The V-Town Social Club

It was the worst of times.

I want to thank a Nextdoor reader for reaching out to me yesterday to see if I was alright. She had not seen a post from me in a while and was concerned. That was just plain kind.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

Charles Dickens wrote that, and the first time I read it I thought that he was being melodramatic. Just goes to show me, I guess.

Lately I have been huddled away at home subjecting myself to being garden shamed. So many of my industrious friends are pruning their ivy or building fences. I have a quarter acre of lawn and a dozen planter boxes needing attention. A friend said to me, that my reading their posts merely inspired me. Nope, I feel the burn of shame. So this weekend I whacked the weeds, mowed the lawn, all-the-while kicking the ball for the dogs in between the passing of rows. I purchased a new garden hose as the old one had burst in multiple places and planted seeds for lettuce, giant sunflowers and sweet baby watermelons.

My box of beets and red carrots have already started to push. The tomatoes, which I began from purchased starters, clock in at around 12 plants this year. A mix of orange, yellow and funkily shaped heirloom tomatoes will delight your BLT’s at Provisions later this summer. Oh! I did plant a Roma this year, so that I might make a little fresh sauce for my pasta or Chicken Parmesan. The dill weed I planted months ago is filling out but the spinach that I tried between the fruit trees was overcome by crabgrass.  Later this spring I am going to attempt to dig out as much of that incredulous little monster as is possible, without damaging my blood orange tree roots.

I am a little excited. A few years back I planted said blood orange tree with visions of a communal Sangria bowl in the future. The tree itself has always been healthy and green, but never flower nor fruit to be seen. I read somewhere, this past winter, that the soil was probably too rich in nitrogen and weak in other nutrients. Rachel Hoff of Grow a Pear Nursery, here in Vallejo, always recommends testing your soil. It is inexpensive and easy. Turns out the soil was low in potassium and now my little pretty is festooned with lovely, little white blossoms, so sweet to the smell. I look forward to that first blush of fruit in my glass.

My asparagus bed is about 4 years old now and is feeling its oats. I should back up and say that this last winter I headed up to American Canyon to pick up two truckloads of rich, ripe compost for which to feed my yard. I felt sorry for my neighbors because after I had spread both loads generously atop all of my boxes and planting beds there was this certain – pong – to the air. More than one neighbors popped their heads out of their houses and asked me if I smelled something. Sheepishly I replied, “It was me.” Fancying myself an Aqua Velva man, and not wishing to put off any potential partners in the following evening’s conversation,  I showered, twice as long, and reapplied said, branded aftershave before heading out that night. Only a faint wisp of musk followed me, or so I am told.

Truthfully, this last week has been a bit hard for me. I found myself faced, on multiple fronts, with the choice of addressing situations head on, as I am want, or deferring to a more political stance which will keep me quietly employed. Question: Do I save myself for another day, or at my age, and with the level of responsibility I bear, is today the day I have been saving myself for?  The thought of slipping into quiet retirement is a pleasant one. Best definition ever for being prepared for retirement. Having just enough to be snug with a bit left over for a pint.  This is my goal, to be snug.

My oldest friend, that is to say the friend with whom I have been acquainted with for the most number of years, and I had a pleasant conversation the other day. His is as bright a mind as I have ever had the pleasure of being challenged by and the topic of our collective present situation quickly rose to the forefront. We batted it back and forth a bit like the beleaguered little shuttle cock that it is, and somewhere betwixt the pummeling and ground this thought spun off:

Best thing to do in a pandemic: Shelter in place to avoid infection.

Worst thing to do in a pandemic: Shelter in place to avoid infection.  Cuz if you are never exposed, you cannot develop antibodies.

It was the best of times . . .

Yes, I miss you all too and promise to keep in touch,

Tommy Judt

I think that I have already mentioned, that I was recently hired into my dream job.  Yup, after 45 years of working, studying, winning and failing; I finally found my dream job, or as close to it as I can get. Let me count out some of the dreamy parts of working for the local parks department for you.

1. I now have a key role in improving the quality of life for my neighbors and their families. (I have so many great memories of my local parks growing up.)
2. I have a reasonable salary that is provided for by property tax that is less subject to economic swings. (I know that you all understand what having a real steady paycheck is like.)
3. I work with amazing, committed people who are passionate about doing the best job that they can.  (Having great co-workers is such a key element to being happy at work that I cannot tell you.)
4. I can walk to work in 30 minutes. (I used to drive up to an hour and a half each way before.)

It is the last one that keeps me thinking.  The backyard of my house backs right up to the sound wall for Highway 80. During regular times, when I am outside, I can hear the traffic whoosh passed. With the exception of the obnoxiously loud motorcycle, it all seems of white noise to me. Inside, after I replaced my windows with double panes, one can barely hear a thing.  Now with Shelter-In-Place, I can stand outside and barely hear a thing.  I am constantly enjoy how much fresher the outside smells and take every opportunity to open the windows to air out my house. (Two dogs you know.) It feels like living in the country only with closer neighbors.

