beer, Football and dare I say "Bitches?" a term I cannot stand!! When did that happen anyway? Bitch was a word that my mother used when she got real upset. That woman NEVER cussed so to her that was her way to let out that internal, visceral feeling of anger she had at the moment and like a tea kettle on the stove she would boil to the point where the word "BITCH" flung out of her mouth like a beebee gun on christmas morning.



What I'm trying to get at is my mission for becoming a "Culinarian" as it were is to be able to bring back the art of CHIVALRY. What ever happened to that? I was raised to disappear when adults were confabulating, to open the doors for a lady, to place my napkin gently on the lap and last but not least to groom? I know it seems foreign in an age when flashing your posterior regions decorated by the latest fashion in mens unmentionables or in this case bellow.



I know you're thinking Culinary and Chivalry? How do they go hand in hand? Well I have a theory! If being a gentleman is having decorum what better way to start but at the dinner table. The snake pit of manners. Manners were practically invented for the dinner table setting. Having social graces and showing them off is an art form.



I believe that if I learn to cook I can teach men or in this case "gentlemen" to take the time and learn how to create atmosphere? To learn how to set a table? and dare I say it, cook a meal that'll make you want to slap your grandmother?

Well that is my missionto create the perfect gentleman, who's with me!!

My Observation in “PEOPLE”

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."
— Marilyn Monroe
A quote I remember by the late Marilyn Monroe. Those words were use to describe herself as a human being. I am a retired actor and through my studies I learned to observe the human and their behavior. When I sit in the train sometimes it gives me time to think and just let my mind rests a little before I go to school. My mind tends to be a voyeur in some ways. I judge people and make assumptions in my head. People will be themselves when no one is looking or in this case when they think no one is looking.

This morning on my way to school I had the opportunity to observe a man in detail without having him see me. It was wonderful. This man came on the train and sat in front of me. His beige wrinkle-free khakis weren’t so wrinkle free. His potentially ironed shirt was questionably tucked in to his khakis fastened too tightly with a braided leather belt. His socks surprisingly were matching argyle socks however the elastic wash shot and they ran around his ankles. Occasionally he would interrupt his cell phone conversation to pull up his right sock just to have it fall a few moments later. I noticed a shiny gold wedding band, very simple and demure almost feminine. He was nervous it seemed, as he played with it twirling it around and around on his very manicured hand. Occasionally he would run that manicured hand through his uncoiffed hair. I chuckled a little it reminded me of a movie I watch when I was younger “Back to the future” he looked like the professor made famous by actor Christopher Lloyd.

As I kept observing his appearance I noticed his behavior was quite frazzled, as if he had a little one too many cups off coffee this morning. Upon making that observation I noticed a coffee stain on his wrinkled periwinkle shirt. I noticed he tried to clean it because there was a ring of moisture that surrounded the stain as if he had gotten a Tide stick and tried to clean it off before he got to his destination. He carried on his arm a ratty leather brown “man bag” that contained what seemed to be a prehistoric computer the size of my grandmothers microwave. In the bag also contained a plethora of unorganized papers that seemed to have no rhyme or reason.

I continued to be transfixed by this man and his morning that I locked my stare on to his and I think he could feel me looking at me as he looked over slowly and winked and smiled. I quickly turned and broke the awkward stare. I think he thought I was making advances. Nonetheless he was a human being having a morning and I quietly thanked him in my head for letting me observe him.