Gastronomia at La Villa Poppi

An October Friday night on Twenty-Second Street at Bartlett in the Mission District is teaming with activity: people shuffling by to get to a show at the Make Out Room, or couples, arm in arm, strolling in the brisk evening air. Cigarette smoke, car fumes and other funky odors assault my senses. Music and cars rumbling by permeate the street scene, followed by the occasional loud laughing and talking, both in English and in Spanish.

My fatigued feet bring me to La Villa Poppi, a congenial Tuscan-style Italian restaurant. I gaze at the façade for a moment. Am I in the city of San Francisco, restaurant Mecca of the Left Coast, or am I in a small town somewhere in northwest Italy? Perhaps near Sienna or Florence? I peer longingly into the large window, where I witness, between the halfway parted curtains, a softly lit glow illuminating the few diners. I feel like heaven is opening before me, so that my palate might at last witness a culinary Rapture. I spot an unoccupied deuce near the tiny kitchen. As I step in, I immediately feel a smile form: the aromas titillate my nostrils. In the background, dinner jazz soothes its way into the small dining room, creating an atmosphere for intimate dining intentions. Several mes to their foods (or to anything, for that matter)? Well, I am not about to debate the issue at this time. Leave that to the trivial pursuit types. Anyway, the wines have been carefully selected, so who am I to argue with the chef? I take a sip, and a burst of citrus flavor fizzes playfully on my tongue. I savor every spoonful of the delicious soup, taking comfort in its warmth.

I look around the dining room and I become mesmerized by a precise and private moment in time: a beautiful, brown haired woman facing me a few tables away is grossly engaged in a conversation with her dining companion. I watch how the light from the candle on their table dances and flickers off her smooth facial skin. She occasionally nods in agreement, or she tilts her head and laughs softly, lightly, or she stops talking in order to swallow a forkful of nourishment. I am intrigued by this scenario, yet I am not embarrassed. No, I do not want to intrude or catch her eye; I only want to observe from a distance, without her being aware of my innocuous voyeurism. I need not know anymore about her—except to hold that moment in my memory. It is all part of my experience at La Villa Poppi.

Second Course
I await the next course with anticipation: Gnocchi alla Zucca. Tasting those little housemade potato-pasta dumplings reminds me that I am eating pillows of floury sweetness, on a neatly-made bed of bittersweet pumpkin sauce. I chew deliberately, slowly, like a Zen Buddhist, mindfully pausing in contemplation between spoonfuls to be at One with the gnocchi. How sublime! The accompanying red, from Venato, is a medium-bodied, dry Boscaini Santo Stefano Ripasso, ’95, gratifyingly paired with the gnocchi!

Third Course
Another glass of wine is brought to the table. This time I drink the Baudana Langhe Chardonnay from Piemonte, to go along with the third course. I am treated with a Risotto Nero con Calamari, a fennel-scented squid-ink risotto, with the squid simmered in white wine, garlic and onion. After ingesting this delicate dish, it inspires me to paint on the rim of the oval plate—with the little bit of squid-ink left—the word ‘wonder!’ (exclamation point included). I enthusiastically ask the server to show it to the chef. He is affably amused by my spontaneous folly.

Fourth Course
Now, Formaggi Assortiti, the assorted cheese selection from Italy. I taste the il pastore, kasseri, and gorgonzola. All are heavenly and I especially enjoy the wine chosen for this course: a lovely red Venturini Amarone della Valpolicella, ’96; also from Veneto. This full-bodied grape fermentation coats my tongue and the caverns in my mouth with such nectar-like excitement, that I can only think that Bacchus and his cortege of satyrs, syleni, and bacchantes, would no doubt be envious of my position.

Fifth Course
At last, il dolci—the dessert course. Is there no end to this dégustation? I can hardly stand it! A small plate is ceremoniously placed in front of me. Ah, the Spuma di Ciocciolata! This airy, delicate chocolate mousse with a sweetened whip cream would do well to propel me to new heights, and were it not for the addition of the dessert wine, Ca del Monte Recioto della Valpolicella, ’96, I fear that I may yet meet my Creator. Although my face feels flushed, I feel no discomfort; I am not full in the sense that I have overeaten. Rather, I am reassuringly satiated, and I await the ascension to heaven, where glorious gastronomic gates open for souls, like myself, that I might at last saunter through with a full belly, a warmed heart, and the sweet breath of wine wafting from my red lips. This evening is almost too much to bear! Tearfully, I stand up, wobbling a bit, and demand effusively: "Where is the master? Where is the chef? I must hug him and then tell him that I am ready to die now, because I truly have had my Last Supper!"

