Sain't Christopher

Survey

I get these about every three months and,because they usually show up at a time when I don't want to work, I answer them.

1. What is your Full Name? Christopher Michael Skrocke, Lord of the Dance.

2. What color trousers are you wearing right now? Hound’s-tooth. Even though I'm supposed to wear black, I'm feeling very proletariat today and wanted to show solidarity with my working brothers. If you don't know that I'm a chef, this doesn't make sense.

3. What are you listening to right now? "Sailing" by Christopher Cross. I bought a radio for the kitchen and never in my sleep deprived fantasies did I think that the majority would choose KOIT The Quiet Storm.

4. What are the last two digits of your phone number: Those would be the ones furthest to the right.

5. If you were a crayon what color would you be? Either Indian Red or Flesh- both of which are discontinued and only inadvertently racist.

6. How is the weather right now? Huge, it takes up all of outsides.

7. Last person you talked to on the phone? Dawnami, goddess.

8. First thing you notice about the opposite sex? That opposite isn't the same a different.

9. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes, we've been close since she reconstructed my lung with only a penknife and a bottle of quick dry white-out.

10. How are you today? Exhausted. It's Wednesday and I've already put in 42 hours this week.

11. Favorite Drink? Vernors- America's oldest soft drink.

12. Favorite Alcoholic Drink? My Grandfather's Martini- 3 to 1 Seagrams Gin to Noilly Pratt vermouth, two olives, twist. Stirred.

13. Hair Color? Those that are left do indeed have color.

14. Last time you kissed somebody and who? Gonna take a pass on this one, have to maintain executive privilege.

15. Do you prefer rainy mornings or rainy nights? Afternoons, dammit! A book, a couch, rain, sleep- pure bliss.

16. Siblings? One. A great gal whom I have grown very fond of- last birthday card I sent her read "Happy Birthday, from Mom's favorite." Last card she sent me, "You're one year older, and one year closer to dressing like Dad." Can't you feel the love?

17. Favorite Month? Doesn't really matter in SF, mostly they seem like May.

18. Favorite Food? Right now, I'd love an almost overly ripe peach.

19. Last Movie you watched? Touching the Void. It’s about mountain climbing, one guy cuts the rope, and the other guy climbs down the mountain on a broken leg. Yeah, it’s a musical.

20. Favorite Day of the Year? The first night of the year when you can go out at night in a t-shirt.

21. Are you too shy to ask someone out? No, but I do tend to stumble when we start talking money.

22. Summer or Winter? Fall

23. Hugs or Kisses? Holding hands.

24. Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate- Cocoa Berry Cafe Noir, 72%, coveture. mmmmmmmm

25. Do you want your friends to write back? Of course. But what I really want are post cards.
Send to:
Saint Christopher
P.O. 641213
San Francisco, CA 94164

26. Who is most likely to respond? Since I'm posting this, don't expect a response- so it’s just like a date.

27. Who is least likely to respond? See above.

28. Living Arrangements? I've convinced my red blood cells to carry oxygen for the time being, but there is always a chance of renegotiation.

29. What books are you reading? No Books at the moment, so very sad.

30. What's on your mouse pad? The mouse. Don't they know how these things work?

31. Favorite Board Game? Scrabble, but only by the rules Holly and I came up with. If you come across the word beer, it's okay to change it to beerest- my favorite beer. Spelling and vocabulary are easy, wit is a challenge.

32. What did you do last night? Fed a six course meal to a French wine society. They sang a thank you song to me at the end of the night, honest injun!

33. What is your favorite smell? I love scratching the skin of tangerines, such a great smell.

34. Can you touch your nose with your tongue? Never tried. If you have sinus problems it's not very tempting.

35. Favorite Flower? Lilacs. A true sign of spring (also lets you know the perch are running).

36. What is the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning? Okay, funny story. Tonight a 46 year old co-worker and I were talking about the joy of sleeping in and he said, "ah, its not the same at my age, now if I wake up I can't go back to sleep 'cause I have to piss." Tomorrow, I'll be thinking about that.

Go in Peace

Proof 1.0

I could write material for Jay Leno, it is so easy. Check this out:

So, today President Bush agreed to let Condalezza Rice testify, under oath, in front of the 9/11 investigation committee. The President insisted on some guidelines: first, this wouldn't set a precedent; second, no one else from the White House would be called to testify; and third, she can keep her fingers crossed.