I stumbled across an article this morning and just reading the title gave me pause.  Automobile insurance companies are planning to give refunds to drivers who are not commuting. That’s cool, I thought. Then it hit me. Fewer drivers commuting = fewer accidents. (Sorry Rose’s Collision.) I have been in a few accidents in my life, another reason for me wanting to walk to work, and I always imagine the claim’s person on the other end of the phone, with a list of fresh accidents before them, jammed into a room with a hundred other unfortunates just like them.  Now picture that same room after 90% of us stop jamming the roadways.  Quiet as a church this past Easter.  

Our economy is bound to be realigned after this. I am saddened that there are people who are not working and are seriously in need of assistance. What I hope is that we look to this whole time and take this ‘new normal’, cast aside the unwanted stuff yet keep the best in order to create a better “New Normal.” Let’s keep the baby and throw out the bath water. Together we can raise it to help create a better world for all of us to live in.

Until next time,

Tommy Judt

When I was 16 years old my mother asked me what I wanted to do.  While I loved my mother immensely, I do not think that, over the entirety of my life, I was ever more annoyed with her for asking that question.  For goodness sake, I was 16 years old and barely more than a decade away from wetting my pants. What did I know of the world, and now I am supposed to decided what career I want for the rest of my life?  The best advice about earning a living that I was ever given, immediately followed that question: You can either go to college or go into the trades. Either one will allow you to buy a house and provide for your family. This was definitely true in the 60’ and 70’s when unions were at their peak.

There are two companion words which, for the life of me I cannot recall. I promise a bottle of wine to the first one who will leave me the answer in the comments below. These words I read only once in Malcolm Gladwell’s book, David and Goliath. I would look them up myself but my book bag was taken from my car just as I was on the last chapter. Here-in-follows my best description of them.

• There is a word that defines when you study something that is easy or natural for you to learn.
• The companion word defines when you study something that is hard for you to learn.

I have been fortunate to have studied things that were my natural predilection. Things that were easy for me to grasp. I became frustrated, and embarrassingly quit, when they were too challenging for me to learn.

An aside on commitment: I have learned this again from a very close friend who had a vice that they were constantly leaning on to escape. Recently they committed to giving up that vice and it has been a joy to watch their life bloom.  You see, we all think something like; I am going to quit this job and open a bar on the beach. Now this sound innocuous enough but the simple act of allowing yourself a mental escape truly prevents you from committing. By not allowing yourself any thoughts of quitting, the energy you would have spent imagining that seaside bar now goes into the task at hand.  Another personal embarrassing fact, it has taken me way too long to learn this lesson. To that point, I ended up studying those things that came easy to me and eschewed the things that were difficult to learn. Quitting for the greener grass. I became a walking poster boy for: Easy to learn, difficult to master.

Now my frustration as a younger man, at having to make such an important decision so early in my life, has yielded both reward and failure, although not in equal sums. I have traveled many parts of the world, speak small bits of several different languages, trained in more than a few professions, studied from renowned scholars and still manage to fall flat on my face. The joy, that this approach to life has given me, is measurable in every airplane lounge conversation I have ever gotten myself into. The sorrow can be found in my never really playing a long game. Now, off with this melancholy and onto the thrust of my point.

As a man of my years is want to do, I daydream a mindful of what ifs. What if I did this? What if I had done that? When I have these daydreams it means that it is time for me to pick up a new book. A lovely thing about reading in particular, and watching videos to some degree, is that as you imagine yourself in the situation that you are experiencing on your couch, you are stimulating the very same neural pathways that you would do if you were out actually doing that thing. It is crazy, I know. You can literally get an understanding, and mentally walk in another person’s shoes, just by reading about it.  Sometimes during the day I stop and think of what else I might have done as a young man. What other path could I have chosen? What experiences would I have to share now? Would my conversation be that much different? Today I watched a video of a company in France that still makes butter with 19^th century techniques. Sitting back I wonder if I had just focused a little differently in culinary school, what my life would be like if I had gone to France to learn how to make butter. Or, if I had perhaps become a dive master and surfer and travelled the world’s beaches. Or, if I had joined the merchant marines, lived my life at sea and become a ship’s captain.

After graduating from culinary school I would often say, I would like to own a restaurant that does this. Or I would like to own a restaurant that does that. In truth, after opening and closing my own place, I learned to say, I would like to go to a place that does this, or that and not actually own it. Thankfully I still enjoy reading, and with each new read I can do both. I can both go to that new thing and do it at the very same time.

I wish you many happy reads.

