At The Most Unexpected Of Times

On occasion,
I miss you
most unexpectedly.

Tonight, it wasn’t the sound
of summer crickets
through the screen door,
but the rush of a breeze
that made me think of you.

Other times
when I'm foggy with sleep and
resigned to the end of my day,
I’ll close my eyes
and you’ll appear to me,
your eyes smiling quietly.

It might be hair
colored the same as yours
(or not)
that recalls my fingers
drawn through your tangles.

But it might also be
a spilled puddle of wine
to remind me
of lies not so sweet.

On occasion,
I miss you
at the most unexpected of times.

The Worst Kind Of Pain

Yesterday, whilst picking up around my apartment, I had the TV on in the background. “The Doctors” was on and I heard them talking about how kidney stones were among the most excruciating kinds of pain known to man. With the ability to reduce the bravest men to screaming babies, it’s said that the pain caused by kidney stones can be worse than childbirth.

Well, I’ve never had a baby, but I have had kidney stones for about 20 years. I’ve also survived falling off of a three story building, five automobile accidents where cars have been totaled, gunshot and knife wounds, and a near drowning. And I’ve cracked a couple of teeth and broken five bones in my body.

And yet, through all of the physical trauma and pain, nothing compares to the devastating pain of a broken heart.

Through all of the above-named physical pain, I always knew that I was going to live. To loosely quote a line from the movie “G.I. Jane:”

“Pain is your friend. It lets you know you’re still alive.”

But the pain from a broken heart is different – it makes you feel like you’re going to die.

There are lots of different kinds of heartache. Sometimes, your heart gets slapped around a little. Sometimes, it gets punched. Sometimes, it gets stepped on. But then sometimes, it actually gets broken.

A broken heart can hurt so much you’re constantly on the verge of tears, and every sight, smell, and sound is a trigger. A broken heart makes it hard to go to bed, and it makes it hard to get out of bed. A broken heart makes brushing your teeth, eating, doing laundry, and answering your phone feel utterly pointless. A broken heart is despair, and strips you of your will to live your life.

On facebook this morning, one of my friends shared this:

I’ve had my heart broken six times in my life. It was after the third one that I realized that, though it might feel like your life will never recover, time will eventually dull and ease the pain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it hurts any less. But I did learn that the future would be okay, even if I couldn’t see it at the moment.

And, so, that’s where I stand today. I don’t know that I can say that I’m going through a full blown heartbreak, but my heart has been stepped on pretty hard with the heavy boot of betrayal – a mitigating factor in the level of pain I’m experiencing at the moment.

Some people say that the more life experience you have, and every time your heart gets broken, scar tissue forms and the callus makes it harder to break in the future.

But I don’t think that’s true.

I think that hearts are easily broken, regardless of age and experience, and the betrayal of love hurts the same whether your 17 or 77. Maybe you hold back falling in love a bit more as you get older, avoiding obvious follies -- but once it happens, your heart is just as fragile and vulnerable as the first time.

Yellow Cake and Chocolate Frosting

My friend, Brynna, was recently hired on as the pastry chef at an established St. Helena restaurant and last night she sent me this e-mail:

from: Brynna Xxxxxx brynnaxxxxxx@gmail.com
to: scooterams@gmail.com
date: Wed, Aug 3, 2011 at 12:22 AM
subject: Your opinion please

Hey Scott,

I'm a fan of the old fashioned yellow cake with chocolate frosting and would like to make this dessert at Xxxxx'x. Obviously, I need to step it up a notch - I don't think that most people would appreciate paying 10 bucks for a slice of cake, no matter how good. Any suggestions on how I can make or present this cake that would be suitable for a restaurant?

What about making the yellow cake like a chocolate lava cake? Yellow cake on the outside and a warm chocolate ganache center. Some raspberries and cream on the side?

In frosting and in cake,

Brynna

Here was my reply:

from: Scott Salvatierra scooterams@gmail.com
to: Brynna Xxxxxx
date: Wed, Aug 3, 2011 at 7:43 AM
subject Re: Your opinion please

Brynna Brynna Bo Brynna,
Okay, I've been thinking on this for a good half hour now. (Which means that at my usual consulting rate of $150/hr, you now owe me $75.)

At first, I started thinking about high concept interpretations, but quickly rejected those ideas because your dessert needs to be in keeping with the homey style of Xxxxx'x Xxxxxxxxxx Xxxxxxx.

Like you, I'm also a fan of simple yellow cake and chocolate frosting. And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the word "simple" is the key. Any modifications you make to the core idea of simple yellow cake and chocolate frosting has to retain the core concept familiarity and flavors of the original idea.

Because the original is served at room temp, I'm not a fan of crossing it with the (hot) idea of a lava cake. I think, however, that the addition of ice cream (ie. making it a colder than room temp dessert) could work.

My Ideas:

1) Yellow cake and chocolate frosting charlotte russe.
Line individual sized dome molds with miniature pinwheels of yellow cake (or maybe génoise?) and choc frosting. Or you could make yellow cake ladyfingers to line the mold. Fill the remainder of the mold with choc mousse. In the center, place a single brandied cherry, rum soaked fig, or piece of cake soaked in PX sherry. Once unmolded, you could pipe choc frosting stars in the middle of each pinwheel, too.

