New York Postcards #3 - Well, this is awkward...

Book Expo America kicked off on Monday morning with feisty remarks by Richard Russo - Russo reminding us all about the 600 pound gorilla in the room.

That'd be the predatory Amazon, the oh so evil entity that everyone uses because, um, they're cheaper and for many, that is the only consideration. I'll rant more when I speak of Russo - that's Postcard #2, but Postcard #2 got swallowed in the electrical malfunctions of the Javitz Center.

New York, I love you, but my Apple products do not.

Anyway. After the Russo call to arms, there was a panel of editors telling us about the biggest Buzz Books of BEA. And I'm sitting there next to a cohort in the hall where the editors are about to buzz, and my cohort looks up at the huge screen there on the right, and emblazoned on the screen is 2012 Editor's Buzz. And then it says the name of the respected bookseller who will be moderating the panel.

That's when my cohort shakes his head. That guy? I hate that guy, he says.

I'm a little taken aback because while I don't know the Moderator well, our paths have crossed and our exchanges have always been courteous and professional - unlike some of my compadres. Booksellers? We can be a nasty bunch.

Why? I ask.

Why do I hate that guy? my cohort says. He's a jerk.

Really? I say.

Oh yeah. I've met him at a couple of author dinners, and he's just flat-out rude.

That guy? I say.

Yeah, that guy. He might not be rude to everyone, but to me? He can't remember my name. Ever. My cohort crosses and then recrosses his legs, agitated. The second time we met, I got the impression he felt I wasn't important enough to acknowledge.

I'm just shaking my head. Again, that description fits some people I can think of - buy me a few drinks and I'll spill, sister - but it doesn't fit my perception of That Guy.

My cohort wonders if he should even stay for the panel. Why would they have picked That Guy for such a high-profile gig?

And so right now? My cohort is good and worked up. He's preaching the Gospel and picking up speed.

Jerk, he says.

We both try to change the topic - try to talk about the week ahead, the many fabulous booksellers and authors and industry people who have gathered here in, yes, yes, the Center of the Universe. I never visited New York because I worried that I would like it too much, and do I. Do I ever.

But in the midst of this chatter words keep erupting from my cohort - jerk, fool, egotist - my cohort's become a bookseller with Tourette's.

But then, then! The editors take the stage. A heady bunch - Millicent Bennett, the very funny Millicent Bennett, to talk about the very serious Brain on Fire by Susannah Cahalan; or The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, shepherded along by the amazing Kendra Harpster; Eli Horowitz, from San Francisco's own McSweeney's, will trumpet A Million Heavens by John Brandon. Have you read Brandon's Citrus County? Why not? Then there's Lauren Wein to tell us about Panorama City by Antoine Wilson. And when she's done talking, we all want this book in our hands. The People of Forever are Not Afraid by Shani Boianjiu?  This has none other than Alexis Washam to sing its praises.  That's like Ella doing your songbook. Be happy. Be very happy. Finally, there's the terrific Trish Todd who will speak about In the Shadow of the Banyan by Vaddey Ratner. I was lucky enough to have dinner (thanks for the invite, Cheri!) with Ms. Ratner, where we spoke long into a chilly Oakland night about her arduous journey from the Killing Fields to acclaimed debut author.

So there they all are, these amazing escorts of the Word. And following this great group onto the main stage? Of course it's That Guy, our moderator for the afternoon. And as That Guy takes his seat, my cohort says something that I don't quite catch.

What's that? I say.

Well, he says again, this is awkward.

What's awkward? I say.

That Guy? and my cohort points to our moderator as he sits down in front of the gathered bookies.

That Guy? he says. I've never seen That Guy in my life. I was totally mistaken. The name rang a bell, but the wrong bell.

That Guy? I say. You don't think That Guy's a jerk? I told you, this is awkward. I don't know who That Guy is.

So instead of continuing to hurl stones at That Guy, we instead listen to six impassioned editors tell us why their book should be championed - and it's refreshing after our momentary lapse of reason to be reminded why we're here. That it's the books that bring us together. And That Guy? Whomever That Guy is? We shoujldn't let That Guy get us down. Should instead focus on the words, fiction and non - should focus on those incredible scribes who keep us entertained and informed.

And then we'll have a drink.

New York Postcards #1 -- C'mon pal, we ain't got all day

I start my day, every day, with a bagel. Why would I change that routine just because I'm in New York? And my God, right? New York! I'll get a real bagel. Never had a real bagel, my New York friends tell me.

Often.

So I'm in line at the Bagel Maven checking out all the heaped bagels in their bins, when the guy behind the counter - he's got his hair under wraps with one of those white scrunchy hats that his boss makes him wear - and the guy calls out, C'mon pal, we ain't got all day.