Hi-yo!

Go in Peace

Insight

Part of having this site is the self-pressure to put up a new post every day. It's not just the guilt of depriving my wit and insight from the 21.78 regular readers, it's the other part. The hamster told me about the stats and visitors page and now I check it several times a day. My numbers have been dropping and I don't want to have to go full frontal . . .

But what if you got nothing? Or at least, nothing good.

Okay, I haven't really held to the "good" standard. But I definitely don't have a whole entry.

After the passage about my sinuses (ha!) I had started a bit about having a popcorn piece stuck in my gum for two days. And that is why I don't have a fully realized new post - I realized that a complete inventory of my body might not be as fascinating as it seems. This is what I got:

For two days now my tongue has visited this lodged kernal with a frequency, intensity, and curiosity that contradicts the accusations of several former girlfriends.

And where do you go after that, I ask you.

Go in Peace

Canterbury Tale 1

Collectively, the cats, Siamese* and Persian**, turned 60 this month. To celebrate the birth of these two beautiful felines, a bus was rented and some 26 of us took a trip up to the Alexander Valley for wine tasting.

Each had their own friends and we sort of settled into politial/tribal/zones. The Siamese’s friends grabbed the back of the bus bringing with them half a case of wine, two smelly Irish cheeses, chips and crackers, bread, and some dental floss. Yes, we were the older group. The Persian’s friends dug in up front and had vitaman waters. Then there were the three benches I called Kashmir, an area both sides claimed at times. At 10ish we were strapped in and Megs made sure we had permission slips and had chosen a buddy before we lurched off toward wine county.

Two of the Siamese’s friends had come in the night before and I’d met them for cocktails. Quite the learning experience. Did you know?
- What the acronym THO stands for?
- There’s a theory that bush trimming leads to “dripping”.

And so much more. We had a great time and 8 hours later we were on a bus opening a bottle of Van der Heyden table white.

Four wineries and several hundred dollars of accrued dry-cleaning bills later, we were telling each other what a great time we’d had, and asking could we now nap. For photos go here and see how attractive we all are.

More to tell, later. It's nap time

* Siamese- Striking, sleek, smart and likely to scratch.
** Persian- Pretty, provocative, playful and likely to purr.
Go in Peace

Tears

My allergies have been killing me.

I moved out here, partly, to get away from the suffering of hay fever in Michigan. And for the first few years it worked. It was sooooo great to wake up breathing clearly each morning knowing that my snoring no longer set off car alarms. Yeah, San Francisco was lowest for ragweed and hayfever . . . a Doctor told me that. Part of the way I'd paid for college was volunteering for medical studies and allergy studies gave treatment along with some coin. After years of adult onset asthma and a whole alphabet of pills and sprays I felt great.

Eucalyptus. No one told me about Eucalyptus pollen. All over this town, every spring morning, the damn plants shoot up these little snot bombs into the on-shore wind that comes right at Nob Hill and my sinuses. And I'm right back where I started. Much like an old stone fence or a pledge to not drink in the afternoon, my natural resistance crumbled. Now I wake each morning and walk out into the maelstrom of pollen and my eyes are replaced with those leaky Dow breast implants. After a while I just give up and let the saline run.

Two days ago I was sitting on the cable car and a woman crossed the street to hop on. Climbing up on the bench near me, this sad man crying in public, she couldn't keep from watching. I kept a vacant, unfocused stare into the distance.

"I can't believe Shandi lost on America's Next Top Model."

And she moved a little bit aways.

Go in Peace

Temporary Faith

Fans
The Bay Area doesn’t have fans so much as they have people who like winners. This makes sense in a population made up of transplants, people who looked at their hometown’s disappearing industrial base, community theater, and morning farm report then chose to go with a winner, the Bay Area. A team's popularity is bonded to its' success like ugly to an Osborne and that's why 49er’s games are easily accessable and Warriors' tix are snuck inside Whopper wrappers these days while, up until Saturday’s bitch-slap by Alabama, Stanford red was everywhere. This town loves a winner and almost nothing else. Want proof? The San Jose Sharks, now pretty much assured of winning their division, got moved to the Sporting Green’s front page once they became the only local team with a shot of reassuring the locals that they are worthy of championship team. There are true fans, of course. These are usually natives and they are as faithful to their teams as locals pretty much anywhere. There are just so damned few of them. My buddy, Kevin, is one. He grew up with these teams and would never consider not supporting his locals. To give him full credit, he’s been going to Sharks games since their inception in 1991 and it takes a certain character to stay faithful to a losing team. I know, I went through the ‘70s watching the Red Wings challange the term "organized" sport.