2) Yellow cake and chocolate frosting trifle.
In individual sized trifle dishes, alternate layers of yellow cake, chocolate frosting, and thin layers of (stiff) whipped cream. Cut out rings in the center layers to form a pocket and place brandied cherries or rum soaked fig slices in the pocket.

You could also put a tiny scoop ice ice cream in the center. Ahead of time, assemble the dessert minus the ice cream and top layer of yellow cake and choc frosting. At pick-up, add the ice cream to the center, then cover with the top layer of cake and frosting.

3) Yellow cake and chocolate frosting swiss roll.
The is the closest and truest to the original concept and is basically just a plating idea. Just make small 3-inch diameter "jelly rolls" of yellow cake and choc frosting. Plate with three slices per serving, and maybe sauce with (coffee) creme anglaise.

If you want to come over and develop some of these ideas, I'd be happy to help. Don't forget to bring my $75 and a six-pack of Sam Adams.

--
Regards,
Scooter Salvatierra

Thanks for the quick response. I am excited to get started on the New Old Fashioned Yellow Cake. Would you like to be my James Beard coach? I will invite you to the awards ceremony and recognize you during my acceptance speech in lieu of the $75.

Brynna Xxxxxx

That, Which We Choose To Remember

When it comes to our memories, we, as human beings, are not machines. That is to say, we are not cameras, video or audio recorders, or computers. Our memories of people, places, things, and events are imperfect.

And so, of our memories, what is it that we choose to remember?

Or maybe, before we even consider that question, we have to ask whether or not we choose anything in the first place. Our memories change over time -- of that, I'm sure. But the changes to our memories just happen on their own, without us really being that aware of it, right? And when I consider the process, it seems that in general, it goes from more detail to less detail, and from remembering the good and the bad to just remembering the good.

Why is that? Why does the distillation process filter out the negative minutiae... and is this a good thing? Certainly, it's nice to think back on, let's say, my 20s, and on the surface, at least, have a nice bundle of memories that are wrapped up in a pretty ribbon.

I often think back 11 years ago to the time I spent at The Culinary Institute of America as some of the best years of my life. The constant smell of brown veal stock reducing, three meals a day from the kitchens of the greatest culinary school in the country, the immersion in a food-and-wine obsessed student body of 2000 budding chefs, being surrounded by the seasonal beauty of the Hudson Valley... Sometimes I yearn for those days in the same way I used to yearn for the cartoon-filled carefree Saturday mornings of my childhood.

But if I allow myself to look past the memories of slow cooked pork belly and fresh baked semolina bread, I can remember hating the long hours of physical labor in the kitchen, having to wash pots and pans after class, and getting back to my cramped dorm room exhausted only to face several more hours of research and homework. I tend to forget the time that I stabbed my own arm while boning out a leg of lamb, or the time I splashed burning olive oil into my eye while cooking on the line in Caterina de Medici. I can remember the sweltering humidity of the summers and never feeling dry. And winter blizzards meant dealing with my car buried in snow, getting up even earlier than usual to get bundled up, defrost the car, and shovel out a path. If I really concentrate, I can remember what a freak my roommate was, and how I was always worried that he was stealing from me. Most of the student body was male, and the few females that were around were... well... Let's just say that I had a new appreciation for the girls I was used to seeing on the beaches of southern California.

The other day a friend called me up to tell me that he had seen a posting on craigslist for the restaurant manager position at Domaine Chandon, and wondered if I would consider returning to work there again. At the time, I said that I would be open to it. I remembered the beautiful grounds of the winery in Yountville, the open, bright glass walls of the restaurant, the camaraderie of the restaurant crew, the refined fine-dining atmosphere, and the wonderfully long summer evenings. But it took me mentioning it to one of the Angels (we all used to work at Domaine Chandon) to remind me of what a caustic, cancerous corporate environment it was, and how frustrating it was to be "led" by marketing VPs who knew nothing about running a restaurant. "Are you fucking crazy?" she said.

This tendency to forget the bad, the stressful, and the frustrating doesn't just apply to decade-old memories. It doesn't take very long at all, as a matter of fact. I only need to click through my Facebook pictures of the last couple of years to fool myself into thinking that my life is a carefree, glamorous cascade of women, Champagne and dinner parties.

Nothing could be further than the truth, of course. But why is it that it takes so much conscious effort to remember that just six months ago I felt like a big fat loser, with no girlfriend?

Actually, now that I think of it, the reason that this is bothering me so much is that I feel like that big fat loser today. But the fact that I don't immediately remember that I felt that way even a few months ago creates the feeling that my life is worse off today than it was yesterday. It creates the impression that my best days are behind me.

I'm reminded of the US Navy SEAL motto: "The only easy day was yesterday." If I feel like shit today, how sad to think that in a year I'll look back on today and think, "Ah, those were the days of wine and roses."

That's just fucking depressing.

What's in a name? That which we call a foodie by any other name would be just as hungry...

.
Do you know me?

What I mean is, do you know my name? When you see me, unexpectedly at a restaurant or a bar, do you call out my name? And if so, what name do you call out? Arnel? Arnelly? Nelly? Scott? Scooter? Scoots? Scootie Pie? Ernie? Chili? I've answered to all of those names, and then some.

Names are interesting things -- fascinating, really. It was Shakespeare in "Romeo & Juliet" who famously asked, "What's in a name?"

Well, a LOT, I say.