I am reminded of a French songwriter and poet of various table songs—a denizen of the literary and gastronomic circles—from the eighteenth century whose philosophy can be summed up in a verse which forms a kind of epitaph:

"Je veux que la mort me frappe
Au mileu d’un grand repas,
Qu’on m’enterre sous la nappe
Entre quatre large plats,
Et que sur ma tombe on mette
Cette courte inscription:
‘Ci-gît le premier poète
Mort d’une indigestion.’"


"I pray that death may strike me
In the middle of a large meal.
I wish to be buried under the tablecloth
Between four large dishes,
And I desire that this short inscription
Should be engraved on my tombstone:
‘Here lies the first poet
Ever to die from indigestion’."

I look around the dining room again. Most of the guests have left, and I realize that my dinner is coming to a close. With a profuse showering of gratitude to the chef and his staff, I leave the nurturing nest and venture out into the world with renewed vigor, taking an evening constitution before I retire to my home. Ah, La Villa Poppi. A magical tapestry of sensual stimulation! I am walking on air, not as an angel who has fallen to Earth, but rather, as one who has brought a piece of heaven within my Being, near my belly. I walk slowly through the bustling Mission streets. I smile to myself, for I am struck with the words of Charles T. Copeland that sum up, in a choice phrase, my dining quest:
"To eat is human; to digest, divine."

From Soil to Table: Part 3

An Historical Snippet of the Farmers’ Market:
Farmers’ Markets have become, over the centuries, a viable center for people to come together to buy and sell goods. Traditionally, these markets bridged the gap between the farmer and the people interested in getting their food directly from the those who produced it, through bartering or trading. And you can trade all kinds of commodities: vegetables and fruit, cheese, livestock, soap, clothing, furniture, and just about anything else that can be produced. Farmers’ Markets also bring together communities, whereby the local farmers help to massage the local economy. And when many are gathered, not only are commodities exchanged, but so are ideas, gossip and fellowship.

A Day at the Civic Center Farmers’ Market:
Back in ’92, when I was the chef at the Parkside Café in Stinson Beach, I would, with religious fervor, get up at 6 AM on Thursdays, and drive my Toyota pick-up over Mt. Tamalpias, to get to the Farmers’ Market, a tented community of nomadic vendors, held in the vast parking lots of the San Rafael Civic Center (next to Highway 101) from 8 AM to 1PM, on Thursdays and Sundays.


With a wad of cash, I would pack the back of my pick-up with nearly a week’s worth of fresh produce. Over the course of 2 or 3 hours, I would buy produce, talk with growers about growing a certain kind of vegetable for me, chat with other colleagues who were doing the same thing I was, and hang around and talk to people about the state of affairs in the world, or exchange recipes, or sit down and have a coffee and something to eat. Since I no longer work at a restaurant where I would shop in large quantities, I don’t go as often as I used to, however, I do shop for myself or for my personal chef clients, and sometimes I just like to hang out and talk with folks! I have met some extraordinary people—both vendors and buyers—at this market, and I am blessed to have them as friends to this day. A few of them—and by no means are they the only ones—have touched my life in ways I would have never expected. I have realized the importance of establishing a sense of community, by going to the Farmers’ Market. Indeed, over the years a great proliferation of farmers’ markets have mushroomed all over the San Francisco Bay Area. From the Ferry Plaza in San Francisco to the markets in Napa and Sonoma, to the markets in Berkeley and Oakland, to the markets in San Mateo and Palo Alto, people are recognizing the need for more freshly available organic produce, as a way to maintain good health and vitality. I have found, through talking with people at the market, that they are increasingly concerned with the way our food supply is being treated with all kinds of chemicals, preservatives, and so on, not to mention the GMO (Genetically Modified Organisms) laced foods.
It is comforting for me to know that more and more people are coming back to the old ways of community gatherings—through the farmers’ markets.

