This was the era that Alice’s first book covered. It was a time when people were showing up at the back door with a bag of sorrel, a basket of fraises de bois, a cardboard box of wild mushrooms, some quinces. It was a time for celebrating people, their milestones and other events, with special meals and Patricia Curtan’s beautifully designed letterpress menus. M. F. K. Fisher’s seventieth birthday was celebrated while I was there, each course named for one of her books. One night Mikhail Baryshnikov leapt up the stairs and I was sent out to find vodka, “the highest proof possible,” I was told. Writers came over after giving a reading at Black Oak Books up the street. There were always interesting, exciting, and often famous people in the dining room. In fact Alice and the restaurant knew so many of the customers that dinner felt like a big extended dinner party rather than a meal in a restaurant.
And there were the foods themselves, the foods that had provenance at that time: Amador County lamb, Garrapata trout, Joseph Phelps’s Zinfandel, Laura Chenel’s goat cheese, fresh garlic, and this delicious Provençal olive oil. There was also the odd smell of mesquite charcoal catching fire. A continuous parade of tastes, smells, and flavors marched through the kitchen, all of them new to me and all of them extraordinary. Deutz and Billecart-Salmon champagnes were opened for the kitchen at the end of the night. Sometimes customers sent a glass of some exquisite Burgundy or old Bordeaux back to the kitchen to sip. There was always wine to taste. Recalling all those swirls and sips I wish I could do it over again now that I have a better grasp of wine. I’d love to know what it was exactly that I got to taste. I do know that it was nothing like the wines I grew up drinking at home, and of course there was no wine at Zen Center.
I worked with Lindsey for quite a few months making countless tart shells, trying to get that almond tart utterly smooth on top, turning out her divine chocolate cake along with crème anglaise, ice creams, sorbets, compotes, bombes for birthdays, and other Chez Panisse desserts, including the tarte tatin I had asked her about when we walked through the fields at Green Gulch. At first I was so nervous that I could be looking right at a flat of eggs and not see them when she asked me to pick them up and do something with them. It was as if I had holes in my eyes. It was nerves. But Lindsey was so patient and kind that eventually I regained my vision and learned enough to be able to take her place while she and her husband, Charles, went to Europe for six weeks. I loved the seemingly simple but often exotic, aromatic desserts that typified Lindsey’s style. I always think of her as a most subtle and exquisite cook, and to be able to work with her and learn from her was one of the big blessings in my life.
That first year at Chez Panisse was a heady, dazzling experience for someone who had come to it straight from the Zen Center’s vegetarian trenches. Since all I had in the way of experience were the minor skills I had accumulated on my own, I couldn’t make nearly the contribution to the kitchen that the kitchen made to me. I still carry a debt of gratitude to Chez Panisse, especially to Lindsey and Chef Jean-Pierre Moullé for their patience and the kind acceptance given to a rank beginner.
Despite her many talents, it was Alice’s spirit of generosity that touched me most deeply at the time. Not just that she was generous in making a place for me at Chez Panisse and seeing that I tasted everything—and got paid—but that she embodied a spirit of plenty, that there was always enough. It was the opposite of what I had grown up with, that sense of insufficiency, that there was never enough. At Chez Panisse there was never holding back. If something ran out, there was something better to take its place. There was always room for another party in the dining room, another diner at the table. Probably the hardest lesson for me was to see the world as full. Alice was the perfect person for me to meet at that time, for she saw abundance in the world, had an outpouring of confidence, gave gifts of beauty, including the possibilities we needed to imagine rearranging the world so that everyone could enjoy its plenty.
How did I go from Chez Panisse back to Zen Center each day? I don’t recall a difficulty. I was still a Zen student and still sitting every morning. And I was young and had a lot of energy. It’s just that I had this job across the bay. And as for my family, my parents once came to the restaurant for a Valentine’s Day dinner. I had a gift certificate I could use for them so they didn’t have to worry about the cost. They were very stiff and uncomfortable. But my sister, Jamie, ended up working as a waitress at Chez Panisse for a few years, and we both always eat there when we’re in Berkeley together.