Sports
You know, Sports: the green spaces in trivial pursuit that give everyone chance to pee or change the cd. I remember a SNL skit way back where a man challenges the Grim Reaper to a game of TP. The subjects: Death, death, death, death, death, and sports. As a youth I faithfully read the sports page, collected Topps cards, and played backyard versions with neighbor kids Wallace and Theodore. I memorized the batting averages of the Detroit Tigers, stayed up at night listening to Sid Abel broadcast Wings games, watched pro-bowling with my Mom on Saturday’s, and even spent more than one afternoon engrossed with the CBC’s curling broadcast. I played pick-up games offootball, baseball, and basketball . . . until I had my first girlfriend. All except for watching curling on Sundays. At the same time I learned open mouthed kissing with Dianne I’d also discovered that my mother, and most other mothers, had valium in their medicine cabinets. Nothing quite like an afternoon of making out, benzodiazepine and curling (I love this photo: curling irons . . .ha!)

While I was in the Army I followed the Tigers and Pistons but lost track of the Wings. Hockey had been tried with the Atlanta Flames then exiled to Calgary in 1980, making hockey along with incest and Civil War battle victories as topics to be avoided. October 1984 five of us drove up from Ft. Gordon, GA just to be in town for the Tigers world series victory over San Diego- one of the last great white riots. I was living back home when the ‘80s Pistons played in three consecutive championship games, winning back to back in ’89 and ’90. And I was a total fan! I loved the way the Pistons played such a strong defensive game- they owned all the records for lowest scoring games and such. They played it like hockey, physical and explosive. Not everyone loved it, however. Too slow, too low scoring, doesn’t sell the product were the complaints laid against the Detroit style. Michael Jordon was the future. Ratings went through the roof when Michael played, more than Ervin Johnson (you late-comers called him “magic”), more than Bird . . . the NBA was practically touching itself with the expectation that MJ would take the NBA past baseball and football to become the national sport. Except for those damned Pistons. Isiah Thomas may be the prettiest man in sports, bringing a lot of women to the couches next to their man, but his team put the Bulls out of the playoffs three straight years. Well, they couldn’t have this. There was a simple solution: traveling would never be called as a penalty ever again. Surprise! The Bulls go to win it all for three straight years. Or so I’m told, I’d lost interest in a sport that could just as easily start the game at 90 each and play for five minutes.

Which brings me back to hockey. I met Kevin when we both worked at the F-mont in ’93 and finally I had somebody to talk hockey with. Granted, I’d lost touch in three years and embarrassed myself by not remembering how to pronounce the last name of Patrick Roy (sounds like wah!) , but I was thrilled to find someone who also appreciated the finest points of hockey.
· Defense, the game is ultimately about defense
· Rule enforcement that a 2 year old understands. Break the rules, you get sent to a room for a “time out”.
· Hustle: let’s face it, pro basketball players and baseball players mail it in most of the time. Skaters just seem to give you an honest effort for your buck.
· Toughness and commitment: I’ve lost count of the number of hockey players who went kept playing with broken bones and other serious injuries while baseball players are so inactive in their game that they are constantly sidelined for “pulling” things. And the fact that touching a player’s arm is a penalty tells you everything you need to know about basketball.
Kevin and I are just the types of geeks that wait, almost daily, for some baseball/football/basketball bandwagon fan to ask “did you see the game last night?” and we’d answer, “yeah, couldn't believe the way Owen pulled that shorthanded goal out of his ass in the third.” The bewildered look on their faces is just precious. Kevin has taught me to appreciate the Tour de France as possibly the toughest physical competition going- I took him to his first lacrosse game (unfortunately the indoor variety) and we both were up at all hours watching the last world cup (nothing wrong with soccer that a shot clock wouldn’t fix). A few year's ago I took my whole kitchen crew to a game and all the third-worlders loved it. Like their beloved soccer, hockey has off-sides and cheap shots so there was common ground