From Soil to Table: Part 2

This entry is dedicated to my remarkable friend Simon Henderson, who died earlier this year of liver failure. As gifted comedian, songwriter, poet, humanitarian, Bamboo Man (my endearment for Simon), was a permaculturalist specializing in the utilization of bamboo in a design concept. He was one of the instructors at the Montana course.


At the end of May, 2000, I embarked upon a most challenging and exciting journey in my life: preparing 3-squares a day during a 3-week for 22 students & instructors on the Blackfeet Nation rez in Browning, Montana. I got more than what I bargained for….

A few months earlier, I was approached by permaculture instructor Farmer Dave from the CSA, Our Farm (see above entry) to become involved with his latest project. As a certified permaculturalist (yes, it’s a legitimate word) who learned the design concept from Bill Mollison himself, Farmer Dave was authorized to teach the tenets of permaculture to students, either on Our Farm, or at another location. This time, Farmer Dave informed me, Browning, Montana (12 miles east of Glacial National Park) was to be the latest spot to teach the course, and to not only some of the members of the Blackfeet Nation, but to people from around the country, and Mexico.

Farmer Dave had an open dialogue with the Blackfeet Medicine Man, Wilburt Fish, a visionary among his people. They both discussed how the applications of permaculture would benefit their people. For a start, creating a viable design concept in the arid plains of western Montana would be quite a challenge, to say the least. Coupled with the desperate and depressing energy that was awash in Browning, where many of the Blackfeet were just getting by.

I was intrigued and excited by the idea of giving back to the community, especially the Native Americans, who have had a most difficult time since they were pushed out of their lands and placed, for the most part, in undesirably-located reservations. Government subsidies, in terms of food, have provided the various Native nations with a feeble attempt to "take care" of these people. Permaculture, as Farmer Dave and Wilburt decided, would be a first step toward self-reliance and to lessen the dependency from government subsidies through the established practices of permaculture.

(As a side note of interest, the prairie grass that dominated the Plains, used to grow to 4 feet in height. Now, due to erosion, cattle farming and a lack of buffalo, the grass is barely a stubble. Dramatically changing part of an ecosystem can effect the whole: For instance, buffalo, as opposed to cattle, have cloven hooves, which create "wells" in the ground as they walk or run, where water and grass seed collect together to. Combined with manure and photosynthesis, the buffalo became a "volunteer" roaming tiller and fertilizer! Cattle, on the other hand, have flat hooves, which level the ground, and eat a lot of grass! Cattle were originally ate from shrubs and bushes, until people changed their eating habits.)

So, I gave notice to the family for whom I was cooking, and prepared myself for the experience in Montana.

The following is an excerpt from my journal in June 2000:

East Glacier Park
Saturday, May 27th, 2000:
East Glacier Park is a tiny town at the gateway to the majestic Glacier National Park. A large resort lodge, built in 1912 and open only in the summer, is just a stone’s throw away from the quaint little train station. As we detrained, we were greeted by sunshine, fresh air and…the powerful wind I had heard about from Farmer Dave! The wind blows through the Marias Pass in G.N.P., which creates a funnel-like affect across the prairie plains.

I walked down to the country store where I called Wilburt Fish, our ambassador and medicine man of the Blackfeet, about getting picked up and taken to our destination in Browning, twelve miles east. My eyebrows raised as I was told that he was not to return until six that evening. I asked if someone was going to pick us up. The person on the other end didn’t have any idea.

Uh-oh. Not good.

Greg and I had a mini pow-wow: we had to hitch a ride to Browning, since we didn’t know anyone in the area, and Dave was en route with equipment and passengers. I stuck my thumb out on the highway and after a few minutes, a blond-haired woman in a mini-van pulled up and asked me if I was with the "permaculture group!" Yes, I said. Alright! Greg, who had been donning warmer clothing, and I clambered in with our gear, and our driver, Mary Clare Weather Wax, took us to her home, on a satellite community outside of the center of Browning. Off to the west, we could see the majestic snow-capped crowns of G.N.P.

We met Calvin Weatherwax, Mary Clare’s husband, who was laying down on the couch. He had just come off a four day fast, so he wasn’t too sociable at that moment. Understandable. When he woke up in the late afternoon, we met A.J. (Arthur) Weather Wax, the seventeen year old son. We dropped our stuff and caught up on some our lost slumber.