A TRIP TO FRANCE
After a year at Chez Panisse had passed it was summer again and Alice and others from the restaurant were planning a trip to France in October. Alice invited me to meet her there, and it was finally time for me to see France for myself. I sold my tea ceremony equipment so I could buy a ticket and one day, quite terrified, I boarded a Freddie Laker flight to London. There I met up with Peter Overton and his wife, Susan. Peter was the large, affable head baker of the Tassajara Bread Bakery and we had coordinated our trips partially with the purpose of sampling pastry and maybe getting ideas for the bakery. We took the boat to Calais, then the train to Paris. Of course it was unbelievably thrilling to be in Paris. I was there, it was Paris, and it was simply the most beautiful city I had ever seen.
We checked into our hotel, changed, then left to find dinner. A little café not too far away looked friendly and attractive, and we went in. The menu didn’t read quite like I had expected a French menu to read, but then, it was our first meal. When our dinner arrived I was surprised to find that it actually resembled the food I had cooked at Zen Center. There was some sort of vegetable quiche with a thick crust, a trustworthy vegetable soup, a ponderous dessert, but a very good salad. I was simultaneously relieved, disappointed, and confused. Shouldn’t it have been a lot better than this, in spite of the fact this food tasted wholesome? All made sense when we discovered that we had wandered into a macrobiotic restaurant, “the only one in Paris,” the waiter proudly told us. Counterculture food in France, it turned out, was pretty much like it was at home: healthy but clumsy. Except for our learning this, that meal seemed like a wasted opportunity.
Peter and I were interested in bakeries, while Susan was interested in textiles, so we went our separate ways during the day. Essentially Peter and I crisscrossed the streets of Paris to sample a tart in this bakery, an éclair in another. This was research and it was a dessert eater’s dream. Crêpe stands offered the relief of savory tastes when the sweet ones got overwhelming. Then it was back to the bakeries.
Among the many pastries we sampled, there was one that stood out above all others, and that was the apple tart at Poilâne on Rue Cherche-Midi. We had been told about it beforehand so we were looking forward to trying it, but when we saw the tart, it looked very unpromising and every bit as unglamorous as our first dinner had been. It didn’t seem to be much more than a piece of brown pastry with some shriveled-looking apples on it. No cream, no caramel, not even powdered sugar. It was extremely plain.
Not feeling too optimistic, we bought a medium-size one and took it to a nearby park, set it on a bench, untied the string, and unfolded the paper. We each broke off a piece and took a bite, then we looked at each other. Was this not the very best thing either of us had ever eaten? We ate in silence and when it was gone, we searched around the papers, our clothing, and even the bench, picking up every flake of shattered pastry with moistened fingertips until there was not a shard left. I was sure that if Peter could master nothing other than this one tart, he could do away with the lemon bars, poppy seed cakes, brownies, and all the other now common sweets back at the bakery.
It was probably too early for such a radical offering, one whose goodness was based entirely on the quality of the apples, the flour, butter, the flaky layers of pastry, and their smoldering stay in a wood-fired oven. But today it is possible. I think of Kathleen Weber, a baker in Petaluma, California, who also baked in a wood-fired he
arth oven. She and her crew at Della Fattoria produced some memorable breads and pastries. She baked an awesome loaf seasoned with rough salt, Meyer lemon, and rosemary that grew just feet from the ovens. Among her own exquisite pastries were a small polenta cake and a wicked peanut butter cookie—two cookies, actually, the classic design molded not by forks but by fingers, the halves fused with an ethereal peanut butter cream. As with Poilâne’s apple tart, my fingers searched for every stray crumb before calling it quits on one of Kathleen’s breads, cookies, or polenta cake. And she could have made such an apple tart if she wanted to.
After we finished the tart, Peter and I went right back to Poilâne’s for another, and this time we met with Lionel, the owner and baker, and his father, then a very old man. We sat with him under a chandelier made out of bread dough and looked through his vast collection of postcards from admirers and fans. Then Lionel showed us the oven, the little shriveled apples from his family’s land with which the tart was made, and a handful of flour, which was not as white as ours. Lionel encouraged Peter in his baking, then we watched the balletic movements of the bakers maneuvering their long bread-laden peels around one another in and out of the fire.