Sports Writers
The Sharks had a record six years straight on improved their record culminating by winning the Pacific Division in ’02, all of which resulted in the occassional snotty article by the Chron's Ray Ratto. Kevin gave up years ago and switched to the Merc for his morning fix. Last year I started going on-line to get my Wings coverage (still my team). But things have changed now that the Sharks surprised everyone by securing a playoff spot, leading their division, and having a shot at gaining home ice advantage for the first two rounds. This year’s Sharks were written off by everyone- Kevin and me included. Last season’s team was picked to be Cup contenders but everything went wrong like a Vermont Governor's Presidential bid. At mid-season the new owners gave up faster than a French Armored division, selling and trading away a slew of top players to cut payroll. All the “fans” disappeared and the sellouts we’d gotten used to over the years were gone. We went to opening game this season and it didn’t bode well, the boys played like sick nuns. 10 games in it looked bad and the Sharks (and Hockey coverage on the whole) were relegated to the back page of the sports section. But somewhere in the next month a great story began. A team put together with little money, varied experience, and a sense of “fuck you, we can do this” has ended up with the fifth best record overall. Whoa, you’d figure that the bandwagon and seats would be full. And it might happen now that Stanford’s moment is over. In the void, Kevin was able to snag himself playoff tix for all home games. Good one, Kevin.

Go in Peace

Manna 04:02

Manna 04:02

Tonight we had another function and the menu was typical “Club” food. At least, it’s what I’m trying my best to convince them is “Appropriate” club food. That is, something a familiar but presented in a style not older than 20 years; it has to be made from the finest ingredients and cooked perfectly. I’d like to take credit for it, and during my performance review. . . I did, but it is really it comes from the hard work of some of the best cooks I’ve ever worked with.

Frissee Salad with Roasted Pear, Point Reyes Blue, and Candied Walnuts
· Classically this would have been iceberg lettuce dripping with a generic blue cheese dressing (don’t believe that Roquefort dressing is really AOL Roquefort in the mix) and a cherry tomato on top. By crumbling a lovely artisinal blue instead of a thick dressing, the tongue isn’t covered with mayo and a person can taste the Chardonnay. Also, the candy on the nut cuts the bitterness of the green. Pears and blue cheese is one of those flavor marriages (which isn’t allowed . . . after the homosexuals next up will be civil unions between nuts and dairy products).

Sauteed SeaBass with Citrus-Green Peppercorn Sauce, Grilled Scallion
· In 1960something Paul Bocuse took a piece of salmon and changed the culinary world. Traditionally, the salmon would have been poached and served ON a thickened cream sauce (béchamel). Instead he sautéed the fish and served a butter sauce (beurre blanc) OVER the fish. I’ll pause while you catch your breath, I know I’m flummoxed. The seabass was line caught grouper, a lovely semi-firm fish with a bit of sweetness, which sautees well. It’s not a full butter sauce, I cut it down to half butter and half citrus juice and a sixth honey. See, I’m such a good cook I can make a sauce that defies math.

Herb Crusted Rack of Lamb, Curried Potatoes, Sauteed Blue Lake Beans
· We’ve all been there, a large banquet with food that is a)cooked to the right doneness and cold or b) warm but the food ranges from medium rare to overdone. It’s a hard thing to get a couple hundred pieces of meat, of varying thickness and marbling to do what you want unless you’re Johnny Depp stripped to the waist at the Freedom Parade (Ba-zing!). Sorry. Back to the lamb- Mr. Way can prepare perfect hot medium rare for up to 300. Honest, I don’t think I could pull it off and aside from Kevin or, maybe, Will I don’t too many others that could- but this guy’s been doing it for 26 years. Sometimes giants do walk among us.

California Almond Cake, Persian Lime Curd, Raspberry Coulis
· Stole the cake recipe from the Pastry Chef at Greens and the Curd came from a guy at the Ritz. Simple rule to being a successful Chef: only steal good recipes! I love this combo, simple honest flavors that are not overly sweet. Desserts drive me nuts- I am so sick of Chocolate Suicide, XXX Mocha Brownie and other badly named over the top confections. Here’s another rule- the dessert should be no more than two degrees sweeter than coffee or at least two degrees less sweet than the dessert wine.