I love New York.

My normal bagel is a chocolate chip. If I want to calorie splurge, I'll get cranberry (less calories in chocolate chip - true story). My problem here, in New York? At Bagel Maven on 7th? I'm not seeing chocolate chip. Or cranberry. They got plain. Maybe sesame. Wheat? Maybe wheat. But no chocolate chip. I love New York.

Pal? the baker says. And naturally I dare not ask if they've got any chocolate chip hiding in the back. Not with this guy. If my local bagel shop - Boogie Woogie Bagel Boy - is sold out of chocolate chip, my fallback is to ask if they have anything warm. I'm a sucker for warm. The problem is - in Alameda, California - there are rarely warm bagels. They pull em out around five, throw em in the bins, and that's about it. So since I'm standing here in line, at about 10 on a rainy New York Monday morning, I'm fairly certain I won't be getting warm, but it's my fallback so I ask.

My guy looks at me for a heartbeat. Looks back at the bins overflowing with bagels. Looks back at me. Pal, he says, they're all warm.

New York, how do I love thee? Very very much.

Andy and I - I'm rooming with Andy, he runs our joint in Berkeley on Fourth Street. Check it out - great place.

Andy and I head out, bagels in hand. And a couple Diet Cokes for me.  We pass a shoe shop. Footaction. And there's a line in front. Bunch of guys waiting in the rain, ramshackle encampments set up to ward off the weather. Umbrellas canted left to deflect the drops. Huddled there in nylon sleeping bags. Hands cupping hot joe, faces brought close to the steam rising from the coffee. I'm thinking homeless. But it's kind of weird, they're kind of orderly in line, and it's a shoe store.

Last night I'd seen the huddled masses taking refuge in the columned doorways of St. Michael's - and under scaffolding set up to refurbish skyscrapers. Scaffolding scaffolding everywhere. But those souls I had seen last night had disappeared this morning, awaiting the night somewhere, surely, when they could lie down again and rest, again.

Yet there they were, on 7th, in front of Footaction. Andy sees me looking at these men and he laughs. Must be a new Jordan coming out, Andy says.

What? I say.

The line, he says. They must be here for a new shoe.

So the penny droppeth

Huh, I say.

And I'm about to throw stones, to mock these guys waiting for a new shoe. In the rain, have I mentioned that? But before I chuck any rocks, I remember that in my luggage, back at the Affinia Hotel, is a copy of Wheel of Love And Other Stories by Joyce Carol Oates.

Wheel of Love contains one of the most anthologized stories of all time, Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? Read it, please. It's creepywonderful - and Oates? Plain wonderful. But I brought that book because Ms. Oates will be signing her new book this Thursday and since I read she'd be doing that I brought my old book because I'd love her to sign it because I'm weird that way.

So I realize that come Thursday, I'll be in line for a signature very much like these guys are in line for a shoe (the shoe, by the way? I asked one of the Waiters, why the line? and he said, Sneakers. And I said, Whose? And he said, Blake Griffin.)  He's a baller, I think?

And then I said, It's Monday. When's the shoe come out?  And he said, Saturday.  And I said, Saturday?  But instead of answering he goes back to his game of cards - he and the two guys next to him are playing Five-card draw.  In the rain.  Waiting for Saturday when a sneaker will be released.

Clearly, with these guys - it's all about passion. And where they put it. So instead of throwing stones I think about Joyce Carol Oates and look down at my can of Diet Coke, raindrops collecting on the rim, and I crack open my can and drink.

It's all about passion, right? And where we put it.

Happy Birthday to Me - clink!

Through the largesse of good friends - Barbara and Ron - we have attended the Alameda County Meals on Wheels fundraiser for a few years now.  These 5 Star Nights are lavish - I always feel under dressed.  (I really need to pop for a black tie.)  Last Friday was its 25th Anniversary, and some of the Bay Area's heaviest hitters were providing the food, including Bay Wolf, Ozumo and Bocanova.

Do you know Meals on Wheels?  They provide warm meals to home bound seniors.  We've had such fun at these Five Star Nights, and the stories they share are so affecting, that Karen had Elizabeth's Brownie troop write Holiday cards to accompany five dozen gift packages that the Moms put together for our local Meals on Wheels.  The Director there thanked Karen and told her that for most of the seniors, these gifts would be the only ones they would receive.  Bonus?  The kids had a blast.

The Five Star Nights begin with a silent auction, followed by dinner, a live auction and dancing.  Plus lots of drinking, did I mention that?  I love sitting down to a meal and having more glasses at my place than silverware.  After saying hello to Barbara and Ron - and nibbling on a few incredible hors d'oeuvres - Karen and I scoped out the silent auction items.  They're often out of our price range, but Meals on Wheels does such wonderful work that we've been known to splurge.