If you knew me before 2000, chances are you knew me as "Scooter." If you were family, you might have also called me "Scott." But if you knew me after 2000, chances are you know me as "Arnel" -- unless you were introduced to me by someone who knew me before 2000, in which case you'd know me as... well, you get the picture.

My name is Scott Arnel Salvatierra, and this is the story of my names, the story of how my name is related to The Star Spangled Banner, how I've been compared to a Muppet (more than once), and how I've been mistaken for a murderer.

I was born in Chicago many years ago, and it's important to know that I was born in July, not January. My (slightly older) cousin, on the other hand was born in January. He was also named Scott, and because he was born six months before me, he was the first Scott in our family. This, of course, would come to cause some confusion at family gatherings.

And more than confusion, it nearly caused a feud.

Chalk it up to stubborn parents, but my aunt and uncle refused to call me Scott because, obviously, their son was the first Scott. Now, mind you, they didn't actually declare out loud that they wouldn't call me Scott. Instead, they would just refer to me as "the baby." (As in, "Here, I'll hold the baby if you want to look through the pictures we took last week of Scott.") And according to my Mom, my aunt and uncle would even sometimes refer to me as "Boy," (As in, "Is Boy able to crawl yet? Because Scott was crawling by his age.") because my parents didn't name me until a few days after I was born and the name tag on my crib in the hospital said "Boy Salvatierra."


My parents eventually named me Scott Arnel. My dad is huge fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald and "The Great Gastby" and I was named after the famous author. (I would later learn in high school American Lit that F. Scott Fitzgerald's full name is Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald and that he was named after his cousin Francis Scott Key -- who, of course, wrote The Star Spangled Banner.)


Where "Arnel" came from is a little less clear and it depends on if you ask my dad or my mom. My dad says that "Arnel" means "noble eagle" (or something like that) and that it was chosen as my middle name to commemorate the first in our family to be born in America. My mother, on the other hand, says that "Arnel" is a semi common name in the Philippines, and they liked that it was an uncommon name in America.

But back to the feud...

It would be Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, our next door neighbors, that would end up saving the day. At some point, Mrs. Stevens started calling me "Scooter," which, she told my unknowing immigrant mother, was the most common nickname of affection for boys named Scott. As far back as I can remember, I was called both Scott and Scooter by my family.

Coming from a tropical climate in the Philippines, my parents were able to stand exactly one winter in Chicago before they decided to move out to sunny Los Angeles when I was one year old. And then when I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade, my parents bought a house and we moved to Huntington Beach in Orange County. In pre-school and all the way up through high school, all of the teachers and my classmates would just call me Scooter.

Riki was my girlfriend in kindergarten. This is us rollerskating. (I'm on the left.)

In the 4th grade, there was a new kid, and his name was Marty Lesperance. I remember that he was a really nice kid and a pretty down-to-Earth guy (for a nine year old). But one day (when I was wearing a shirt with horizontal stripes) he was looking at me and had an epiphany.

"Oh my God! You know who you look like?! You look like Ernie!!"

"Who?"

"Ernie! You know... Bert and Ernie!! From Sesame Street!!"

Funny thing is, Marty actually got me believing that I looked like Ernie. I mean, I had to admit, there were certain similarities I couldn't deny: I had black hair and Ernie had black hair. I had brown skin and Ernie had... orange skin? Well, whatever -- Ernie wasn't white, so... you know... we had that in common.

It's hard to deny the similarities, I know. (That's me on the left, in case you can't tell...)

Marty tried really hard to get "Ernie" to catch on, and for about a year he got two or three other guys to give it a try. But in the end it didn't really stick. I think it was a hard sell, especially to the girls. They'd ask Marty why he was calling me Ernie and he'd say, "Because he looks like Ernie! You know... from Sesame Street?" And the girls would look at me and then turn to Marty and say, "You're a dumb ass. He doesn't look anything like Ernie."

From Marla (aka Muffin). "Scootie Pie and Muffin." Don't you just love how creative 16 year olds can be?

Later on, in high school, my best friend, Terry McKierrnan, had a job at a Mobile gas station. As part of the uniform, they all wore the old school periwinkle jumpsuits that gas station attendants were known for in the 50s and 60s. They even had oval name patches with 50s style sounding nicknames like "Biff" and "Skip." Well, Terry took my name into consideration when he choose what name would be on his jumpsuit and he had "Skeeter" embroidered on his patch. So for the last couple of years of high school, all of our friends (that is, the other popular cool kids) would refer to us as Skeeter and Scooter -- And that was just swell.


In the back of my mind, I knew that (or rather, I thought that) I'd eventually outgrow the name "Scooter." I think that I expected to be called "Scott" once I joined the workforce (ie adulthood). But it ended up that my first job was as a lifeguard -- and you gotta admit, "Scooter" and "lifeguard" just kinda of fits together nicely.

It's amusing to me now, but the very first paycheck I ever received was made out to "Scooter," and I think I still have a box in storage somewhere filled with "Scooter" printed and embroidered on all my lifeguard uniforms and gear.

Growing up in southern California, it's no surprise that I eventually transitioned into working in the film and television entertainment industry. I got my break, and my first job in film/TV post-production, through Cyndi Andrew. We had previously lifeguarded together and over the years had become great friends. As a consequence, she ended up introducing me to everyone she knew in the industry as Scooter. It was beginning to look like I wasn't going to be able to escape being called "Scooter."

