I’ve been called a foodie, but I reject the label. The silly, diminutive word that rhymes with cootie, moody and booty, and brings to mind a crazed weeble wobble with a chomping mouth, has little to do with the purposeful centrality of the culinary arts in my life. We feed ourselves every day, and rather than view this necessity as the onerous task of refueling, I’ve come to enjoy the process of growing, preparing and consuming my vittles. It’s not fancy; it’s just good living.

There were plenty of alfalfa fields and dairy cows where I grew up, but there was just one restaurant within a few miles of my childhood home, called The Farm Restaurant, and the only thing I remember eating there was spaghetti and meatballs, presumably fresh from the farm. I didn’t taste a pomegranate until I was of legal drinking age, and I’d eaten sushi just once before leaving for college. The quail egg on the sea urchin was a memorable deep dive. The three Fire Island restaurants, where I worked in my teens, did nothing to ignite a love of food. They were money- making machines with a beach-captive audience and no reason to be peddling real quality fare. And there was little joy in those kitchens. I can still hear the prep cook at the Island Mermaid chopping frozen squid: “More fucking calamari, every fucking day!”

At twenty-one, I moved to California and got a job bussing tables at Chez Panisse. This was a different scene: fresh ingredients, health insurance, smiling cooks...all new! And real hospitality - a sense of dignity and pride in providing a nourishing and delicious meal. This was not the great swindle I’d been party to back east; this was good dining. Not fine dining, but very, very good. In addition to bussing, I also worked stocking the wine room and became interested in what was inside the bottles. Soon, I was buying mixed cases of wine from the restaurant, bringing them home to share with friends over meals that were nothing special, but getting better.

Now nearly fifty, I’ve learned some kitchen tricks. I can ‘turn’ a potato, French-wise, to make a seven-sided, little football, and I can supreme a blood orange into delectable, pith-less chunks, but what I most like to do is to sit and eat and drink with friends, and, I needn’t tell you all, this activity has been curtailed of late. I’m looking forward to a shared meal when I’m not wearing my quilted Carhart jumpsuit and clutching frozen silver. Heat lamps have never been my jam. I am really excited about going out to eat again, unafraid, in comfort, and with some style. Soon, we can start drinking magnums again. Nothing fancy, just good living.

Cheers,

Max