Yes, you do count five glasses.

I headed to the area advertising Wine and Spirits.  There was an incredible bottle of 25-year-old Glenfarclas whisky.  More impressive was the fact that it was being donated from Narsai David's private cellar.

Narsai David?  Local luminary, paste restaurateur, and catering impresario.  Bill Graham would have Mr. David cater events for troubadours passing through San Francisco.  Little music groups like the Rolling Stones.  When Mr. David opened his eponymous restaurant in the '70's, the New York Times reported that his wine cellar was one of the finest in the world.  He's been a special friend to Meals on Wheels, acting as emcee for their Five Star Nights all these 25 years.

There's a gentleman in black tie and tails hovering in the Wine and Spirits section, blocking from my view whatever glory has captured his attention.  I'm holding that bottle of Glenfarclas in my hands as I see that its bids have overflowed the first page and have begun their scroll down page 2.  The bids have hit four digits, so I carefully put the bottle down as I hear the recognizable voice of Mr. David announcing over the loudspeakers that he's a wee bit disappointed because a fine bottle of cognac that he has donated from his private cellar has yet to receive even an opening bid.  He gives the brand of the bottle, its provenance, and his assurance that it's indeed fine, VSOP.

That's of course when I see the man in the black tie next to me put down his microphone.  He puts his mic down so he can open the box of cognac glasses that accompany the bottle of spirits I was unable to see.  So he opens the box of Riedel glasses - there are two - displays them properly, and turns to his right.  To me.

Would you have guessed the backdrop is one of Kristina's Disney Princess nightgowns?

Good evening, Narsai David says.  This - and he gestures to the fine bottle of cognac he had just described - is a fine bottle of cognac that I just described.  It's from my own cellar - like that Glenfarclas, and the Glenfarclas I assure you is heavenly, my favorite - but the cognac?  I can vouch for the fact that it's delicious, but we don't have an opening bid.  Perhaps you would be so kind?

Narsai David is charming.  Meals on Wheels is a fabulous organization.  Karen and I didn't pay for our tickets to get inside the Scottish Rite Temple on the shore of Lake Merritt, so I won't hesitate.

Of course I'll begin the bidding.  After all, the Glenfarclas has dozens of bids - surely someone will outbid me for the cognac.  This is a trifle, this accommodation of Mr. David's gentle request.  My name and paddle number on the first line of the bid sheet will only serve to get the cognac's game on.

So I write Nick Petrulakis, #374.  Kind of laugh it off.  After all, my birthday is days away.  Why, it's almost as if Karen is making the bid for me.  A little gesture she can tell me about later - I thought it would be perfect to get you this bottle of cognac, she would say, from Narsai David's own collection.  But I was outbid.

And we'd clink glasses and sigh over the one that got away.

Only, of course, this one wouldn't get away.

There's a dapper gent standing next to me now, also in black tie like Narsai David, and he's looking at the cognac, then at the scotch.  That scotch, I say, is Narsai David's favorite.  Like I've got the inside dope or something.  And so we talk scotch.  For five minutes.  It's like we're talking ball, this handsome stranger and I, so easy to pass the time like we're discussing the latest scores.

After a bit, he looks at the cognac, sees the one bid.

That wouldn't be your own bid, would it, he says?

And I laugh, I laugh and say, Oh no, that's my wife's writing.  She put the bid in for me, for my birthday.  And so he laughs, too, and says he surely couldn't bid against my wife - not now, not since we've shared a few minutes talking scotch.

I forget, for the moment, that in fact I do want him - or anyone - to outbid me.  The silent auction has an opening bid, naturally, and the opening bid for the cognac was healthy.  Even more than the scotch.  The bids for the scotch have gone into the stratosphere, far surpassing the opening of the cognac.  Still.

But I forget myself, and my new friend has gone on his way - though there is plenty of time for other bids to usurp my own.  So I go on my way, too, seeking out more champagne, more hors d'oeuvres.

Clink.

I take time to post that I may have just purchased an expensive bottle of cognac.  One of my coworkers, Elizabeth, took the time to respond:

J Pepin had a wonderful old bottle of Hine cognac, 25 years old. His wonderful wife, Gloria, entered a meat loaf contest and won. But later, she was never able to reproduce the taste. Gloria spoke to her husband and he asked what was different. She said she had used "that cognac in the cabinet." Jaques went to his sadly depleted stash, moved it, and kept the rest for himself.

What Elizabeth doesn't know, can't know, is that the bottle I've just bid on is the twin to the one that J Pepin quietly squirreled away for his own use.

I find Karen, tell her about the cognac, assure her that with time left, someone else will surely win the bottle and glasses.  Then it's time for dinner and we take our seats in the banquet hall.

