A couple of weeks ago, The Economist, in an article on Argentina, said, A century ago….for the young and ambitious the choice between Argentina and California was a hard one.
I am surely glad that my grandparents, Johanna von Borstal and Otto Rambowski – later know as Bambow and Paul Rambow, to us kids – made the right choice.
I had lunch with my daughter a couple of days ago and, concerned about traffic crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, I left for home early. There wasn’t any traffic, so I took a detour up to an old Nike Hercules battery overlooking San Francisco. Standing there, looking at the view, I remembered one warm summer morning in 1965, when I drove a general up to this battery.
I was a Sergeant – a buck sergeant, E5 – teaching Germans at Orogrande, New Mexico, when I met General Lolli. He had recently taken over the 28th NORAD Region – I thought it was the Eighth Region, but Google tells me, No, it was the Twenty Eight NORAD/Western NORAD Region – and Lolli was on a tour of various training facilities. Since I was from the Bay Area, he asked me if I wanted to be stationed in Sausalito and be his driver. I said something like Yes! Sir! and told my fellow teachers and my commander that I would soon be transferred to San Francisco. Then…nothing happened; for just long enough for everybody to think I had become slightly delusional. It wasn’t until about two weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon, that I was called into my Battery Commander’s office and told to report to Major General Andrew Lolli at Hamilton Air Force Base by 8 AM the following Monday.
While we were stationed at Hamilton Air Force Base, Lolli was an Army general – the only Army commander of a NORAD region – and I was his Army driver so I had to live at an Army facility. Fort Baker was the closest Army barracks and I had a private room near the entry (General Lolli lived at the Fontana West in San Francisco). Almost every morning, he would drive across the Golden Gate bridge and pick me up at Fort Baker, I would salute him and then drive him to Hamilton. On this particular morning, Lolli told me to drive him up the hill to the Nike Hercules Missile Site overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.
As an aside, this was the height of the Cold War and the country was in full, paranoic, war hysteria. Schoolkids would practice hiding under our desks when the air raid sirens went off outside; F 101 Voodoo fighters, would take off out of Hamilton Air Base, looking for nuclear armed Russian TU-16 Badger heavy bombers; and our final defence was a series of twenty four Nike Hercules Surface to Air Missile – SAMs to the cognoscenti – sites around the Bay Area. I am not sure if this battery had missiles armed with nuclear weapons but the system was designed for nukes. End aside.
As we drove up to the site, Lolli called in a mock attack and, when we got there, the klaxon was going off and everybody was running to their battle stations. The missile site had probably been at DEFCON 5, but Lolli had now called it up to DEFCON 1, Air Defense Warning – RED. I don’t know if targets had been assigned, but the blast doors were opened and the missiles were brought up on their elevators, ready to launch.
I was standing way out of the way – way out of the way, not being nuclear cleared – next to a guard, and, to make conversation, I asked him how he liked being stationed in Sausalito. I was shocked when he said, It is terrible duty, nobody likes military people in the Bay Area, San Francisco is too expensive, and the weather sucks. It was hard to not agree about the weather. It was a warm summer morning almost everyplace but here; here we stood in a cold wind that was pushing the wet fog past us and then through the Golden Gate. The pavement was wet and slick and, in the distance, we could hear, but not see, lonely fog horns. Waiting for the All Clear, I thought, The weather may be crummy but this is San Francisco and my dating prospects are much better here than Orogrande or Korea.
When the All Clear finally did come and General Lolli got back in the car, he was furious. It had taken about fifteen minutes too long to come up to DEFCON 1 and Lolli has just relieved a full-bird-Colonel of his command. As we drove down the hill, the General said, If this had been real, I would have lost San Francisco.