Cyndi and Scooter, at her wedding (not mine) in North Hollywood, 1993.

After several years of successfully climbing the ladder in the film/TV industry, I decided to follow my passion for food and wine and make a career change. My passion for cooking grew exponentially in those first couple of years, and I learned a lot. My hunger for knowledge and experience for all things food, wine, and cooking was insatiable, and I quickly realized that if I wanted to become a chef, I needed a formal education in food, cooking, and wine. I needed to go to culinary school.

At the time, I was still going by Scooter. But what, earlier, was a perfect name for a lifeguard, now seemed inappropriate as a future chef. The prospect of being called "Chef Scooter" seemed ridiculous to me. Melanie, a girl I was seeing at the time, used to say, "I think that a lot of people immediately think of Scooter the Muppet when they first hear your name. I know I did."

Again, with the damn Muppets!

But "Chef Scott" didn't really seem very inspiring to me. In a word, I just thought it was too plain -- as if the very sound of it might get lost in the crowd. It was the late 1990s, and The Food Network was making Emeril, Wolfgang, and Ming distinctive household first names.

"No," I thought, "I need to set myself apart and start using my middle name."

The idea of using "Arnel Salvatierra" as my name actually came a decade earlier on October 19, 1990. I had just been in a near fatal car accident, and in the newspaper there was a picture of me being "extracted" from the car at the crash site. The photo caption incorrectly listed my name as "Arnel Salvatierra." They had copied my name from the police report which had listed my first name as "Scott" and my last name as "Arnel Salvatierra." I remember reading it and thinking, "Hmmm, how odd to be called by another name..."

Can you see me? That's me on the stretcher with a compound fracture, concussion, and multiple lacerations.

So when I started at The Culinary Institute of America, I started using "Arnel" as my first name. It was the year 2000, and I was 32 years old, embarking on a new career. It was a surprisingly easy transition because the school was 3,000 miles away from southern California in Hyde Park, New York, and no one new me there. The fact that it was embroidered on all of my chef jackets not only made it easier (you didn't have to even introduce yourself, everyone just read your name on your jacket), but it made it seem more official.

Everyone at the CIA accepted that my name was Arnel. But a few weeks into school, it came out that my nickname was Scooter because Melanie or my parents would call and ask, and leave messages, for Scooter. A few of my classmates would occasionally call me Scooter, but for the most part I was able to stick with Arnel.

But almost immediately, I started to realize problems with with name "Arnel Salvatierra." First of all, although it's distinctive, it's also not easy to remember the first time you hear it. During an introduction, I almost always have to repeat it. The problem gets worse if the introduction is at a loud bar or party or if it's anytime people are drinking.

I'd have to guess that about 80 or 90% of people don't remember the name after five minutes. It was common for me to overhear someone whispering, "What's his name again?" Or if they kind of remember my name, it gets butchered in the recall. After being introduced to someone a few minutes earlier, "Arnel" would somehow get transformed into "Darnell," "Parnell," "Arnold," or -- the one I hated the most -- "Yarnell."

"Shields & Yarnell" was a duo of mimes who frequently made made guests appearances on talk shows and variety shows. They eventually got their own ridiculous variety show in the mid-1970s.

One of the funniest discombobulations of "Arnel" happened when I started working at Domaine Chandon. Jorge, one of the servers, couldn't quite remember my name. "What's the new guy's name again? Hormel??" Everyone busted up laughing, and after that, my nickname in the restaurant was "Chili."


But in the past few years, the biggest pain in the ass about using "Arnel Salvatierra" as my name is the most interesting (and the most perplexing).

Apparently, in the 1980s, there was another "Arnel Salvatierra" that became infamous for killing his father. Like me, he was Filipino (but not born in the United States), and like me, he lived in southern California (but in Glendale in Los Angeles County, not in Huntington Beach in Orange County).

The first time I became aware of this evil twin was back in culinary school around 2001. Josh, my roommate, told me that he had seen something on TV the night before and they mentioned my name. We laughed about it, but he thought it was the coolest thing that there was someone in prison with my name.

Now fast-forward to 2006.

Between 2001 and 2006, the Internet came of age, and Googling people you knew became a common occurrence. And if you Googled "Arnel Salvatierra," you would see a bunch of food and wine related stuff (ie. ME), and you'd see a bunch of news articles about the guy who killed his father (ie. the evil twin). And if you dug down a few pages on the search results, you'd also see a few other "Arnel Salvatierras" from around the world.

Now, while I'm obviously not the other guy who killed his father, that fact might not be that obvious to someone I've just met and doesn't know me at all. You can see the obvious problems this can cause (especially if I'm, oh let's say, at a party and chatting up a girl holding an iPhone in her hand).

But here's the rub...

The most bizarre thing about the whole identity mix-up is that even close friends and co-workers were starting to believe that (or at least wonder if) I was the evil twin!

And what's insidious is that rumors were beginning to spread but no one was confronting me or asking me about it!

There was one day that I walked into work at La Toque and I walked up to one of the computer terminals to clock in. But instead of the usual POS screen, a browser window had been opened and someone had pulled up one of the evil twin articles. I imagine that one of my co-workers had Googled me, and came to work and showed a bunch of other people what they had found. I clocked in and waited for someone to ask me about it...