Until tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

Okay, I have made it. I am finally here. It is time. Time for a pair of whiskeys and some real social gathering.

My favorite bar for whiskey is shuttered, of course. I could order the ingredients for my Improved Whisky Cocktail, and make myself one here at home. (I have tended bar.) But that is not it. That is not what I need right now. See, here is what I usually do. Being a man who actually remembers the 60’s, it is difficult for me to strike up an earnest conversation at the bar just by showing up and sitting down. I am sure that it is the wrinkles and the gray that gives the false impression. So in order to strike up a conversation, I employ a method that I learned in the movies. Perhaps some of you remember The 13th Warrior with Antonio Banderas. It this version of the Beowulf tale, Antonio’s character is the poet in the court, of the Emir in Arabia. He is in love with the Emir’s wife and the Emir finds out. Instead of being killed he is sent north as the Emir’s ambassador to the Vikings. Upon finding the Vikings there ensues a feast where all the Vikings get drunk and pass out. He does not. Then in the morning, when he is the first to wake, something small but significant happens. Upon exiting the tent, Antonio’s character notices, through the mist, a young Viking boy standing at the prow of a docked long-boat. The long-boat had arrived sometime during the night yet the boy chose not to disembark. Instead he stood perfectly still for hours. When asked why he was just standing there, the boy responded, “I want to make sure they know that I am not a demon.”

So now to make sure that everyone in the bars knows that I am not a demon, I take a book, sit by the fire, order a whiskey and read for a bit. It is obvious that people notice that I am reading and they politely leave me alone. Sometime after I order my second whiskey I will fold up my book and find an open seat at the bar. The bartenders know me so we often share a brief and pleasant exchange. Occasionally I will get asked about my book. Mostly I will start a chat off with an, Hello. Having sat quietly in the bar for the length of a cocktail, not bothering anyone and ‘appearing’ interesting, I have found that it is quite easy to strike up a conversation. Sometimes it will cover the topic of whiskey, although seldom does that topic venture to its logical middle and end, women then horses. No, the topic of whiskey is enough. Other times it will be about the restaurant, and how this couple just found it for the first time and are spending their anniversary there. They will tell me about their dinner or I will talk about my favorites on the menu. On that rare occasion I find a kindred mind, the one asks way too many questions and like me, seeks to find answers 2 miles ahead of the curve, I settle in for the evening.

It is in those few instances that I will enjoy a third whiskey, with a water back. I will drink the water and sip the whiskey while listening to my newfound companion share their impressions of the human condition. I find in these conversations the same interest that I find a finely prepared meal. Having such a long career in the food industry, I have developed a very bad habit of rushing through my meals. I must intentionally slow myself down whenever I dine with friends. Even then I am always the first to finish. You can blame it on the fact that I like to eat my hot food hot and my cold food cold, I suppose. Mostly it is because I got so used to having only a few minutes to eat, wash my hands and get back to work. This is generally the case unless, it is a finely cooked meal. When the food has been exquisitely prepared I slow way down. Friends who know me will ask if something is wrong. Nope, I am just really enjoying it. The same thing happens when I find a conversation that I truly enjoy. I slow way down. I listen to every word spoken and attempt to be extra thoughtful with my responses. I learn from these and am thrilled when I can share an original thought with a curious companion.

My mind is seldom quiet. I watch mind numbing TV for just that reason: to numb my mind. I am really enjoying my job at the Parks Department but like everyone, I need to turn that switch off for a while each day as well.  Nothing for nothing, I am really missing reading my book at the bar. As I sit there soaking in the author’s mind I positively bristle with the anticipation of that next amazing conversation.

I am sorry that I missed writing to you yesterday. My edges are becoming just a touch more shopworn and I needed a day to just ‘not’. I hope that you understand.

Until tomorrow, or our next whiskey,

Tommy Judt

I so love to breathe the outside air when the rain has passed. And when the sun breaks out, the sky is so bright it hurts my eyes.  My garden is bursting with new life pushing up through the mulch, the decay, the chaff, from dead plants before it.  I think that I know why gardener’s garden. There is something about the cycle of life that reminds us that life is precious and beautiful and that nothing is permanent. If, for example, our Brussel Sprouts do not Brussel. Well then, we try again next year. We change, we adapt, WE grow. We keep trying until our’s are the most amazing Brussel Sprouts. That’s what we do.

“There will be growth in the Spring,” Chance the Gardener said. Of course he is right. Every year he is right. But this spring is different. The chaff of our old routines lay fallow as our new routines, our new normals, takes hold. We should take a lesson from our gardens and let those old routines feed and germinate a rebirth; a renaissance. A new normal that will effectively change the way we interact with each other, and the planet, on a daily basis. Think global, act local; I think they said.