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In the evenings we three met up and walked around looking at the city. On one of these walks we were in the vicinity of the Sorbonne and I figured that one of the university buildings had a restroom. I went off to find it. As I entered the stall I saw a hundred-franc note floating in the toilet. The rate of the franc against the dollar at that time only added to my amazement at seeing one hundred francs. I wondered if this could be a part of a French version of Candid Camera, but decided that it wasn’t. I picked the bill out of the toilet, washed it off, and blotted it dry. Was there someone around, who might have dropped it? There was no one. Outside, I showed it to Peter and Susan and suggested that we use it for a nonmacrobiotic dinner.
This idea coincided nicely with our visit to Chartres. The cathedral was immediately recognizable, but I hadn’t expected to see it soaring in the distance above wheat fields, the way a grain elevator rises above the American prairies. After hours of touring the cathedral in the chilly autumn air we found a tiny restaurant with lace curtains on the windows and a fireplace with a small fire burning. We ate pork cooked with prunes, one of those dishes I knew from my French cookbooks and therefore had to try, a chicory salad, and for dessert goat cheese with a slice of walnut bread. The cheese was placed in a small copper pot and set beside the fire to warm. Once the waiter brought it to our table, we spread the warm cheese over the thin pieces of bread and washed it down with the last of our wine. It was a thoroughly enjoyable meal, made even better by the knowledge that it was a gift of found money. But when we went to pay, the money was gone. We looked everywhere; no one had it. It had disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.
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After a few more pastry-intensive days in Paris, I left Peter and Susan and took the train to Marseilles, where I eventually found Alice, who was drinking a bowl of coffee in a café on the quay. There were a number of other people from Berkeley and we all went to Bandol to visit Lucien and Lulu Peyraud, bringing twelve bottles of California Zinfandel.
Bandol Tempier and Lulu Peyraud are well known today. The house has been photographed for books and magazines; the wines are now available well outside of Provence and Berkeley. The family, especially Lulu, has been immortalized in Richard Olney’s book Lulu’s Provençal Table. But in 1978, Bandol Tempier was more Alice and Kermit’s discovery.
At a bakery we bought enormous fougasses that looked like giant ladders. Alice cooked dinner outdoors and we feasted at a long table under the grape arbor. I have a picture of that party. Richard Olney was there, as was Nathalie Waag, who lived in Provence but who sometimes came to Berkeley and cooked at Chez Panisse. Later her sons did the same. The Peyraud family occupied quite a few seats. Therese Shere, one of Lindsey and Charles’s daughters, was there, and there were others. We drank all those bottles of Zinfandel, then after dinner, Lucien took us into the caves and we sampled every wine back to 1961. Before we went to bed, Lulu offered everyone a bowl of garlic and herb soup to drink. Nathalie and I accepted the offer, then fell into our shared bed. The next morning we awoke feeling fresh and fine, but those who had passed on the soup were not so buoyant. I’ve been a big believer in aïgo bouido ever since, not only for hangovers but also for colds and fluish feelings. This thin broth of garlic, sage, thyme, and water is a powerful drink. It’s one we served often at Greens in the winter, with the addition of pillows of dumplings or potatoes.
After a few days with Alice and friends, Therese and I took the train to Lyon to eat at Troisgros, the three-star restaurant that everyone was talking about then. Of course it was stunning food, the kind of food that’s meant to awe, and I was duly impressed by it all, especially by a plate of venison with a sauce made from wild bilberries. It was a woodsy dish that had its own intrinsic logic; it tasted as if the deer had been eating the same berries that we were, and the whole dish was the flavor of the forest. Since then, I’ve had a similar feeling when eating bison that was raised by my friend Hugh Fitzsimons in south Texas. A bite of this noble animal and you feel that you are eating the land and sky, grass and flowers of that southwestern rangeland. It is one of the most deeply nourishing foods I’ve ever encountered.