Incredibly, no one ever brought it up.

On another occasion, I was having dinner with Jane, and the subject of my name came up. I explained to her that "Arnel" was actually my middle name, and I amusingly told her about the evil twin who had the same name. A serious look came over her face.

"You know, I didn't want to bring it up, but I heard that about you."

As it turns out, Jane's roommate was a gossipy former co-worker from Domaine Chandon and she had maliciously been spreading this rumor about me!

The last straw came a couple of months ago. I had been participating in a heated online discussion on Facebook about food trucks and restaurants in Napa. The administrator of the page didn't like / agree with my position and posted this:

"...for those of you with a couple of minutes to spare stick Arnel’s full name into Google and have a read of the 'substantiated' story at the top of the feed. Is this you Arnel because if it is you have a very colorful history?"

Can you FUCKING believe that?!

I composed a long letter of response that included the following:

"What is so saddening about your personal attack is that it had absolutely no bearing on the issues at hand. It comes across as a desperate attempt to derail the conversation by casting attention on my supposed past.

I consider that saddening, but what I find downright abhorrent is the fact that you are now attempting to fuel rumors about me, my character, and my past. And what for? Because you don't like the fact that I called for reason over rumor? You would let that difference of opinion be your motivation for publicly insinuating that I am a murderer??

I can only repeat that I'm shocked and saddened by this.

But for the record, let me publicly deny that I have not killed my father (or any other person, for that matter). Both of my parents are alive and well (well, actually, my father is battling diabetes and diverticulitis -- but at least he's alive). My parents have visited the Napa Valley several times in the 7 1/2 years I've lived here. Many of my friends have met them, there are pictures of them on my Facebook page, and they have dined at the Napa Valley restaurants in which I have worked as a restaurant manager and sommelier.

Speaking of my work experience, two of the restaurants I have previously managed are etoile (aka The Restaurant At Domaine Chandon) and The Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn. Because they are larger corporations, they require a full background check before being hired.

Despite the background checks and other restaurant employees having met my parents, rumors continue to circulate that I am a murderer. So, no, this is not the first time someone has Googled my name and this is not the first time I've had to deal with this. Usually, the rumor is whispered behind my back and I'm never confronted with it; consequently, I rarely have to opportunity to refute the allegation.

On the rare occasion that I do have an opportunity to address this rumor, I usually start with the question, "How many people in the world have the same name that YOU do?" As unique as "Arnel Salvatierra" may seem, in a world with 6.77 billion people, I can assure you that there are a bunch of other people with the same name. Type the name into Facebook, and you'll find four of them. Type the name into Google (as you directed the public to do) and if you look at several of the pages of results (not just the top, as you directed the public to do), you'll find even more. Click on Google Images and you'll even see pictures of them (along with some of mine).

So, no, I didn't kill anyone. And, yes, someone else has the same name that I do. If you, or anyone else for that matter, would like to run your own background check, I will happily provide my social security number for that purpose.

At this point, I don't think that I'm out of line by asking for your apology here. I also think that the responsible thing for you to do is remove that posted comment directing people to Google my name. And as the administrator of this page, and as someone who has posted defamatory, libelous speech I would also like to know your identity."

Crazy, right??

Anyway, I've been contemplating going back to using "Scott" and "Scooter" as my name for a few years, but I guess I've resisted because I've built up my reputation in the food and wine community as "Arnel."

I've also delayed because at La Toque, the wine director's name was Scott Tracy. And at Brick & Bottle, the original general manager was named Scott, and the chef's name is Scott Howard (what a nightmare that would have been to have three Scotts in management positions!). This goes right back to my earlier point that "Scott" is a pretty common name and not all that distinctive.

Also, I know how tough it is for people to disassociate you from a name that they are used to. Those who have always known me as "Scooter" always say things like, "That's weird... I can't call you 'Arnel.' You're not an 'Arnel' -- you're definitely a 'Scooter.'" And, of course, those who know me as "Arnel" say the exact opposite and think it's weird to call me "Scott" or "Scooter."

But a couple of weeks ago (after the aforementioned last straw), I finally bit the bullet and posted on Facebook, "Scooter's back!" I was really surprised to see how happy some people were that I was going back to my old name!


So, there you have it... The many stories of my names. Ultimately, whatever you decide to call me -- I'm still the same guy who loves food, wine, women, and video games (and still the same guy who hates vegetarians, mornings, and religion).

Lastly, you should know that I considered changing my name to something completely different. I mean, if I'm going to go to the trouble of making the transition, why not just choose something totally cool and badass?

Thor "God of Thunder" Salvatierra

Mom's Cookbook: A Retrospective

How many sculptures did Michaelangelo create? Answer: 31. How many songs has Dolly Parton claimed to have written? Answer: 5000. How many paintings did Picasso create? Answer: about 13,500.

Art -- whether it be painting, sculpture, music, architecture -- should be able to stand on its own. That is to say, a piece of art should be engaging all on its own, whether or not you know any details about the artist or when, how, or why it was created.

For example, I'm betting that we all first saw Van Gogh's "Starry Night" long ago, before we knew anything about Van Gogh, art theory, or post-impressionism. My first encounter with the piece was at my best friend's house. A reproduction was hanging in the living room, and I remember staring at it and having a visceral reaction to its dark, moody composition. Justin's mother told me that it was a famous painting by "Van Go" called "Starry, Starry Night," and I immediately declared it to be my favorite painting. I was eight years old.