Now, almost 49 years later, we are in a warm spell, the only fog is across The Bridge, the Nike Hercules Missile Site is no longer operational, and San Francisco is still there, sparkling in the sun. I watch a freighter go under The Bridge and a Raven joins me. Maybe she wants me to give her – and I am saying her with no idea if it is a him or a her – some food, maybe he is just enjoying the view like me, maybe she wants to chastise me for all the harm my race has done to the planet. I tell her, Hey, it could be worse, we could have fired off those missiles, we could have destroyed everything in a flash, more than 10,000 flashes, actually. But since you are here, just stay still and look over here, let me get your picture.
Over the weekend, a gentle rain – in reality, a drizzle – fell steadily from the soft gray sky. It has been so long, it seems like magic.
On Saturday night, we had even more magic, going to dinner at Central Kitchen followed by the Kronos Quartet at Z Space, a spectacular birthday present to Michele that I got to enjoy, from Richard and Tracy. Coming into Central Kitchen from the rain, happy customers had already filled the restaurant with damp celebration and all we had to do was join in.
I felt like a young twenty-something again, just starting to go out and explore eating in nice restaurants. My twenties were during the 60’s and besides The Hippies and The Free Speech Movement, the Bay Area was incubating a new food movement that went viral; people as diverse as Cecilia Chiang of the Mandarin Restaurant, and Alice Waters of Chez Panisse, were redefining California food and dining out became an adventure. Central Kitchen, which bills itself as part of the ongoing conversation about what California cuisine means, brought back memories of those adventures. The Central Kitchen was not the best food I have ever had, but it was the most interesting food I have had in a long, long, time. We started with what they called an Orange Wine and it was actually orange – the wine was made as if it were a red, but from white grapes – and delicious. It went very well with my appraiser of octopus with pork belly, blood sausage, pickled mushroom & almond.
I grew up with Jazz and in my late teens and early twenties, Jazz was Chamber Music (we spent alot of time sitting in small dark rooms listening to people like Cal Tjader, Miles Davis, and Barney Kessel). By the late 70’s, I discovered the The Kronos Quartet which has, pretty much by itself, redefined Chamber Music. The program Saturday night was a World Premiere of a work by Mary Kouyoumdjian, Bombs of Beirut, that was commissioned by the Quartet as part of a program called the Under 30 Project which is designed to help nurture the careers of young artists, while enabling Kronos to forge stronger connections with the next creative generation.
So much of my life is habituated and going to Central Kitchen and Z Space reminded me that it wasn’t always so, it also triggered my desire to take more advantage of the adventure of living in Northern California. Central Kitchen’s promo goes on to say California is a young state, and right now it’s an exciting time to be… That is it, that is all it says as a tagline under the name Central Kitchen, on the Google page. Maybe that is all it needs to say, right now it’s an exciting time to be.
On the way home from San Francisco, where we spent the night at Richard and Tracy’s, mists hung like cotton sashes in the hills. It was warm – 51°F. – and the trees were heavy with dew, releasing their collected moisture with big drops that hit the ground in hushed splashes. We detoured by the Menlo Park Farmer’s Market because I want to pick up some purple Peruvian potatoes and heritage, Bloomsdale Long Standing , spinach. The drizzle had let up and the farmer’s Market was full; full of shoppers and full of goodies saying Me, me, buy me.
I got some Yukon Gold potatoes, red Dandelion Greens, baby Collards, and Kai-lan (a sort of proto-broccoli with mostly leaves and stems with yellow flower). Michele got a bunch of Narcissus Erlicheer, baby lettuces, two huge artichokes, a head of Romanesco broccoli, a couple of lamb shanks from Holding Farm, and a jar of fermented Winter Sauerkraut (cabbage, kale, spinach, carrots, turnips, rutabaga, and kohlrabi, with garlic).
When we got home, we turned on the Olympics and I laid out our loot on the diningroom table to photograph.
Wrapped treats in Mitsuwa Market 2014
A couple of days ago, Michele and I went to the Mitsuwa Market for lunch. The Mitsuwa Market is the anchor of what seems to be a new Japanese shopping center. There are several Chinese shopping centers in the area and even more Chinese markets and we shop at them when we are in the area and want seafood, or some Chinese staples like fermented black beans , and there is a small Japanese market we frequent in San Mateo, but this is a much bigger deal.