Recently I wrote that ROUTINE IS EXISTENTIAL. I know this to be true. Without structure to fall back on we are literally aimless in our pursuits. Routine is the structure by which we lay the foundations of our lives and that which helps us erect our castles, or small cottages as we wish. 

Question: Remember that guy in school who used to say, “Hold my beer.” or “Watch this.”?  What I tell you now is something that I truly wish for you to take to heart.  I want you to be the person who says to the world: Hold my beer and watch this.  I challenge you to redesign your normal routine into a new normal. I ask you to challenge your ability to slough off the chaff of your old routine and be a creator of our collective new normal.

Seriously, would you just look out the window for a minute and see how blue the sky is? Do we really need to commute to some building 5, 15, 50 miles away just to feed ourselves? I have a brand new job working for the local parks department. I can walk to work in under 30 minutes if I wish. After decades of having to drive a food truck for the movies, work in a restaurant as cook or manger, or cart my tools in a very fuel inefficient truck to a jobsite I have the job that I have always wanted.  But here is the thing that I just learned. I do not need to be in the office to do my job well. It is just as easy from me to manage all that I need to manage from my home office. Now I have already all but eliminated the exhaust fumes that I need to produce. At work, I now have eliminated the need for 100 square feet of space dedicated to housing a desk and chair just for me. My shoes will last longer, my dry cleaning bill will be lessened, and I am happier. What would happen if even just 10% of those who have to commute were to change their habits after the All Clear sounds?  Or 20%, or even 30%. What would happen to our way of life?

I will go on record as saying, “It will get better.”

After working for over 40+ years I finally have the job that I have always wanted. I am able to reduce my impact on the planet and can now give back to my community. My new normal after the All Clear? 

Double down, to see how much more I can do to help foster a new normal.

What will your new normal be?

Until tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

In the time of Covid it has been discovered that: Carbs are King!

Applause to all of you home bakers pulling the old Betty Crocker Cookbook off of the shelf, dusting it off, and impressing the internet with your leavened creations. So spoiled am I, living in the San Francisco Bay Area, for their lives on our shores a unique strain of wild yeast that gives our sourdough bread such a lovely, sour flavor. The heart of any great sourdough bread is the sponge you see. Thesponge, in case you did not know, is a soft, wet mixture of flour, yeast, and water that is left to sit open, high up on a shelf, in a warm spot of the kitchen. Here it is free to collect wild and rampant yeast spores which will feast upon the floury carbs, inoculate the mixture with its mouth-watering sourness and finally belch the very leavening gas that leaves those amazing nooks and crannies for olive oil or butter to fill, when finally kneaded and baked.

Extra applause goes to the baked ziti and to the pasta dishes festooned with fired Cremini mushrooms I have seen on my screen. Also too, the fat, fat lasagnas and the over-stuffed pot pies. Bring me my peanut butter and jelly sandwich knave and a fistful of cowboy cookies too. Pizza, pizza, pizza. Tea and toast!  Apple pie and chocolate cake.  “Bring me more carbs!” said the King of my castle.

Quick aside: Sunday was our one day off, on Easter Island, and two very, important things would happen that day:

1. The local bakery would make Empanadas. (Bread)
2. The local soccer teams would come out to play. (Games)

I read where the orange orangutan spoke on a conference call with representatives from all of the major sports organizations: MLB, NBA, NFL, NASCAR, etc.  Baboonishly he voiced optimism about opening up major sports venues in August. Apishly, the representatives were hopeful too.  All this makes me think of Juvenal, an ancient Roman poet credited with the phrase: Panem et Circenses (Bread and Circuses). The idea, in the political sense, is to keep the masses distracted with food and entertainment. Literally feeding their basic needs. If they have food and something to occupy their time, then they will not pay too close attention to what is happening politically. It is easy to see just how much money team owners have to lose if there is no sports season what-so-ever. No big stretch there. Politically it becomes even more interesting because, well, have you seen the bread aisle in the stores lately?  No Bread, nor Games. Oops!

I stumbled across a FB meme written by Ben Hauck (@fightdenial) who wrote:

Wouldn’t it be crazy if there was a large external shock yo our extractive capitalist system that proved without a shadow of a doubt that our entire economy runs on the labor of the working class, not the unseen and immeasurable genius of plucky billionaires?

Bread & Games, bread & games, bread & games. Wouldn’t it be nice though, if they all started up just before election season. 