"Starry Night" by Vincent Van Gogh


It wouldn't be until high school that I would learn more about art theory, and how different painters belonged to different art movements in history. Along with this new information, came a new and deeper appreciation of the work.

But it wasn't until my art survey classes at USC that I learned more about the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and how his art developed through the course of his life, all the way up until his death by suicide. To see the development of his use of color, and texture through the use of his brush strokes was to know the very story of his life. How was it that I had loved this painting my whole life and only now was I learning that he had painted it while he was in an asylum? How much more did I now love this painting knowing that it was part of a series of Starry Sky Paintings? (It was like discovering Starry Night had long lost cousins!)

"Starry Night Over The Rhone" by Vincent Van Gogh


Though Starry Night definitely stands on its own as Van Gogh's magnum opus, knowing all of the details of Van Gogh's life and development as an artist helps to bring the artwork into focus, and provides a lush depth to our understanding and appreciation.

If I took a poll of the general public and asked, "Which composer do you love more: Mozart or Beethoven?" I'd be willing to bet money that Mozart would win by a landslide. Both were geniuses -- of that, there's no doubt. Both were prolific composers, and both began composing before age 10, and both composed right up until their respective deaths.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart vs. Ludwig Van Beethoven


But if Mozart is the more popular (IE. "more pop"), it's precisely because his life was perhaps less extraordinary than Beethoven's. Sure, if you've seen the movie "Amadeus," then you know that he had some daddy issues and was buried in a pauper's mass grave... But compared side-by-side with Beethoven's life, on whole, Mozart led a pretty boring life. Similarly, if you compare their respective bodies of work side-by-side, you'll undoubtedly see development and (sometimes daring) innovation, but it's Beethoven's life/work that is filled with pathos and drama. Did you know that Beethoven's 9th symphony (known as "Ode To Joy") was composed when he was 54 years old, nearing the end of his life, and was at that point completely deaf?

The idea that art, in all its forms, stands alone and in the context of its history is not a new one. (I'm just not that original.) But you don't have to have a formal education to be able to observe this kind of evolution, as contemporary examples are all around us. If you're familiar with Michael Jackson singing "ABC," "Billy Jean," "Thriller," and "Man In The Mirror," then you've witnessed the evolution of this artist first hand.



Okay, so now let's talk about food.

I think that most people will agree that food and cooking can be elevated to the point of being "art." Indeed, my degree from The Culinary Institute of America was in "Culinary Arts."

You don't need to be a great "artist" to paint. And yet, we generally accept that if you (the everyday schlub) paint something, it's automatically "art." If we extend this idea to food and the culinary arts, then isn't it fair to say that you don't need to be a great chef to create "art" out of food? Furthermore, if every painting, great or not, is art, then isn't every dish we cook or create also art?

Stay with me on this...

If every dish you cook or create is art, then you should be able to examine everything you ever cooked in your life as part of a larger body of work -- just like the collected works of Beethoven or Van Gogh.

Surely, you would see that your tastes and food preferences change over the course of your life, along with your technical cooking skills. But it would also reflect where you lived at different times of your life, who your friends were, what the food trends were, and even the social politics of the day. If you grew up in Kansas, but then went to college in Los Angeles, did you learn to make tamales and California rolls? If you lived through the 1950s and 60s, did you have a go-to aspic/Jell-O mold that you made for parties? Or maybe at some point you found yourself living in the Napa Valley and jumping on the organic / sustainable / local bandwagon?

So, of course, this got me thinking about my own life's cookbook as a reflection of my life story. What would be the first dish, the first thing I ever "cooked?" Well it wasn't really cooking, but my bet would be that the first page of my cookbook would be something like celery sticks with peanut butter from around the time that I was 7 years old.

But the one thing I'm pretty sure of, is that the first thing I really cooked (ie. using heat on the stove) on my own is Kraft Macaroni and Cheese out of the box. I was about 9 years old. The directions were pretty simple (to read and to follow), and all I needed was a chair to stand on at the stove. I remember following the directions to the letter, including "fill a saucepan with 8 cups cold water." It's funny to think that I measured out that water so carefully, as if a little bit more or a little bit less would ruin the dish!


I became pretty proud of my Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and after awhile, I started to vary the directions a little. The directions said to boil for 7 1/2 minutes, so what would happen if I boiled it for 8 or 9 minutes? Ah! I see... the texture of the macaroni is too soft! Does it matter what order I add the milk, butter, and cheese sauce powder into the macaroni? (The answer is yes -- the cheese sauce powder tends to clump more if you add it first, and it's harder to stir it into a smooth consistency.)

In retrospect, I see that I was just like a little painter, painting the same landscape over and over again, perfecting it, and then experimenting with variations of it.

I wish I did have such a cookbook of my life. I'm curious to know what was the first thing I cooked in my first apartment? (I bet it was something like Cup-O-Noodles.) Or what I cooked after that devastating car accident that almost killed me and left me with a broken arm and barely able to walk. (I bet it was something like Cup-O-Noodles.) What did I cook after I got my first job that paid $1000 a week? (Probably something like Cup-O-Noodles and a rib-eye steak.)

My life's cookbook won't really be completed until I die (or become so invalid that I can't cook anymore). And because context is everything, I think now I'll be more cognizant of not just what I'm cooking, but also why I'm cooking it.