Mitsuwa Market on Saratoga Avenue by 280
I expected it to be similar to the various Chinese markets, but it couldn’t have been more different. Chinese markets are chaos incarnate and, without thinking about it, I thought the Japanese market would be the same. Mitsuwa Market is more like an art gallery crossed with a clean room. One thing that is the same is both are good places to buy rice, especially if you want it in the giant economy size (although you could argue that it is much easier to find in Mitsuwa).
Mitsuwa Market features Nishiki rice grown in California and this year’s crop just came in. California has been a major rice growing region for a long time, longer than I can remember. My dad used to tell a story about Governor Pat Brown – Jerry Brown’s father – the casual racism of the early 60’s, and California rice.
In 1962, Brown was running for reelection and he flew into an airport somewhere north of Sacramento. As I recall, his plane was a DC-3 and Brown was very proud of being the first state governor to have a plane. I think they used the plane to fly down the block, so the airport could have been pretty close to Sacramento. They flew in – they, because my dad was with Brown – to visit some rich farmers, talk about their needs, and get some campaign donations. When they got out of the plane, they were met by their hosts, a group of men; some were Europeans and some were Sikhs. Brown went over and shook hands with the white guys and climbed into their car and took off, leaving my dad to tour the farms – can a large rice-growing spread be called a farm? -with the Sikhs. As they drove around, my dad began to realize that the Sikhs were the owners – the rich farmers – and the white guys were the formen. He was in the wrong car and so was Brown. My dad loved that story, he loved that the Sikhs were the owners, and it is one of the reasons I love my dad.
Back at the markets, aside from the general aesthetics, the biggest difference is in the fish market area. In Mitsuwa, everything is individually sized and wrapped.
In Marina Market in Cupertino, it is sort of a mad house with salt water tanks stuffed full of lethargic fish, fish laid out on ice; fish parts abound.
My mother was somewhat of a Nipponophile, and wandering through Mitsuwa, I understand why. One of her favorite sayings was Cleanliness is next to Godliness, which – now that I think about it – is a little strange since she didn’t believe in God (although she wanted us to become Episcopalians because she thought it was socially advantageous). I think that she liked the ritual of going to church and the perceived status but she was careful to explain that, as hard as she tried, she didn’t believe in God (I remember her saying, more than once, that people who believed in God were happier). But Mom did believe in cleanliness and she did believe in order and Mitsuwa is all about cleanliness and order.
It also has an aesthetic that I think of as distinctly Japanese and that, to a certain extent, I grew up with. For some period of my growing up, it may have been as long as four years, when I was six to ten years old – it also could only been six months – I was very sickly with asthma and my mother took me to the doctor every week. The doctor – actually there were several of them – were in San Francisco and, after the appointment, we went out to lunch. My favorite lunch place was the Yamato Sukiyaki House.
At the same time, my mother was making a conscience effort to improve her sophistication, for lack of a better word (maybe exposure works better, or, since she never graduated from highschool, perhaps continued education would be even better). Often, after lunch, we would go to the de Young Museum. At that time, the de Young had a large Asian collection, that I think she liked better than the classical European works. After the museum, we would end the day at the Oriental Tea Garden where my mother would have tea and I would get a cookie. As an aside. The Oriental Tea Garden was originally the Japanese Tea Garden, but it was renamed, without being changed, during World War II (sort of like Freedom Fries). The name has now been changed back to the Japanese Tea Garden and, the last time I visited – maybe twenty five years ago – it seemed very touristy and dirty. However, I read that it has been remodeled and restored, I hope so, because I have very fond memories. End aside.
I think my mother would have enjoyed Mitsuwa Market, sure, it is a market and it is full of stuff they are trying to sell us, but it also has a Zen-like tranquility and minimalism (often with a nod to nature).
Outside, they even have a peaceful Zen garden – bizarrely done in concrete, but still… – and a not so peaceful Kawasaki superbike.