#thingsthatmakeyougohmm

Until tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

This was not intentional on my part but as it turns out, you are experiencing my flight to South America in real time.  Needless to say, I could not get comfortable enough to sleep on the chairs at Orlando International. No matter how creative I got with their placement, my back just could not take the positioning. So, from midnight until 6 a.m., when the breakfast café opened, I tossed, turned and went full on brain numb. Finally, breakfast.  The plane boarded easily and I sat in another lovely, comfy seat on my multi hour flight to Santiago Chile. I think that I chatted with my seat companion for a few minutes, then tucked myself in for a long winter’s nap. I awoke just as we were beginning our decent. My seat companion expressed his jealousy at my being able to sleep the entirety of the flight.  Our chat ended with the touching down at SCL, Santiago International Airport. Here is where it gets fun.

So over the past number of years working construction I have learned a bit of Spanish. It has been my privilege to work with men from Mexico, Guatemala and even Columbia. Each with their own idioms and accents. Currently I am able to:  Ask how you are; tell you to dig a ditch; and, well, to piss off; if I want. All very important communications tools. At the time of these travels I barely had 4 words of Spanish. Upon landing we were directed to head through customs with all of our luggage.  The queue was long and I felt personally proud that I was able to manage the 12 or 13 cardboard boxes of my belongings.

It is said that each person’s favorite word is their name. When called, almost all of us will turn in response. Standing in line I thought that I heard something familiar. I will share with you now that it was my name being called over the loud speaker. (A Tannoy for my English readers.) Not accustomed to International travel I was focused on getting through the customs lines and while I looked up I did not see anyone holding a sign with my name. (God how I hoped for that scene.)

The Custom’s Officers in Chile were dressed in sharply pressed blue uniforms and carried a sidearm. Hmm? When my turn came they asked me what was in the boxes. I had previously been instructed to tell them that it was my clothing. They asked me to open a box. Of course it was a cooler packed with food stuffs. The younger officer’s eyes went wide as he blurted, “Contraband.” Here is where my 4 words of Spanish both helped and failed me. “Pelicula,” I said. “Isla de Pascua,” I added.  (Movie; Easter Island.) I had such a horrible American accent that neither men knew what I was saying.  “Film, movie, Easter Island,” I repeated. The older agent nodded and ushered me along. The younger agent’s eyes got even wider.  “Contraband!” he repeated, with even greater emphasis. I stood there frozen trying to stem the surge of Chilean prison images that flooded my brain. The anxiety must have shown on my face and the older agent looked at me in a blessedly paternal manner. He turned to the younger agent, lowered his voice and said a few short words in Spanish to him. The younger man dejectedly deferred and they ushered me along.

Always a supporter of local economy, two young gentlemen approached me and offered to help with take my packages to my final connecting flight, the one that would drop me to my final destination of Isla de Pascua. It was only a few short meters to the next desk but I was thankful for the assistance. When we arrived at the next check-in counter they asked for payment. The ticket agent immediately spoke up in my defense and had the young men seal up my open boxes and load them onto scale for me. I gave them each a fiver, US. Sweet, I had made it and my next flight was due to take off within the hour. First things first, all of my packages were weighed and checked in. Great. Being pleased with myself for upgrading all three legs of the flight, I was so looking forward to the first class lounge, I asked politely with a smile; “May I use the first class lounge?” “No.”  “Sorry, but I have a first class ticket.” “Sir, you are not on the next flight.” Now it was my turn to open mu eyes as wide as saucers. “What!?” “Sir, you are not confirmed on the next flight.”  “But you just checked in all my luggage.” “Yes sir.” “But the flight leaves in 45 minutes.”  “No sir, it has been delayed 8 hours.”  “When will I be confirmed?” “Check back later. Next!”

Seriously? I was kicked out of the first class lounge in Orlando, and left to fend for myself in the cold dark expanse of Orlando International. Now here I was in a foreign country; no money; no language skills; no clean clothes; no McDonald’s in sight; AND my flight, which I was not confirmed on, was delayed, again! (SCL, just so you know, was a small single terminal airport without any amenities, save Los Baños.) Talk about being lost. I had no idea where I was, no idea how to get in contact with the movie production company, and really, no idea as to what to do next.  I plopped myself down in one of those hard, molded fiberglass chairs that are oft found in amusement parks and stared straight ahead. A woman sat down next to me and placed a cage with 2 chickens in it, on the floor. Oh great, this just keeps getting better and better. A few minutes later, when the check-in line had dwindled, I queried the ticket agent a second time. Again, no. I must have done this at least 3 more times over the course of 2 hours. As you might imagine, I was beginning to get airport stir crazy. I went outside for a bit of fresh air and sat on the lawn which was the median strip for the airport. That lasted no time at all as the diesel smoke was just too thick to take.  Back to the hard chair for me. I think that I nodded off for a bit, that or I must have blacked out the thought of it, because I cannot remember what happened over the next few hours. Once more into the breach!  “Am I confirmed?” “Yes, here is your ticket. The flight leaves in one hour.” “May I use the first class lounge please?”  The furniture was much more comfortable there and I had no qualms at all about stretching out on the sofa for a nap.

