A quick note on change: It ain't easy. The year just past presented more than a little in the way of this, profound life changes to be sure. We've all seen them, dealt with them. "It's part of life", as they say. Maybe the only constant. Still, this past calendar tested me, made me earn it.
So it was a couple of weeks back that I dragged a friend out to the fringe of San Francisco, to a quiet residential neighborhood known primarily for it's preserved "little boxes", perfect examples of the mid-century modern signature work of architect Henry Doelger. Joe's of Westlake, true to all the lines and angles of the surrounding neighborhood, along with heaping plates of Italian food was soon to close. Already full 15 minutes after it's 11:30 opening, the lines we're said to have begun an hour before. Squeezing in to the packed bar, Steve greeted me like a true pro, shook my hand, took my order of Manhattans Up, and spat out without hesitation the bar (Harry's on Fillmore) where I'd poured drinks some 25 years earlier. The cool bourbon struck a note just shy of noon, appropriate for a send-off. Packed like 9:00 on a Friday night, nearly everyone with cocktail in hand, Mad Men would have been proud of the booze being lifted to mouth.
Somehow despite the hour quote, we were soon called to the podium, a preferred corner of the counter was available. We pulled ourselves away from the warm and inclusive group, handshakes all around, with the admission from patron Mike of having eaten lunch at Joe's "everyday for 35 years." I didn't doubt him. Navigating through to the main dining room, there was no hesitation when offered the far seat right beside the "pass" by a departing silver haired man of 70-something. "Best seat in the house. Can see everything from that angle", he said, clutching a sack of fried shrimp and ravioli to go. Tight and fit, skin weathered like a fisherman, wet eyes were all he could offer in the way of goodbye when I responded to his lament of the eminent closing with, "At least we're here today."
The angle was as good as he'd said, the charcoal grill beside us shooting flame with each slab of meat added, a parade of people lined along the Formica surface, the din of the busy room making ordering seem more like a shout. But order we did: Chicken Caccitore with Rigatoni, Veal Piccata with Ravioli. Cheap wine
of unknown origin hit the glass, and tasted just fine. The food came plentiful and it came fast, little mounds of zucchini, carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower wedged in with the rest. In this golden age of Italian food taking place around the Bay Area, Joe's is more like the "other" place in Big Night. There's no salumi program on premises, no reference to "artisanal" technique. Instead, just brimming plates of hot food, and people spilling through the doorway. Quiet set in as it does when eating is the focus, smiles and nods shared easily with others beside us also dredging their plates clean with the moist slabs of sour dough that kept appearing. Butter wasn't needed, but it was there none the less, foil wrapped at the ready in case. Being well full didn't stop us from tearing into an order of tiramisu, tasting as good as the last time I'd had it, which had been quite a long while back. The coffee was weak and hot, topped off promptly before either cup got beyond half way. Lingering would have been as easy as the conversations that were started, an added benefit of being at the end of the counter where "take-out" was initiated and also picked up. No let up in the still surging crowd though had us call for the check. It came with a firm hand shake and look in the eye from the seasoned server, who thanked us and meant it. His smile never faded as he turned to top off water glasses, a prodigious middle peaking from the starched white waste cut jacket.
Snaking my way through the throng to the cashier, the owner freely held court with two employees, explaining how they could expect their tips the following Monday, the day after closing. No secrets, no pretense. This was family, where countless birthday, anniversary, graduation, and christening feasts had taken place. I'd even been to two wakes there. Assurances were given to a couple of regulars over the sink in the Men's Room that the new owners would do a thorough and respectful job to re-create what existed now. (Rumors had recently been confirmed that there would be a reunion with Original Joe's in North Beach, once a connected entity before a split.) "Yeah, but it'll come at a price," one said, and went on to speak of how many of the older patrons would come in for a meal then eat for days after on the left overs. "Beats cat food," added his friend. Remembering the $3.85 Manhattans, their point hit home.
Still, we shook clean hands as they made way for their final meal, and we waded through to the door; everyone seemingly warm and happy, trying to catch your attention, no greeting was to missed today.
Once in the quiet outside, we headed down a side street, the lot being untouchable earlier. Nothing was said until seat belts came into play, and achingly full bellies had us laughing. We sat for a beat, caught our breaths, groaned a bit more. Yeah, change does come, but may it not be at the price of spirit. You can find a better plate of pasta perhaps, but Joe's and places like it are about so much more than that.
Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com
So it was a couple of weeks back that I dragged a friend out to the fringe of San Francisco, to a quiet residential neighborhood known primarily for it's preserved "little boxes", perfect examples of the mid-century modern signature work of architect Henry Doelger. Joe's of Westlake, true to all the lines and angles of the surrounding neighborhood, along with heaping plates of Italian food was soon to close. Already full 15 minutes after it's 11:30 opening, the lines we're said to have begun an hour before. Squeezing in to the packed bar, Steve greeted me like a true pro, shook my hand, took my order of Manhattans Up, and spat out without hesitation the bar (Harry's on Fillmore) where I'd poured drinks some 25 years earlier. The cool bourbon struck a note just shy of noon, appropriate for a send-off. Packed like 9:00 on a Friday night, nearly everyone with cocktail in hand, Mad Men would have been proud of the booze being lifted to mouth.