After that meal I worked my way up to Normandy, sampling regional foods along the way, a hugely gratifying experience, as it always is when one finally eats the dishes one has only read about—and in their place. Even today I am surprised, no matter how good a version of Greek food I’ve had in the States, or how delicious a Moroccan tagine might be when cooked from an authentic recipe, that food is always different when you encounter it on its own turf. Everything is—the size of the portion, how it’s served, where it comes in a meal, the smells of the place, the weather, whether it’s meant to be shared or not, if it was delivered on a bicycle or served in a luxurious restaurant. Then of course there are the ingredients themselves. The taste of food in situ is always different from our interpretations.
I ended my trip with lunch of fish, fennel, and truffles in Paris at Ledoyen, a gift from Chez Panisse, then flew to London to meet up with Peter and Susan. There were problems at the airport and planes were delayed for hours. We learned that our mayor, Harvey Milk, had just been murdered by a man who blamed this horrid behavior on Twinkies. We were sad, out of money, and hungry. None of us had a credit card. We started digging through pockets to see what we could put together and one of us unearthed a bill that was neatly folded into a tiny square. It was the hundred-franc note we had intended for our meal at Chartres and we were very glad to see it. The coffee and airport sandwiches that it bought weren’t exactly a French meal, but we were grateful for them. In fact, they tasted quite good. Hunger will do that.
15. Starting Greens
I returned from this first trip to France dazed, inspired, and laden with bottles of walnut oil for Alice. It was then that I learned about the plan for Zen Center to open a restaurant. I had heard some murmurings about this before, but that was all. Suddenly there was a possible venue and a restaurant might just be more than a vague idea. I also found out from the abbot that I would be the chef and I immediately became a bundle of nerves, a state that persisted for the next few years. Why would I be the chef? Probably because I was the one most interested in food at Zen Center. I had worked at Chez Panisse and I had been to France, with the abbot’s blessing. Still, I did not feel at all qualified to do this.
San Francisco’s Fort Mason had recently been turned over to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area (GGNRA), and this wartime waterfront collection of wharfs and warehouses would soon house more peaceful endeavors, such as art and theater groups.
Situated next to the marina, across from the Marina Green, in view of the Golden Gate Bridge and with acres of
parking, Fort Mason was a rare property. Had it landed in private hands, it would surely have become the site of luxury apartments. Fortunately, the enormous old buildings were to remain, along with the name, and Fort Mason would come to take on a new life as one of the most animated places for theater, art, and big events in San Francisco. But then it was lacking an important element, a restaurant. And one was wanted and needed.
The challenge for restaurateurs who might have wanted to open a restaurant at Fort Mason was that they were not legitimate nonprofit organizations with a 501(c)(3). And even though many restaurants often don’t make profits, they certainly hope to and when they don’t that doesn’t make them legitimate nonprofit organizations, only broke and out of business sooner than later. Zen Center, however, was a nonprofit organization and for years our summer visitors to Tassajara, many of whom were from the Bay Area, had been asking if we would open a restaurant in San Francisco. Zen Center’s abbot certainly thought we could and he wasn’t afraid to think big.
Building A, which would house Greens, ran along the westernmost edge of Fort Mason, faced the marina, and overlooked the water. The melodic twang of sailboat riggings sounded continually as the boats bobbed outside the glass wall of the building, and there was that perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge, where the sun set each evening. Or there would be if the floor were raised a few feet. Clearly this would be the dining room. The building had good possibilities, but the cavernous space, having housed enormous chunks of industrial machinery for the past forty years, reeked of old machine oil. A great deal of iron would have to be moved before a restaurant could be built, and that floor would have to be raised if people were to enjoy looking at the boats, the Marina Green, and the bridge while lingering over their meals. Carving a restaurant out of this old space was an enormous project for Zen Center. Not only did it take a lot of money, but it also took all the carpenters, builders, and other talented students away from whatever else they were doing in the community to convert this old warehouse to the sleek restaurant that would eventually be known as Greens.
An Onion in My Pocket Page 14