The Ceremonial Sing:
That evening, around six, we were invited to participate in a ceremonial "sing" at the Browning Community College. This ceremony was to honor one of the Blackfeet Elders, Buster Yellow Kidney, who had just passed away. Calvin added that nearly twenty Elders passed on throughout the month of May! That’s quite astounding!

The first order of business was to set up the area at one end of the lodge where bright colored cloths were draped over a wooden branch beam, which was held up by a tripod of branches and rope. (I was asked to tie the rope to the three branches.) A buffalo hide lay in front of the hanging fabric, and the ceremonial pipes were carefully unwrapped and displayed. While this preparation was occurring, men, women and children were greeting and laughing with each other. I sensed how easy these people joke with each other. Occasionally, a few people came up and shook our hands. (As an aside, I noticed that when a Blackfeet shakes your hand, it is a light, yet powerful hand movement lasting a couple of seconds and without the lingering embrace. I have shaken hands with people who’s grip is so light, that it almost feels "fishy." Others grip my hands as if they were exercise squeeze balls. Ouch! I find that when people attempt to crush my hands (and I have large, powerful ones), that there is a superficial show of strength, as if to cover up any embarrassing weakness within. I got the sense that the Blackfeet I shook hands with have an inner strength that isn’t openly flaunted.)

Women sat on one side of the room, while the men sat on the opposite side. The center of the room was set up for the feast, which was prepared by various families. To the left of the stage area, several men sat in a small "sing" circle, with the Elders sitting against the wall and facing the room.

Eventually, we started the ceremony with a bowl of service berry soup, a traditional Blackfeet delicacy. Before we ate the soup, we all took a service berry from the soup and held it in front of us. We prayed to the Spirit for guidance, for health, for our loved ones, for each other. One of the women came by with an empty bowl and we dropped the berry into it. Now, we ate the soup! Some of the women plated and served the rest of the food to everyone in the room. After the meal, the ceremonial pipes were lit with a special blend of herbs and tobacco and passed around for smoking. In Blackfeet tradition, there are pipes that only men use, as well as pipes for just the women. The tobacco is not inhaled; rather, the Blackfeet exhale the smoke into their hand, and then spread the smoke over the head and body. If you didn’t want to smoke, you could take the pipe and tap the stem on the right shoulder, then the left, and with the stem facing skyward, and resting on the forehead, a prayer may be uttered. The pipes are treated with extreme care and respect—pipe ceremonies are an important part of Blackfeet culture. Two of the Blackfeet constantly tended to the pipes: cleaning them, refilling with tobacco, and one other person was responsible for lighting them.

After awhile, some of the Blackfeet brought up colored cloths, like the ones hanging on the wooden bar, to be blessed by the tribe. I need to back up a bit here and give just a little history of the Sun Dance ceremony.

A Little History of the Sun Dance:

The Sun Dance is one of the most important ceremonies to the Blackfeet. Their religious life centers upon medicine bundles which were individually owned and originated from a supernatural experience. This is like a vision quest, where in days of old, the adolescent warrior went to a remote area and fasted until he had a vision. He would be given a war song or dance by a guardian spirit and be told of the magical amulets (such as feathers, birds’ beaks, or stones) that should be worn to give him power. Most failed and didn’t have a vision, in which case they would buy a bundle and its ritual. Individual bundles acquired much respect and gave its owner prestige, especially those associated with war such as headdresses and shields.

Elizabeth Atwood Lawrence, in "Animal Symbolism in Plains Indian Sun Dance," writes the following about the Sun Dance ceremony:

"Each year around the beginning of summer the separate wintering bands would gather to observe the Sun Dance. The buffalo, considered the very source of life and the major symbol of the Sun Dance, influenced the time a and locality of the ceremony, which were chosen by the proximity of the buffalo herds. The overall importance of the Sun Dance was the renewal of personal spirituality as well as the renewal of the living earth, a time when kinships within both social and natural realms were reaffirmed; and by doing so prosperity and social harmony would be extended for another year."