The meal is exquisite, and in the midst of more drinking - we have to use the five glasses that have been set out for us, yes? - a woman approaches the table and asks for Karen.

The woman is all smiles as she tells Karen that she won two auction items!  She just needs a credit card to finalize things.  Karen smiles and with a flourish hands over some plastic and we're the proud owners of a new, pretty necklace and an old bottle of cognac.

Hmm.

After the party's over but before the cognac arrives, I see a man - tall and handsome - headed to our table.  It's the gent in black tie that I chatted with before I owned cognac.  In his hand?  That bottle of Glenfarclas that Mr. David said was his favorite.  I won, my friend says, and he holds the bottle up so it catches the warm light.  Would you like a shot? he asks.

I'm trying to think of a time when I turned down a shot of scotch, much less from a bottle that's been praised by the man with one of the greatest wine cellars in the world.  So I just smile and my new friend does the honors.

The only problem with old bottles of spirits?  Unlike wine, you don't store them on their sides so the corks can dry out.  This has happened to the Glenfarclas and the cork crumbles in two when its owner tries to remove it.  He's undaunted, finds a waiter to help, and soon he's pouring two glasses of nectar.

I just look at this bit of sunshine in my glass - sniff, swirl, and taste.  All I can think is - smooth.  So I sip some more and think smooth some more and thank my friend and off he goes, holding that bottle unlike the way I would.  Me?  I'd cradle it like a baby.  A newborn I didn't want to disturb.  But that's my problem, I think.  I share it with my dad.  He kept all the good stuff - didn't want to fritter it away.  And after he died, after we found so many bottles of the good stuff that he never got to enjoy - I thought, Ah, Dad.  Why did you wait?

My friend?  He's name is Paul.  I got his card.  Paul met me a few hours before, but after buying the most expensive bottle of scotch that's ever been in my hands, his first reaction was to seek me out and ask if I'd like to share - only because I'd happened to be there when he was bidding on the bottle, only because we'd shared a few moments talking about the pleasures of fine spirits.

Me?  With my new-found cognac?  I was worried about when I should drink it:

If I ever finished the novel?  No, not good enough.

Maybe when I sold the novel.

Maybe at the wedding of my daughters?

And is this just ridiculous?  Why not crack it open right then?  Seek out Paul, reciprocate, offer the first pour to him?  To Barbara and Ron?  Instead I'm going to wait until I cure cancer.  Easy, right?

As I'm turning this over in my head, the Hine Cognac arrives.  My host, Ron, says we should get the bottle signed by Narsai David - Ron's father and Mr. David were very good friends, so Ron knows Narsai David well.

We wend between tablecloths, find Narsai David, and Ron does the introductions.  Narsai, he says, my friend Nick here says you coerced him into bidding on your cognac.

Who, me? asks Mr. David, and I'm thinking coercion is a strong word.  Propose, maybe.  Maybe suggest.  But both Ron and Mr. David are laughing at the coercion, and Mr. David thanks me for supporting Meals on Wheels.  Then he produces the biggest hip flask I've had the pleasure of seeing and asks if I noticed the bottle of scotch that was neighbor to my bottle of cognac.

I want to tell the truth and explain everything - leading up to the glorious taste of that scotch that I was lucky enough to experience.  But before I can say anything, Mr. David shows me that affixed to his silver flask - as if affixed to a bottle - is a Glenfarclas label.  25-year-old.  And Mr. David says that he and another renowned wine importer, Darrell Corti, purchased multiple barrels of the stuff somewhere back in time.

Barrels.

It's basically his sipping scotch.

He asks if I'd like to try some.  And yes, I could explain everything - leading up to the glorious taste of that scotch that I was lucky enough to experience.  Instead, I say yes.  I say, Certainly.

And so for the second time in ten minutes, I get to drink some of the smoothest scotch I've ever been around.  Mr. David is happy to sign my bottle of cognac.  We shake hands, I take a quick picture of he and Ron, and then we part.

Karen and Barbara are laughing about something when we get back to the table.  They're talking about the desserts on display and we all head that way.

As I bite into a creamy tart, I decide I won't save the cognac for the most special of occasions.  I won't.

Unless, of course, I do.

Northstar Cocktails

Yes, it could be a patch on a biker's leathers.

What's my new favorite cocktail book?  Hands down?

Northstar Cocktails by Johnny Michaels and the North Star Bartenders' Guild.

It's my favorite drink book for so many reasons - because, first, I want Johnny Michaels to make me one of the drinks inside.  I not only want Mr. Michaels to make me one of those drinks, I want him to make me a Handsome Devil.  Why do I want Mr. Michaels to make me a Handsome Devil?  Because I may never mix it at home and may never get out to the Twin Cities where he pours.