The flight to Easter Island was quick and comfortable. A little known fact: The airstrip on Easter Island was built by NASA as an emergency landing strip for the shuttle, should it ever have to land in that part of the world, and was a full 2 miles long. The landing there was the smoothest I have ever experienced. The pilot required no flaps, or reverse thrusters, to slow down the aircraft. We just glided to a stop. We deplaned on the tarmac and a lovely woman came running up to me and asked, “Tom?” “Yes,” I replied.  “Oh my God! We did not know if you had made it on the plane. We had someone at the airport to greet you and take you to a hotel room where you could shower and rest.”

I just laughed. In truth, I had made it, literally, half way around the world with relatively few discomforts. I was alive and about to start an amazing adventure. So, I just laughed. It was nighttime and I was shown to my room at the local motel. The building was old and weathered from many years of tropical storms, and the hot water smelled of Sulphur but the shower was delicious.  Having shampooed, showered and shaved, I tucked myself in to a proper bed for a good night’s sleep. The only sound I heard was that of a gentle Pacific Ocean breeze. I had work tomorrow but tonight I slept.

Until Tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

p.s. Oh, I almost forgot. As I turned out the light and nestled into my soft, soft pillow embracing the breezy quiet of the island I heard this strange clicking sound moving across the hard floor of my room. I sat up quickly and switched on the light. Looking down I saw three HUGE cockroaches coming at me from the front door. They must have slid under from outside. And to this day I will swear, on any holy book that you give to me, that I heard one of them say, “You two hold him down and I’ll grab the pillow.”

Welcome to Hollywood!

So to recap, I have just gotten an offer to fly down, across the Equator, to cook on a movie currently being filmed on Easter Island.  Picking up from there, I will say it took me less-that-a-minute to make that decision. South America here I come. Now the timeline was a little short, Tom, of TomKats catering, wanted me on a plane to Santiago Chile in about 2 weeks. I was originally told that the flight would leave SFO on a Thursday, 2 weeks hence. In the interim I was forwarded a list of foodstuffs and equipment to cart along with me on my travels. Okay, I am game. I offered my 2 week notice telling my boss that I got a job cooking in Chile. I even offered to work 10 days straight leaving me 1 or 2 days to move out of the apartment, which I had just moved in to, with plenty of time left over to shop for all the items they requested. (Luckily I had not yet signed a lease and all of my belongings were still in boxes so that part of the move was painless.) Everything was going according to plan for 2 whole days, then Tom, informed me that no, I would not be flying out on that Thursday. (??) I would actually be flying out on the Monday before, first flight in the morning. (Yikes!)  I did get one small bit of a laugh though. During the week before I left, the head hunter who recommended me for the job gave me a call and asked, “They told me that you are quitting and going to work for Chili’s!?” (Read between the lines: Narrow view of the world.)  “No,” I replied calmly, “I am going to work in CHILE, the country.”  “Oh” was all I heard before the phone clicked off.

Que circus music here.

My last day of corporate pain was the Sunday brunch shift. In the off hours of the week, prior to my leaving, I searched for and locally sourced the items I needed. Now all of this happened way before the internet and Amazon were a thing.  Back then, the only way to fill this crazy list of things was to use the Yellow Pages, the telephone, or to drive around hoping to find a certain, undefined, gourmet, Asian noodles. (There are like 50 different kinds of Asian noodles. Odds against me, of course, I chose wrongly. Another story, another time.) In the meantime I needed to sort out the storage arrangements for my belongings. Time was closing in and my old little Volvo was just not up to the task of carrying everything I had. My parents were away on vacation which left my father’s truck available. Sunday came, I ended my last shift and the train ride began.  I gathered my travel companion DV, without whose assistance I never would have made the flight. We grabbed Dad’s truck, packed up my personal belongings and deposited them at my parent’s house. I was instructed to purchase beverage coolers, the ones that you see hanging off the back of construction trucks or like that king your teenage son used to mix vodka, red bull, Bloody Marys for the entire football team. In hindsight I could have used a duffle bag but I followed instructions and packed all my clothing and food in these coolers. I believe that I had 12 or 13 packages in all. It took from 2 p.m. on Sunday straight through until 6 a.m. on Monday for both DV and I to finishing moving, packing and driving to the airport.  DV, forever my hero, got me loaded into the airport and sent me off with a hug. Good man that DV. Attempting to be respectful of my fellow travelers I arrived at the ticket agent a good 3 hours before the flight, just to be sure I would not hold up the line. It did not help. Checking in all of my baggage through to Chile took almost half an hour. In a singularly clear moment of thinking, I upgraded my ticket to first class all the way through to Santiago.  This had had the amazing benefit of being able to use the first class lounge.  Okay, I made it. Nothing left to do but fly and read.