Lawrence continues:

"After moving the camp on four successive days, the medicine bundle of the ceremony, the Sun Dance lodge, was built on the fifth day. It was here the people gathered, though only a few men actually participated. They strove to obtain supernatural aid and enhance their personal power through sacrifice in order to become a more meaningful member of their society. The sacrifice required the participants to dance for three or four days while fasting and abstaining from drink. Skewers that pierced the skin and muscles of the men were used as part of the self torture and they performed such feats as hanging from the ceiling of the lodge by the skewers. This self-inflicted pain reflected their desire to return something of themselves to nature in exchange for past and future benefits."


"The Creation was expressed in the Sun Dance by the use of symbolic objects that represented the attributes of various animal kin. Animals were viewed as wise and powerful and served as intermediaries between humans and the supernatural forces. The eagle was chief of all creatures in the air and respected for his wisdom and wealth. The life sustaining buffalo was the central figure. Its’ tongue, considered the most sacred part, was consumed as a sacramental food during the ceremony and its’ skull was used to express the theme of rebirth as bone was presumed to be where the soul resided. The Sun Dance was an important part in reconciliation of killing the buffalo, which violates the kinship between animal and man. After the conclusion of the ceremony the lodge was abandoned and all animal objects left inside so they could return to the earth. This symbolized the renewal of the living and emphasized the necessity of human cooperation in order to bring about universal regeneration." [Lawrence, 1996]

By the way, in 1904, the U.S. government banned the Sun Dance because of the self torture and mutilation it involved. However, the practice still occurs, in a somewhat altered form.

Ok, back to the sing: Many Blackfeet came from out of town and a few of them sat in the circle with the Elders. They were dressing very sharply in cowboy outfits: jeans, button-down shirts, boots, colorful Indian vests and cowboy hats. (In the lodge, most people took off their 20th century footwear and exchanged them for traditional beaded moccasins during the sing.)

After everyone had eaten, and the blessings of the cloths had taken place, it was now time for the singing part of the evening. A few of the Blackfeet took a bundled up buffalo hide and rolled it, along with wooden sticks, toward the seated circle. The hide was unrolled and laid on the floor, skin-side up. Several people sat around the hide and with the sticks, started drumming on the hide. Each of the participants in the circle told their story and then sang four chants, in which the people in the circle beat the hide and chanted along. It was quite a moving experience! I have never heard such hauntingly beautiful singing before. This sing went on for hours, until 4:30 in the morning! I don’t know how Greg and I managed to stay awake and focused, especially since we didn’t sleep well for the two nights we were on the train. We were delighted, however, to be observers of this Blackfeet sing.

From Soil to Table: Part 1

For the longest time, I have always wanted a garden to grow my own food. My interests in cooking with produce invariably led me to how it was grown. I have been a proponent of various natural and organic agricultural growing practices. The following are just a few examples of what can be done to create a more viable, non-toxic and supportive environment on this blue globe:

• Biodynamic preparations:
  The Austrian, Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925), was a philosopher, a mystic, a scientist, an educator (founded the Waldorf schooling) and an agriculturalist. This remarkable man was way ahead of his time and many people have adopted his innovative and non-traditional methods of growing. (See Josephine Porter Institute for further details). John Jeavon's seminal opus: How to Grow More Vegetables, currently in its 5th edition is a good read on B-D Prep. Also, I recommend Secrets of the Soil by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird, (authors of The Secret Life of Plants) who have outlined the efforts of Steiner and others in their determination to make the world a better place to grow food.
  

• Community Supported Agriculture (CSA):
  Local farmers grow seasonal produce for the community. People interested in supporting CSAs do so by becoming food-sharers. Food-sharers are charged an amount of money (or by trade/ barter) in exchange for a weekly box of fresh-picked, seasonal and organically grown produce. For 3 years, I used to belong to Our Farm, a CSA in Woodside, California. Alas, it is no longer active, as the farmer in charge wasn't able to afford the high rent. It's too bad, because it really worked. I wrote recipes and food tips in the newsletter that was stuffed with the veggies for my weekly box. I came up with some innovative creations!
  Check your local listings for the closest CSA near you. Support these farmers, for they are the last vestiges of a dying way of living and profession.
  