I mean, I should get out there, because if this book is any gauge, they take their drinking very seriously in Minneapolis-St. Paul.

Northstar Cocktails is also my favoite book because Johnny Michaels is an opinionated bastard - in the very best possible way - and he could care less what you think if you had the nerve to stand between him and the creation of a new drink. 

Pretend you're a cranky old sot.  Pretend you write a letter to the Times - or the Gazette or Inquirer or the Daily Mail - and pretend your letter derides bartenders who don't make cocktails the way God intended.  Pretend you write:  I don't want some lawyer from Philadelphia putting fruit in my Old Fashioned!  Whiskey, sugar and bitters only!

You know what Johnny Michaels will do if he reads that letter?  Of course you know.  He'll create a drink called The Lawyer From Philadelphia.  It's a "pink, bourbon based cocktail, which is served in a white wine glass and garnished with a pansy rested atop a floating lemon wheel."

And if that ain't thumbing your nose at the legion of purists who like it the way they like it - I don't know what is.  C'mon, a pansy?  That's inspired. 

So, Mr. Michaels has opinions.  He's serious about being the "steward of people's good times."  He's comfortable quoting the Good Book:  "Make thy neighbor's drink as you would have thy neighbor make a drink for you."  And the proceeds from the sale of his book go to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals International.  In fact, all events hosted by the North Star Bartender's Guild are charity based.

I want to be an honorary member of the Guild.

You know, for kicks.

The reason why I may never make myself a Handsome Devil?  It's the recipe, darling.  Most any cocktail book will have the occasional concoction that has an ingredient that has either not been available in twenty years or that calls for the home Maker of Drinks to labor for hours over an ingredient that you'll use once.

This book?  Johnny Michael's and the Guild's book?  It's got one of those recipes on every other page - and that's another reason why I love it so much.  Any group of people that follows their bliss down byways that call for the addition of Habanero-Butterscotch Syrup or Coriander Tincture to make the perfect cocktail - these are my people!

And so, I'd have one of them mix me up a Handsome Devil.  It calls for Jim Beam Black bourbon, an orange slice, a skewered brandied cherry and a blanched hazelnut.  But it ain't the hazelnut that will make you sweat.  It's the need for a 1/2 ounce of Devil Mix.  You want to make the Devil Mix for me?  And remember, this isn't the drink, this is just half an ounce of beauty you're adding to the drink.  Here goes:

Devil Mix

4 ounces Benedictine

4 ounces Frangelico

4 ounces Cointreau

1/2 ounce salt solution (see p. 31)

1/2 ounce Hot Pepper Tincture (see p. 195)

1/4 ounce Angostura bitters

1/4 ounce Regan's orange bitters

1/4 ounce Fee Brother's old-fashioned bitters

SALT SOLUTION:

1 ounce kosher salt

4 ounces hot water

Mix and store in an eyedropper bottle.

HOT PEPPER TINCTURE:

4 ounces crushed red pepper

1 1/2 cups Everclear grain alcohol

Add ingredients to a Mason jar and let sit 5 to 7 days, shaking once or twice a day.  Strain through a fine mesh strainer and store in a sealed glass jar.

Add two ounces of the Black bourbon to 1/2 ounce of the Devil Mix in a rocks glass.  Insert orange slice like a mohawk, so that the top of the peel is sticking out.  Insert skewered cherry and drop hazelnut in drink.

That, my friends, is one serious drink.

I wimped out.  My first try at making one of the Guild's drinks was

I Will Not Remember the Maine

3/4 ounce rye

3/4 ounce gin

1/4 ounce maraschino liqueur

1 (heavy) dash Angostura bitters

Pour liquids into double shot glass and insert a large ice cube.

Yes, it does call for equal parts rye and gin.  You know what?  It works.

So then, feeling emboldened, and because I had all the ingredients on hand, I went for the

Green Fairy

2 ounces Bombay Sapphire gin

3/4 ounce Green Tea Syrup (see p. 187)

3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice

1 egg white

7 drops St. George absinthe

GREEN TEA SYRUP

1 cup water

1 cup sugar

5 green tea bags

Bring water to a boil and then remove from heat.  Steep tea 5 minutes, squeeze bags, and discard.  Whisk in sugar and let cool.  Will keep refrigerated for 1 month.

Shake all ingredients, except absinthe, without ice.  Shake again with ice and strain into coupe and sidecar.  Top with absinthe. 