It was not until I strolled in to the private lounge that I realized I had not taken a shower since the morning before. Having plenty of time before my flight, I asked if there were any showers in that wing of the airport. I got a curled lip no in reply. Shit. Looking down I realized that I would have to travel for 2 days in the same clothes, no shower, looking like a scruff.

With my early check in, I was literally the very first person to board the plane. My seat was the very first aisle seat that you see when you board the plane. My pre-9 a.m. cocktail was the very first one that the flight attendant made that morning. Feeling a little sorry for my fellow first class travelers I asked for a blanket for which to cover myself and tipped, nay, reclined my seat back even farther than my father’s Barca-lounger would go. I woke up briefly before we departed as my seat mate, shouldering a very lovely bepoke suit, was stepping over my legs to get to his seat while expressing the ever-sp-slightest of grumpy groans. I awoke and apologized. He smiled a very warm smile and shook it off. I am sure that I would have enjoyed a conversation with him on that very long flight had I not slept soundly the entirety of the flight.

It was evening in Florida when we landed and I had about 2 hours before my connecting flight to Chile. I checked in again at the first class lounge, life was good then, asked for a drink and my flight status. A lovely Gin and Tonic where set before me and a charming woman, with both a pleasant smile and lilt in her voice said, “That flight’s been cancelled. The next one leaves in 14 hours.”

“Is there a shower in the airport?”  “No,” was all she said

“Can I get a hotel room to wait?”  “No.”  I was beginning to sense a theme.

An hour later they closed the first class lounge with their comfy, comfy sofas and my 2 other bar companions and I were ejected and left to try and sleep on some painfully hard airport seating. The news was not all bad, I thought. I did have a 14 hour layover in Santiago and this way, when I landed, I would be just in time to catch my next flight to Easter Island. 

If only that were so. The best is yet to come.

Until Tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

My second BBQ landed me, literally, on to Easter Island.

So after the filming for Axe Murderer ended I, again, found myself at loose ends. It had been exciting working on a movie crew and I had met some very lovely people but, the real world beckoned. I picked up the newspaper and began searching for a job, a real job. You see, the real reason that I went to culinary school, other than to impress chicks, was merely to increase my knowledge of food, wine and cooking. All of these I achieved. Prior to my enrollment and subsequent ceremonious graduation, I was a manager at the Vintage House Restaurant in Orinda CA., a small little post rural town that had grown up to be a community of comfortable earners. I started there as a bartender, learned how to wait tables, volunteered for the management training program and worked my way up to the position of General Manager. The world had become my oyster. Surely I had shucked enough of them by then.  All of this was fine and good. In my training, I spent almost a complete year working in all three of the owner’s kitchens improving my basic skill set. After which I began my managerial career with what is commonly referred to as: Working the floor.  Working the floor is somewhat like working a room. My job was to check in on all the guests, make sure the seating was organized, help the waiters if they got busy, but mostly it meant going in to the kitchen to help with the washing up.  The ‘Dish Pit’ as we call it, not the cooking line, is the place that can make or break a restaurant. Not on my watch, I said.

My 5 years with this company was wonderfully educational but the owner’s, and respect them I still do, were Steak House old school about their kitchens and cooking. The basic skills I learned there got me started but they possessed definite limits. What I needed was a proper education. So off to culinary school I went I to learn the difference between a ‘sachet’ and a ‘sashay.’ The plan was for this new knowledge was to propel me in my career as a fine dining restaurant manager. So upon completion of my studies, back on the job hunt was I. A quick thumb through my local rag and a potential position presented itself. It was a job, as a manager, in a corporate restaurant somewhere down in Danville.  From the first week, I realized that this was not a good fit but, I like to eat, so I stayed. With my previous experience, combined with my newly attained education, I quickly found myself chomping at the corporate bit. The plodding along, lockstep, in the too-well-worn company groove was breaking this stallion’s spirit. I was not happy, nor were my fellow managers with me. Something had to change.

Back to Axe Murderer for a moment. As an FYI, every movie crew has at least one or two different caterers on set at all times. Craft Services provides food and coffee all day long along with the proper caterer who provides at least two hot meals a day. Over the course of my film career, I have performed both tasks. On Axe Murderer, where I was Mike’s private chef, the owner of the catering company approached me one day to hand me his business card, just in case. (The only cell phones we had back then were the size of old military radios, and they definitely did not hold any contact information.) To this day I still do not know why I held on to his number.  I figured that my one movie would give me enough stories to tell my nieces and nephews for quite some time. But hold onto it I did, until that fateful day when I realized that the corporate way, was just not my way.  I dug out the smudged and creased card from my cigar box of things and placed a call. Tom Morales was not in, so I left a message.