• Permaculture:
  When you hear people use words like "gray water", "methane digester", "swales", and the ethical basis of "Care of the Earth"—what they are most likely talking about is Permaculture. The word permaculture is a contraction of the words "permanent" and "agriculture" coined and copyrighted in 1976 by the founders of the design concept, Australians Bill Mollison and David Holmgren. In the words of Bill himself, he states in his tome, Permaculture: A Designers' Manual, the following succinct definition of permaculture:

"Permaculture...is the conscious design and maintenance of agriculturally productive ecosystems which have the diversity, stability, and resilience of natural ecosystems. It is the harmonious integration of landscape and people providing their food, energy, shelter, and other material and non-material needs in a sustainable way. Without permanent agriculture there is no possibility of a stable social order.
Permaculture design is a system of assembling conceptual, material, and strategic components in a pattern which functions to benefit in all its forms.
The philosophy behind permaculture is one of working with, rather than against, nature; of protracted and thoughtful observation rather than protracted and thoughtless action; of looking at systems in all their functions, rather than asking only one yield of them; and of allowing systems to demonstrate their own evolutions."



For further info on permaculture, see this website here for the Australian institute, or this website here for an American institute, or google "permaculture" for more on the subject.

East of Eden Revisited

Having lived in San Francisco for most of the time I have been in the Bay Area, I have lived in only a few spaces where gardening was possible. The weather in the City isn't always conducive to growing, say, tomatoes, due to the cool and foggy climate. The fact that the City is mostly surrounded by 50 degree water, and combined with a high pressure system of hot air (in the summer, that is) coming from the center of the state, and you have lots of fog.

However, just 13 or so miles north of the City, in Marin County, is a different story. The temperature in the summer jumps from 10 to 20 degrees hotter than San Francisco. For the past 4 years, I have rented Garden Plot #9 from the Terra Linda Community Center, a 450 square plot (15 x 30 feet) where I have lovingly grown my own organic produce and utilize some of the practices I shared in Part 1, including the one thing I didn’t mention: soil remineralization. This is simply incorporating "rock dust" or "stone meal"—essentially finely crushed igneous rock which has chock full of rare earth and trace minerals—to the soil for optimum growth. It works like this: If the soil doesn’t have all the minerals it needs, then the plant doesn’t get it, and thus, the consumer doesn’t get it. Get it?

Rock dust use is peppered around the world, especially in Europe. Normally, major agricultural practices only use a small handful of the 70-plus minerals needed, usually Nitrogen, Potassium, and Phosphate (N-K-P). Why don’t these huge corporations use rock dust? Well, follow the money trail and you will most likely find that companies manufacturing fertilizers, pesticides and herbicides make big bucks. Never mind that if plants are at their optimum health, through the use of rock dust, that they become less resistant to pests and disease, which attack unhealthy plants or parts of plants. Taste a tomato grown with rock dust, and you will be blown away! Then taste a tomato grown using standard methods. Notice a difference? Organic farmers are becoming more "hep" to soil remineralization. It is well worth the cost when you see that not only does it amend the soil, but it is completely natural and non-toxic!
(A note about organic foods: just because it means that foods aren’t sprayed with pesticides and herbicides, doesn’t necessarily mean that rock dust was used. Still, it’s a step in the right direction.)

Bringing It Down to Basics

As a personal chef, I also take advantage of my produce by making them part of my menus when I cook for my appreciative clients. Each year, I look forward to a bountiful harvest of whatever I decide to plant: corn, heirloom tomatoes, squash, beans, carrots, lettuces, and herbs. Oh, and the 15-foot long boysenberry bush that fruits in a short window of time during June.

Last year, however, was not been a great year for my tomatoes. They were subject to wilt, and therefore the harvest was sketchy. Also, some of the gardens (there are 62 plots in all) were raided by rats, who love to nibble on the tomatoes and corn. Gophers are a problem, but they can easily be taken care of. My friend, Master Composter Dave, who has a plot next to mine, and is a vetran of the garden for over 25 years, has come up with the unique and natural solution to solving the rat problem: Dave has constructed numerous water-proof cylindrical structures—about 4 feet long, and 2.5 feet in diameter—to be hung in the trees above the gardens for the owls to come and live, and of course, feed on the rats. This ingenious idea has taken on momentum. Several farmers (from the San Rafael Farmers' Market) and gardeners are commissioning Dave to build more of these "owl condos."