Did Karen wonder, out loud, why I was brewing green tea at ten o'clock at night?  Sure.  Did the absinthe, the last ingredient added to the cocktail, drop deliciously through the froth created by the egg white and add a hint of licorice to the gin and sweet tea?  Did the absinthe also give the drink its name, Van Gogh's green fairy being reincarnated as St. George's absinthe?  Bringing the drink and the Guild and yours truly full circle?  Since the drink originated in Johnny Michael's twin cities but needed to use that special last ingredient, the St. George absinthe - the St. George that is distilled less than six miles from my house, the house and the distillery both calling Alameda home?

Yes yes yes and yes.

The only trouble was, by the time the drink was ready, Karen had long since called it a night.  Way to late to call Edward - the friend who had tipped me off to the book.  Thanks, Edward!

And so I sat alone in our then messy front room, sipped happy, and put the drink down on the end table without noticing that Kristina had earlier hauled out a little pal, and that the pal - with his nose so bright - clearly wanted a sip, too.

I figured it was okay because I didn't think he'd be guiding any sleighs in April.

The important thing?  Now I've got an old pickle jar full of green-tea infused simple syrup, so if you're in the mood for a Green Fairy, just stop on by.  I really want to make this drink more than once.

So he sang – Manuel Patterakis, August 19, 1933 - April 8, 2012

As my cousin lay dying, we talked.  We talked a lot about his life.  About his childhood in Hiawatha, Utah, his early years there with my dad.  About moving to Modesto when he was nine.  About his sister, Grace, and his brother, Chris.

Manuel told me about attending Modesto Junior College.  About studying Accounting because he was going to be an accountant.  About the music instructor he was lucky enough to encounter there at MJC.  The instructor who - when my cousin Manuel told him he was studying Accounting - responded with a single word:  Bullshit.

And as my cousin Manuel told this story, he started laughing, laughing at the twin memories - the first, where he had envisioned himself as an accountant, and the second, the memory of this music teacher expressing the strong and salty opinion that Manuel's life would of course center around music.

So he sang.

And it was these many years later, as my cousin lay dying, that he laughed at the memories.  Still able, even under the cancerous circumstances that led him to Memorial Medical Center in Modesto, still able to laugh.

I was glad that Vicki - widow of Manuel's brother, Chris - I was glad that Vicki, who did so much for Manuel, who loved him so much, who showed her brother-in-law such care and tenderness, I was so glad that Vicki had sent me a reminder to visit.  To take the short trip from Alameda and say hello to my cousin.

My cousin Manuel - Manoli to me, always - played such an important part in my life.  If that life has a soundtrack, Manoli is the singer.  His voice - that huge baritone - was present at so many significant occasions.  When Karen and I got married in Modesto, in 1990, he sang us down the aisle the same way he sang my parents down the aisle at the old Greek church in Stockton in 1962.  When Elizabeth was baptized, and then Kristina?  His was the voice in the choir loft - singing, rejoicing.  Sang for my brother, George, and his wife, Karna - for my brother Dean, and his wife Laura.  So many happy ceremonies, so much singing.

Of course, Manoli was there for the more somber moments, too.  When my father died, Manoli sang him to his rest.

Manoli sang so many to their rest - his parents, his siblings.  All eight of the original Katsufrakis clan, my Yia Yia Elizabeth among them.  Manoli's mom - my Yia Yia's older sister.  Thea Helen the matriarch of the Katusfrakis kids.  Those eight pillars who are such an important part of my history, who still cavort in my head if I close my eyes.  Drinking Metaxa, turning a lamb on a spit.  Yelling, dancing, singing.  So much singing.

As my cousin lay dying, he joked - I worry I won't have the backbone or the bravery to face that final journey the way Manoli did - because as he lay dying, he laughed and wondered who was going to sing him to his rest.

The words we sing - the words Manoli sang so often for so many - are simple:

Eternal be, his memory.

But the words carry such great meaning - and so Manoli wondered aloud who would sing for him.  He said that Father Jon - who for so many years at so many of those celebrations and commemorations has had his beautiful voice complimented by Manoli's beautiful voice - Father Jon said he'd record Manoli and put a cassette player in Manoli's casket to cue up when necessary.  And as Manoli tells me this story, he's laughing with that great laugh of his, the laugh somehow always lighter and more playful than I expect.

He's laughing.

During that visit at the hospital, Manoli spent a lot of time talking about his teaching years, years that were relatively unknown to me.  I was a kid for most of them.  But my cousin sparkled when he talked about those days, especially about Peterson High in Sunnyvale.  His emotion was reciprocated after news of the severity of his illness began to spread.

First, some former students set up a Fan Page on Facebook (where I stole the pictures you see here).

Then, in early January, more than 100 of them traveled to Modesto to sing.  For him.  Traveled from up and down California, from Utah, to remind him of the incredible impact he had on their lives.  How, because of his music, his teaching, they'd always remember Mr. P.

