Reflections on Meeting Alice Waters

 

Saturday November 9, 2013 at Union Square Farmer’s Market:

Yesterday, I had a short moment to chat with Alice Waters.  I have long been fascinated with her and I needed to reflect on why.  I have read a couple of books about her life and what she has done at Chez Panisse.  I have visited her storied restaurant, three years ago when George and I were driving up the California coast in late September.  I go to my bookshelf over and over to retrieve her books, most often, Chez Panisse Desserts by Lindsey Shere and revere that book among my most prized possessions.  Yet yesterday, I could not come up with a substantive reason why I was fascinated, to the degree I was/am with the reality of standing before this woman in person.  It’s not that she was born and raised in Chatham, NJ, about 10 minutes away from our house.  She’s ten years older than me so we aren’t exactly contemporaries in any chronological way. Farm, Table, Local, Seasonal – this seemed way too simplistic to explain this phenom.  I was off in pondering………..

Last Monday as I wandered around the late Fall Farmer’s Market I came upon a subtle blackboard staged within the walking zone of the northern edge of Union Square.  It announced that Alice would be there on Saturday for a short two hour stint signing her new book, The Art of Simple Food II.  I had a moment of abject giddiness and set in my mind a commitment to be there.  What had been a lost opportunity to see her in her kitchen became another possibility.  Then, and each and every day between Monday and Saturday I found myself humming “go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall” that Jefferson Airplane druggy song for which I never had an ounce of affinity whatsoever, in my head over and over.

Yesterday after I had left the signing and walked away for my bi-weekly visit to the Broadway Panhandler, I tried to listen to the internal reaction of what had just happened to me.  I waited in a surprisingly short line – well it was 10:45, spent probably less than a minute in a short, basically inane chat with her and walked away from what I was sure was a forgettable time for her.  But, I was like a kid who had just gotten off their favorite ride at Disneyworld.  My life felt different that I had looked upon her, exchanged pleasantries and I felt a deep momentary regret that I hadn’t specified what I had eaten for lunch at Chez Panisse the day I was there three years ago.

When we were in California I had impressed upon George the compelling feelings I had about getting off Highway 1 in Berkeley on the way to the Napa Valley.  George didn’t share my enthusiasm and basically tried to disway me from my goal.  It was immaterial to him whether or not we ever stepped foot in Chez Panisse and for him it was more important that we continue toward our goal to Yountville rather that to traipse  around some old broken down hippie-ville USA from the 1960s.

Berkeley was, in fact an understated if not uninspiring destination from a visual sense.  Let’s just say I was darned lucky that I was in urgent need of a bathroom at the particular time that we were passing by the exit enroute to our next planned destination.  I was sure that George was convinced that nothing could compare to the raw beauty and subtle sophistication of Santa Barbara and was just curious enough about our next ultimate destination to pass by the exit and continue right on going.  Of course my agenda held the powerful undertones as yet unconvincing to George.

In fact, the entire trip to California for me was largely about getting to set foot in a number of legendary food destinations, starting with Shutters in Santa Monica.  Of course my immediate list was just a tiny fraction of those which interested me in my burgeoning and exploding fascination with the food world overall, but this opportunity   was a must do for me.  Somehow, the idea of Alice Waters and Chez Panisse had grown in fascination for me from afar, aka the other coast.  I am sure at the time I could not articulate why I felt this great pull to go there.

When we found a humble looking general store sort of place to use the bathroom I was relieved and set out to find the restaurant.  Once we got there I am sure I was dismayed.  This is Chez Panisse?  The building was a simple craftsman style house with no particular personality and no fanfare whatsoever.  Intriguing.  We were lucky enough to score a table for lunch on the second floor.  Again, total underwhelming surroundings – everything was simple wood, not a lot of color and little of what I’d call personality – I’d call it “plain”.  Immediately though, I was committed to trying to peak into the kitchen and had all I could do to suppress my desire to ask if Alice was in the house lest I appear to be some starstruck groupie from suburban New Jersey with some bazaar, if not suspect fascination with Alice.  But, wait, this was Berkeley – center of the once highly, if not still outwardly off-beat and bazaar and as far from literal-ville as there could be, right?

There are a few places I have been in my life where I have loved to feel my feet attached to the floor or pavement of where I was.  Chez Panisse was one of them.  I sat and read the simple menu.  I felt slightly deflated at the simplicity of the offerings and allowed myself the sacrilegious instant of wondering what all the fuss was about.  After doing the process of elimination thing in my head I settled upon the fried Halibut.  Really, I said to myself, fried fish at Chez Panisse?  A small simple green salad accompanied the dish.  I took my first bite of the halibut and felt like such a fool.  This was at once a simple fried halibut and at the very same time it was a Fried Northern Halibut with Sliced Tomatoes, Fennel Salad and Aioli.  The subtleties of her specificity had completely escaped me.  Here was the spirit of Alice Waters on a plate.  This was her signature simplicity and delectability in one fell swoop.  Bingo!  They got it and I hadn’t.  I inhaled my fish and felt a confirmation inside.  My skepticism had been unadulterated folly.  How could I be such a silly person, I said to myself?