The following day I received a call back from Memphis Tennessee. It was Tom, of TomKats Catering. (Tom’s wife is named Kathy, hence: TomKats.) Now I would like you to read the following line with a rich Southern accent.

“Tom,” he said to me, “I don’t know why you called me, but I need a chef down on Easter Island next week!”

Most people ask me, “How can I get into Hollywood?”

Answer, mostly: Right place, right time.  And a safely kept business card in the bottom of your cigar box.  Now this is the point in the story where it really begins to take off.  But I will save that part for tomorrow.

Until Tomorrow,

Tommy Judt

I have a dear friend. She lives in London. We chat via email, on and off, at times. Her work keeps her busy traveling about, but rarely to the States anymore. We met, so many years ago, on my very first barbecue. That is what we old timers call the first movie we ever worked on: Our first BBQ. My first BBQ  was cooking for Mike Myers on the film: So I Married An Axe Murderer. It was Mike’s first film after his success with Wayne’s World. I will say that I enjoyed working for Mike. I found him to be intensely brilliant and FAF! Even his spit gags made me . . . well . . . spit gag.

He, his assistant Fred, his girlfriend, and I ended up spending the better part of the movie packed inside a 30 foot travel trailer. I would cook and in between scenes I would feed them all lunch. I mostly had the trailer to myself to prepare, cook and clean up. Cooking for Mike was such a novelty at the time that People magazine wanted to interview me. I remember that Casey, one of the producers who rarely ever spoke with me, approached me anxiously one day to inform me that I was like a health care professional and what I was doing for Mike was privileged information. It was a weak argument on his part. I mean he was a nice enough man, but his point, however protective of Mike, I found un-compelling. I pondered. If I did an interview, I might just make a career out of being a private chef, I thought to myself. Never-the-less, I did respect Mike’s privacy and never said a word about how much he loved my chicken. (Oops!)

Now I will share that I was making decent money as Mike’s personal chef. The work was easy, maybe too easy. My career, as a chef, would have been better served had I chosen to find a position in a proper kitchen. As it turned out, the Production Coordinator for the movie had gotten ahold of my Nutrition Instructor at the Culinary Academy and she, my instructor, in turn reached out to ask if I was working yet. As it turned out, I had just returned the week before from a month long trip to Europe with my dear friend DV. My friendship with DV helped fuel my love for cooking. DV and I would, on a semi-weekly basis, get together and roast chickens and invent new Pilaf recipes, all the while pounding good, cheap red wine and beer that we had purchased from the local White Horse Liquor Store. (Can anyone tell me why The White Horse is such a popular liquor store name?) So, naturally, when I finally graduated from the CCA, DV became my favored choice for travel companion. We flew into Switzerland, rented the world’s smallest car and made our way along the backroads of Europe.

So on the day, my former Chef Instructor and I went down to the movie set and met with the Line Producer Bernie. It was awkward and took an entirety of 3 minutes. Our credentials spoke volumes, so my first real job as a cook, was in Hollywood, filming in San Francisco. Bernie was the boss, but I reported to the lovely Miss M. Now I have never been known for my subtlety and this was never more obvious then when I first met Miss M. Not only is she still one of the most attractive women that I have ever met, but in the years that followed I have found her to be intelligent, sensitive, super funny and kind. Mostly kind. Some years back there came out a movie entitled: She’s Out Of My League. I could only ever watch it once because the story stung so.  Emotionally it was the nearest parallel to our relationship. Me awkward, she, truly lovely.

Our friendship continues today, Miss M and me. I will tell you all honestly, that she is the very reason that I write.  Over the years I have sent her small pieces and she never, ever, responded with any criticism what-so-ever. She would always say, “I liked it. It was good. Keep writing.” Every now and again, while she lived in LA, I would fly down to visit friends and she and I would make plans to meet for dinner. Mostly we dished gossip about producers and celebrities. We would consume copious amounts of wine, and platefuls of amazing food. (How she keeps her figure, I will never know.) When leaving the restaurant we always hugged goodbye. Whenever we hug I always ask if we can linger for just a moment longer knowing that it will be months, maybe years before we see each other again.

I will tell you all that the hardest part for me, during this time of social distancing, is that I miss hugging. I miss that simple connection that physical touch gives. I miss reassuring my friends, this way, when times are tough. I miss being reassured. I look forward to the day when, in the summer sun, I can hug my friends again. I look forward to the next time I meet Miss M. To when we share a lovely bottle of Claret and some insanely expensive meal of epic quality. To when I hug her goodbye, and linger, until that certain sadness comes when the hug finally ends. Never knowing if there will be another.

Thank you for always being kind Miss M; for listening to me run on about my latest . . . whatever; for hugging me that extra moment; and for never, ever discouraging me with regards to my writing.

Until tomorrow,

Tommy Judt