And finally, these students who had traveled for him - then sang for him.  So he sang right back.


The next time I saw my cousin, the last time I saw my cousin, he was recuperating at a rehabilitation facility in Modesto.  They'd tried to class up the joint with dark wood paneling, and it of course was exactly what the doctor ordered, but there was no hiding the fact that it was a Dying Place.  It's there right at the end of Granger Avenue - near the apartment where my cousin lived with his mom for so many years after he retired from teaching.  Near the apartment where his mom, my Thea Helen, spent her last days in a hospital bed they'd set up in the front room.  So it was Granger again - a Patterakis again dealing with the dying of the light.

That last visit was a softer one - Manoli's voice not silenced, but quieted by the cancer.  There was less laughter, too - though still some.  God bless you for that, Manoli.  Bless you for that.

I had told him, I had said that if I could sing, I'd sing for him.  My brother Dean chimed in that Manoli definitely didn't want to undergo that.  Manoli laughed, though.  Manoli laughed.  Manoli laughed and said he would - of course he'd enjoy hearing me sing.

That's about when my Mom walked in.  I told her we'd been having a good visit.  A lot of that was just me reminding Manoli how much I loved him, how much the girls and Karen loved him, how important a role he'd played in all those momentous occasions in our lives.  And I told Mom how Manoli had laughed and said he'd be happy to hear me sing.

Mom recognized the foolishness of that idea and so she leaned in close and asked Manoli if he'd like to sing with her.

Manoli was quiet for a moment before he said, No.  No, Anna, he said, his voice so quiet - the strain of speaking those few words so evident.  But I'd like to hear you sing.

And so she did.

My mom sang a Greek song that she'd sung to my a dad a lot as he, like Manoli, lay dying.  Mom's voice is so pure, so clean - and as she sang, Manoli closed his eyes and smiled, smiled to the beauty of her voice.  The song is simple - a bird who's alone is urged to sing, and through the singing other birds will join in, and so the bird that was alone won't be any longer, will always have company through the magic of song.

I'm crying at this point.  I cried a lot during that last visit, and I was certainly crying then, listening to Mom sing for Manoli, watching him smile at the sound.  Because it made me acknowledge that even though I can't sing, I will - when we gather for Manoli's funeral.

As Mom finished, when she straightened and wiped the tears from her eyes, when she turned to me to ask after the kids - we were all surprised to hear singing - quiet, beautiful singing.  Surprised to hear Manoli - singing.  Manoli with barely the breath to whisper responses as we visited - and yet, and then - reminded I think by the joy in my mom's voice, he sang.

It was a silly song.   A Greek song.  To Kokoraki.  Just a silly, Greek children's song.  Like Old MacDonald, with a different animal sound added to each verse, starting with to kokoraki - a cockerel, a young rooster.  But it made me draw closer to Manoli, still with his eyes closed, as the words came out - to kokoraki ki-ki-ri-ki-ki - as he sang the song.  I'd heard Manoli sing stronger so many times in my life, but this time?  With the words scarcely escaping his lips?  So soft?  Yet sung with such delight?

I have no idea how awful the pain, how terrible his discomfort - but as Manoli sang, he smiled.  As Manoli smiled and sang - I knew he wasn't in that little room overlooking a courtyard in a Central Valley rehab facility.

I don't know if he was in Hiawatha, a Sunnyvale cafeteria, maybe a choir loft in Stockton or Modesto.  But I do know for that moment, as he sang, as he'd sung so often before, Manoli was happy.  Happy because he was doing - even there at the very end - one of the things he'd always done best.

So he sang.

World Whisky Day

Today is World Whisky Day, and in its honor, I thumbed through Ian Buxton's 101 Whiskies to Try Before You Die.  His choices go from the readily available and relatively cheap Cutty Sark--


(before the whiskey boom in the States, Cutty Sark continued to be one of the most popular brands here - probably because it had remained available even during Prohibition if you knew the right people.  And how could the right people still get Cutty?  Why, through the efforts of master Bootlegger William McCoy.  Unlike some [most!] bootleggers who were responsible for, as one wag said, replacing good beer with bad gin, William McCoy skimmed the high seas in fast boats and was known for only supplying his customers with the best booze available.  That's why his efforts were deemed "the real McCoy," and the real McCoy was often Cutty Sark)

--and the Cutty, nowadays, shouldn't run you more than twenty dollars.

On the other end of the spectrum is the 40-year-old version of Highland Park (#57 out of Ian's 101).  It comes in a box with a precious little leather bound book - and it ought to because it will set you back ₤800.  (Buxton's prices are all in pounds because the good Ian is a Scot and his effort was printed by Hachette Scotland and not reprinted here - they just sent us what they had.)  ₤800 is roughly $1,300.  So his 101 Whiskies span the globe, yes - and also your wallet.