For instance, tonight, I'm cooking Chicken Kiev (using a grand cru butter called Celles Sur Belle), Joël Robuchon's pommes purée, and fennel braised in butter and orange juice. And the context? Well, it's because it's my turn to host ManDinner, and tonight's theme is "butter!"

Aside from my own life's cookbook, I wonder even more about what my mother's cookbook would look like. My mother is one of the greatest culinary influences of my life, and I know full well her greatest "compositions" ("Bravo! Bravo, Mom! Can I have some more, please!!") and her worst, barely edible art ("No, thanks, Mom... I'll just have some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal for dinner.").

Born in 1943, Mom grew up in the Philippines in the 1950s. In America, it was the setting for the TV series "Mad Men," and though it was quite different in the Philippines, somethings were definitely the same. Mom has told me about the Home Ec classes that she had in school, and they were definitely boot camps for the housewives of the 50s and 60s. Consequently, I recall being very young -- four or five years old -- and watching my mother make (from scratch) creme caramel custards, and angel food cakes iced with buttercream frosting. She would effortlessly decorate cakes with pink buttercream roses, complete with green leaves and stems.

Mom in Chicago, May 1968, at a baby shower thrown by her friends. She was six months pregnant with me. (And that's not one of her cakes -- it's too plain looking!)


Around the time I was 9 or 10 years old, Mom started exploring the culinary traditions of different cultures. If Pablo Picasso had his Blue Period and Rose Period, Mom had her American Period, Mexican Period, Italian Period, and Japanese Period.

Before the American Period, Mom and Lola (my grandmother who lived with us) cooked Filipino food almost exclusively. And so, when I was about 9 (I don't remember exactly), it was with great anticipation that Mom, all by herself and without anyone to show her the way, cooked her first Thanksgiving Dinner.

Yes, I can hear you chuckling -- and rightly so. Thanksgiving Dinner, as we all know, is a challenging endeavor. And let me just remind you that there are no turkeys in the Philippines. But Mom eventually became a pro, and after a few years, her Thanksgiving Dinner was indistinguishable from Mrs. Jones' of East Coast Joneses.

Well, except for that one year where she decided to experiment a little.

Again, I don't remember the exact year, but I think it was sometime in my late 20s. In a lot of Asian cultures, when roasting a pig, it's often stuffed with really aromatic ingredients like lemongrass and ginger. Well, Mom thought she'd try it in a Thanksgiving turkey one year. It wasn't bad, mind you, but it just wasn't Thanksgiving. I just remember my sister and I being able to smell the Turkey from five feet away, and just standing there and staring at it.

Equally, as disappointing was Mom's first attempt at Linguine with Clams (Italian Period, c. 1981). I recall the "sauce" to be more like salty water, and not being able to get the wet linguine to stay on my fork. The only way I could get traction on the damn noodles was to heap on tons of Kraft Parmesan Cheese from that green cardboard can. (And don't even try and pretend that your family didn't always have it on hand, too.)


Now, lest I give the impression that Mom was a bad cook, let me just tell you right now: she's not. She would eventually go on to perfect all the dishes she attempted, and she's one of the most versatile cooks I know. It doesn't matter if you're talking about Thai spring rolls, fire-roasted Mexican salsa, or Italian lasagna -- she can outcook everyone I know, including myself.

These are just a couple of examples of her growing, experimenting, and generally finding her own way. As a self-taught cook, keep in mind that she was a mother of four young children, with a full-time career. Honestly, I don't know where she found the time. But watching her grow as a cook helped to foster my passion for food and taught me to try different things without fear of failure.

If it were only possible to collect everything my mother ever cooked into one giant cookbook! Imagine, you'd be able to see the evolution of the failures into the defining dishes that they are today (as Mom's lasagna was not always so). And I wonder, what was the first thing she ever cooked for my Dad? Did she try to impress him with something fancy, or did she go for some sure-fire comfort dish? What was the first thing she cooked after her mother passed away? Was it one of her mother's dishes that reminded Mom of her?

Through the dishes that she cooked everyday, you'd be able to see the good days and the bad days. You'd see the Philippines, New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles. You'd see every decade from the 1950s to the present. You'd see the lean days of an immigrant in a foreign land, as well as the prosperity of a successful American professional. You'd see her as a daughter, a sister, a friend, a girlfriend, a wife, a mother, and as a grandmother. In short... you would see her whole life.

Oh, and by the way, with respect to this blog post... Today is my mom's birthday. How's that for context?

The Signs Of A Woman

For years, I've kept a basket in my living room, and if you've ever left anything behind at my place, chances are you can find it in what has been affectionately named "The Ho's Lost-and-Found." If you know me well, you know that most of my friends are women. But even if you don't know me well, it shouldn't be a surprise to know that it's women, more so than men, that tend to forget and leave things behind. In The Ho's Lost-and-Found you'll find everything, including phone chargers, hair clips and ties, lipsticks and lip balms, sunglasses, wallets, watches and jewlery, and various articles of clothing. The articles of clothing are everything you can think of including skirts, shoes and gloves.


When I find something that has been left behind I always put it into the lost-and-found -- but, usually not for a day or two. Instead, I like to leave it right where it is for awhile.