See, it is just my goal not just to entertain, but to educate.

Go in Peace

Manna 04:01

Here are two of the courses we put out tonight.

This is the starter: Grilled Steelhead Trout on Braised Lentils, Grapefruit Beurre Blanc, Sautee'd Pear Tomatoes and Chanterelles.

This is the Entree': Peppercorn Crusted Veal Loin, Foie Gras Sauce, Potato-Leek Gratin, Sauteed Swiss Chard.

I try not to write too much about my actual job. Hell, sometimes I think I do this blog so that I can tolerate my job. This doesn't mean I don't love what I do- I'm just not thrilled by who I do it with. Professionally, I'm having break-up sex.

Go in Peace

Oracle

With just 30 shopping days left until my 39th birthday, it is becoming clear that I'm well on my way to being the mean old neighbor, shaking his fist at the kids playing on the lawn. Examples from the past four days:

St. Patrick's evening: At Chevy's Mexican grill, oy, I ordered 1 cocktail from the waiter, after 20 minutes he brought the wrong one and I went to the bar instead. Sent back the first drink and the waiter brought be another wrong drink, two hours and I couldn't get one correct drink. The waiter screwed up everyone's check and I went to the manager.
Manger to Waiter: I'm getting tired of having this problem here.
Me to Manager: The Service Industry can't save everyone.

St. Patrick's night: Called the police when the bar downstairs was still whooping it up at 2:35am.

Friday night: Passed this teen on Polk wearing hair and a leather a'la Sid Vicious '77. He noticed me looking, opened his shirt and read the legend to me-
Kid: Puck Rock isn't a crime!
Me: Even if it was, I'm sure the statue of limitations ran out by '84.

Later Friday night: The Divine Miss L has had a bad week. It culminated in a chair falling off a truck and landing on her car.
Me: I dunno,L. Have you considered switching Gods. Judiasm doesn't seem to be working out for you.

Saturday morning, waken from a rare late sleep by my Mom's phone call:
Me: I've told you not to call before 9 my time.
Mom: What's the magic word?
Me: Nursing Home.

Saturday Afternoon: Drove out to Napa to give the Divine Ms. L a bouqet of spring flowers. As we walked out she showed me the damaged car. What will cost her K's of dollars, on a pre-plastic-unibody car, would have been fixed for a couple o' hundred with one or two phone calls to a junk yard and a quart of bondo. While looking at it I said, "That's why I wouldn't by a car built after 1987!" and she gave me one of those looks, you are so cute, Paw-paw.

Saturday Evening: After driving for 4 hours listening to 101.3 I got fed up with the DJ mispronouncing Christina Aguilera's name again and again. "Okay, we're giving away two tickets to Christina Ar-gyoo-letta . . ." and right after she did this, every damn time, they ran a commercial mentioning the concert with the name pronounced correctly. I pulled into the Marin City Starbucks and sent an e-mail clueing her in. I also thought of letting her know there was a waiter job opening soon at the Embarcadero Chevy's, but didn't.

Saturday Night: I'm next in line at Tower Records and an agitated man, a street performer with his skin painted silver, is openly frustrated and tired of waiting behind a slow couple at the other register. As one who supports the arts, I signal for him cut ahead of me. He doesn't even say thanks, which the clerk notices. Tin man then stays there, doesn't move out of the way at all, counting his change, opening the cassette, mumbling to himself, even as the clerk is trying to ring me up.
Clerk: That was nice of you to let him go ahead of you.
Me: We all have to do our part until Dorothy can get him to the wizard.

And to top this all off, I spent who knows how much of today walking around with my zipper at half mast. I wish I was richer or more creative and I could claim eccentricity. Nope, on my way to becoming Grandpa Simpson.

Go in Peace.

Pariah

While I was editing Solomon it, I came accross a bio for MC5 drummer Dennis Thompson and put it together that he was the annoying, drunk drummer for Destroy All Monsters. The night they came to Paycheck's, I cut him off. Never put it together about the MC5 connection.

I bring this up because, as I approach my fiftieth post, I've been re-reading and it seems that I'm a bit of a name dropper. Not that I feel like one. No, I'm just a Chef who's bumped around a bit. Kind of a younger Forrest Gump without the insight.

Of course, as a chef, I can make my own damn chocolates.

Go in Peace