I wanted to try something tallied in the book - preferably, since we're talking about WORLD Whisky Day, something not from the U.S.  And it had to be something I already own because I'm trying to drink what I have before buying more.  Trying.  Not always successful, but trying.

Ian lists Buffalo Trace (#22), but I've had it and it's from Kentucky.  #27 is a Chivas, and that would've been great, in honor of my dad - an old Chivas man - but Ian had listed the 25-year-old, and that was not in Mother Hubbard's Cupboard.  I was also out of Cutty Sark (#30) and Knob Creek (#63) and was beginning to worry that I didn't have anything on hand that came from across the pond when I turned the page to #90.  The Macallan.

He'd chosen the 18-year-old sherry oak.

I'm embarrassed to say that just such a beast lay unopened in the back of my booze cabinet.  After my father died, and after my brothers and I came across bottle after bottle of the good stuff that he had owned - but saved - I had promised that I wasn't going to squirrel away good booze for special occasions.  Instead, I was going to drink the good booze with good friends.  Drink it and enjoy it.  But there stood the Macallan, unopened and waiting.

I don't even remember where I bought it.  I'll blame it on John at the Marina Deli.  One of his vendors may have had a few bottles that had dropped off the back of a truck that he wanted to sell on the cheap.  Whatever the case, I had it so I opened it.

In the bottle, the whiskey is lovely - it's colored deep and rich, like caramel.  I held it up, reading the tag tied to its neck. 

Like the whisky
your great great
Grandfather drank
with your great
Grandfather
to celebrate the
birth of your
Grandfather.

As I read, the embers from the fire we had enjoyed earlier were still snapping, shooting sparks.  The girls are asleep upstairs, tired from dancing to Prince - let's go crazy! - while daddy built the fire.

I removed the lead foil surrounding the Macallan's cork.  The sound a cork makes?  When you pop it off a bottle of 18-year-old whisky for the first time?  It's beautiful.

Pop.

So I poured the Macallan into crystal, over ice, and swirled - held it up in front of our warm, dying fire.  The scent coming out of that glass?  Powerful.  This is not an unobtrusive drink.  But then I sipped.  I'm not very good at telling you that I could detect leather or marmalade, but I can tell you that it's a little bit smoky and unbelievably fine.  Is that good enough?

I took another sip and thought about my dad.  My kids and Karen.  My mom in Modesto.  My family and friends that I'd like to share this with.  Randy, where are you?  Nick?  Harry?  Brad, are you home? 

Next time, gentlemen.  Just ask and I'll share.  For now, I sip again and salute Captain William McCoy, that fine seaman who did his best to keep the best in American glasses.

To you sir, and to you - wherever you are.

What Fresh Hell is This?

The call came yesterday.  From Kristina's school.  The instructor's voice was a little strained, a little hurried.  Not the voice a parent wants to hear coming from one of their children's teachers - certainly not in the middle of the morning.

I sat down at my desk and turned my back to the open door.  One hand running through my hair while the other - that hand clenched, holding the phone with greater urgency than when I had picked it up just seconds ago.

It happened on the playground, Teacher D said.  Yesterday.  They just discovered it today when another parent, a concerned parent, let them know.

Let them know what had happened on the playground.  Yesterday.

There are play structures in the school's yard, and a few of them provide convenient hiding places for the kids.  Kristina had encouraged one of her little friends to follow her up and into one of those structures.  Apparently, my daughter is a Pied Piper and our city Hamelin, not Alameda.

My hand on the phone clutched it even harder.

What happened? I asked.  And while saying the words, my mind raced - what could it have been?  Had she hit her friend?  Or had my daughter taunted her, made her cry?  Surely she couldn't have scored a pack of smokes or a six-pack from the market on the corner - they card kids, don't they?  Isn't it illegal to sell cigarettes and alcohol to four-year-olds?  It was in my day.

My god, what had gone down?



Wellll, Kristina's teacher said, and the way she lengthened the sound of that simple word - afraid to continue, to take the next step, to let me know what horror had befallen Bayside, the preschool that had been home to so many warm memories.

Then, finally, she revealed the awful truth.  Kristina, our beautiful little daughter, Kristina had given her friend - a makeover.  Yes, while hiding in plain sight inside that confounded play structure while twenty other kids romped merrily under the watchful eyes of three teachers - my daughter applied lip gloss to her friend's smile and then...god, the shock is almost still too great.  And then - and then, Kristina painted her friend's nails.  Caterpillar green.

Karen and I don't know what to do.  What's next?  Pedicures?  Facials?  Oh, the embarrassment - oh, the shame.

Pray for us in our time of trial and keep us in your thoughts.