If, in the morning, I find a pair of your earrings on the coffee table, I'm likely to leave it there for the rest of the day -- right next to the lipstick stained Champagne flute that you were sipping from the night before.

I love the sight of it as a reminder of our time together.


It might be your Gucci watch that you left on the bathroom counter, or it might be the fancy hair clip you put on the table behind my couch when you pulled your hair down. Seeing it the next day helps to evoke a stronger emotional memory, and for a few seconds, winds the clock back a few hours.

But sometimes, the things that I find in my apartment are from times that I'm not even around. These little tableaus are my most favorite!


I love seeing the signs of a woman -- the signs that let me know that she was there. But maybe even more so, I love the way it makes me wonder about what she might have been doing while she was alone. I think women are wonderful and mysterious creatures and for some reason I find even their most mundane to be fascinating.

Many years ago, I lived with my (now ex) girlfriend, Lisa. There were times that we had opposite work schedules, and as a restaurant manager, it wasn't uncommon for me to come home at 1am and Lisa would already be in bed, asleep. But in the couple of hours I needed to unwind before bed, I'd find all kinds of clues of Lisa's evening without me. I remember once that I found her red Dansko clogs (she was a pastry cook and red was her favorite color) in the middle of the hallway. That's odd, I thought. She didn't take them off at the door, or maybe in the bathroom while she was undressing... she took them off right in the middle of the hallway? And then I realized that I was standing in front of the heater in the hallway. She must have kicked them off seconds after she came home and, as she often did on cold nights, warmed herself in front of the heater. Thanks to her red clogs, I could see it even though I hadn't been there.

That was about seven years ago.

Most recently, my friend, Hadley, came to live with me for the month of March while she attended the Wine Immersion program at the CIA Greystone campus. More than a decade earlier, Hadley’s oldest sister, Bijou, was my classmate in culinary school at the CIA in Hyde Park, New York – so that’s how I know Hadley. She comes from a family of foodies and wine lovers (and her family owns a winery in Idaho), so it’s no surprise that we got along famously.

But before Hadley arrived, I have to admit that I was a little worried. I hadn’t lived with anyone in such a long time… my gut was that this was either going to work out great, or it was going to be a disaster.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a disaster.

Hadley ended up being exactly what I needed in my life at the moment to break the monotony of my routine. She’s active and upbeat. She got me brushing up on my wine knowledge with her afterschool questions. Her smile never failed to brighten my day, and it was nice to hear the sound of a woman singing while she studied. And while it might seem odd to some (but not so odd if you know me), I really loved doing the housekeeping for someone else. I also loved having to take someone else into consideration on a day-to-day basis… Like I said, it had been a long time.

But I digress…

Living with Hadley was great, and I liked seeing evidence of her around the apartment: Greek yogurt in the fridge, her Macbook on the dining table, her Specialized bike chained to the post next to my parking space. But my favorite reminders that she was living with me were the personal things that were symbolic, not just of her presence, but of her femininity: her shoes in the living room, her hair ties or the corkscrew shaped bobby pins, her rings on the bathroom counter.

Again, sometimes it’s about finding things and picturing the moment they were set there.

One day I came home to find Hadley’s earrings on the kitchen counter, right in front of the basket where we kept different loaves of bread. It was about 5:30pm and she wasn’t home. I knew that she got off school about 4pm, usually got home about 4:30pm, and then would often go to a yoga class or ride her bike to the Oxbow market to sit and study over coffee or a snack. But sometime between getting home and leaving for wherever she had gone, she had taken her earrings off and put them on the kitchen counter.

Maybe she had taken them off in another part of the house, gotten distracted doing something else, and set them down as she walked through the kitchen? Or maybe she was nibbling on a piece of bread from Tartine Bakery, when her mobile rang, and she took the earrings off because of the way they rub when she’s on the phone? It didn’t really matter – I just loved the sign Hadley had left behind that she had been there.

Another time, I woke up on the weekend in the early afternoon. Hadley had gone off to Point Reyes to ride with some friends. I found a rinsed off plate and coffee mug in the sink, one of the dining chairs pulled out, and this months’s Elle magazine sitting askew on the table. I imagined Hadley sitting there with the morning sun at her back, nibbling on toast and flipping the pages of the fashion magazine. The thought of it made me smile.


Hadley left on April the 5th, back to her life at the family winery in Idaho. The month had flown by, and she had taken her final wine exam. I was sad to see her go. But even as we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, I anticipated (and was even comforted by the idea) that she had probably left something behind.

When I went upstairs, I started looking around. Would it be her shampoo and razor in the shower? Nope. Would it be a hair tie on the nightstand? Nope. Maybe one of her rings in the pocket of the bathrobe I had lent her? Nope.

Hadley was an experienced traveler, and as such, I realized, she was too conscientious to leave anything behind. Indeed, there wasn’t even any cleaning up left for me to do -- she had even laundered her sheets and taken out the trash from her wastebasket. She hadn’t left anything behind, and there was hardly a trace that she’d been there at all.

I was kinda sad the rest of the day, and I missed the sound of Hadley’s voice, her smell, her stuff in the bathroom. I missed her presence.

And then, at about 10pm that night, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. And as I brushed away, I looked down, and in the sink I saw two long strands of ginger colored hair. My heart warmed, and I was careful as I spit and rinsed. I didn’t splash her hair with water, I didn’t wash it down the sink. I left it just as was it was for a day or two.