I decided to have the simple plum tart for dessert, all the while wondering where Lindsey Shere was and what she was doing these days.  I knew not who the pastry chef was at this point in time.  Simple perfection was the tart.  Once again the specificity of the menu description had totally escaped me.  This was at once a simple plum tart while at the very same time it was the Frog Hollow Farm Plum Tart with Orange Cream.

Ahhh — A celebration of the freshness that is California fruit at probably the best time of year. Even though we had eaten several meals already along our trek up the coast, this was defining.  This and the fresh fruit eaten out of hand at the Santa Barbara Farmer’s Market.    If I could return and do the exact same meal over and over I would.  And, I learned – that while looking for some outward indication of celebrity-iconic status, I found – that the magic that is Alice Waters is in what is left unsaid, what is left undone and what is unneeded – in her menu, its execution and the humble surroundings in which it all is presented.

And so, we drove away after George snapped a few photos of me smiling out in the front (sorry for the heinous quality below but he mistakenly shot this as a video and I can’t figure out how to freeze frame it).  I had been to Chez Panisse and I wanted a momento of myself along with a copy of the day’s lunch menu , September 28, 2010, shown in my hand, which now hangs, happily, in my kitchen.

But, this was not enough to quench my thirst for some small understanding of Alice. What really went/goes on in her head and takes her to such iconic status?  I carried with me, back to New Jersey, the desire to look at her some day.   And so yesterday as I rounded the corner from the north corner and stepped into line and shared stories with a lady whose daughter had moved from Morristown to San Jose and was now happily ensconced there, I turned to look upon the face of Alice, who had arrived and begun signing 10 minutes early.  I was totally impressed by this one little gesture.   Petite, and unassuming-looking, almost childlike in her features to this day, was my immediate impression, maybe a little uncomfortable in being confronted with all of the people trying to make conversation with her in a 15 second sound bite, Alice pulled her coat up around her neck and shrugged her hat down a little as I approached her.  The contrast of her slight size and gentle demeanor compared to her status in the food world could not have been more apparent and was mesmerizing.   No tall woman of great stature and booming vocals here like a Julia Child, no, no.

I like to look at people and try to get a read on who they are in my first second of instinctive pull.  Who was she?  What did she want to do at this point in her life that she hadn’t already?  Was she still inspired about food as much as she had been in her 20s?  How had her perspective, habits and palate changed?   How and when could I ever have a real conversation with this person and what would I say?  I don’t know, I was just fascinated.  What makes Alice Waters tick I wanted to know.  How does someone so immersed in the counter-culture phenom of the 60s wind up going on book tours  and luncheon dates I am sure she was coerced into by her publisher?  Has she migrated into conventionalism like a lot of people who came of age in the late 60s and indulged in much of the storied activities of the time?  Has she lost the passion of the time and become comfortable in the mid-life simplicities resulting from her success?  What would she articulate as her culinary philosophy beyond the obvious words?  I could think of a million personally intrusive questions I wanted to know the answers to but would never get the chance.  I walked away giddy and returned twice to stand away and just stare at her.  A legend, sitting simply in a chair, sharpie in hand and seemingly, mindlessly signing books for people she didn’t know and would never see again.

Christin tells me she is doing a dinner at Union Square next weekend. If I went, what would I say?  Alice comments to me while signing my books that she has been away from California a lot, seemingly regrettably.  Hence pulling her coat up around her neck.  What does she think of New York and its chefs as compared to her California environs?  I want to know this person, to see into her mind, her sensibility, her ideas about food, her creation of recipes, where they come from, how she does it.   Does she think about food all day and all night,  is she fully instinctive, is food a means to an end, a center for conversation with others who interest her for multitudes of reasons? What role does food really play in her life?  Does she still get down on her knees and tend her lettuces herself?  How often?  Does she still churn around in her head for new ingredients and flavors?  What other Chefs does she really respect?  How does she pick her staff?  What does she eat when she is home alone?

Well, I guess I will never know the answers to all my questions.  But, I can tell you, I identify with Alice Waters.  I think she is remarkable.  I am like a little kid and as I said to Christin, yes, I am a little food groupie about this person.  I would love to encyclopedia-ize all the impulses which ever went through this women’s brain when it comes to food.  Call me crazy. I can’t decide if it’s embarrassing, a sign of a certain personality disorder or dementia or a delightful mid-life bonus  to become a bona fide food groupie at my advanced age.

Wow, what a great day!