make all the plates pretty
Local chef Beau Bennet has died, taking “the Beau Show” to the great banquet hall in the sky.
Pull up a cup of coffee, I have some feelings.
One of the worst mortal sins chefs commit is the often-shitty way we feed our bodies. It’s feast or famine, really. One minute you’re enjoying a meal so good nobody would believe it (looking at you, Johnny Depp, in Once Upon A Time In Mexico with your puerco pibil : ) But the next, we’re eating tuna out of a can like a damn street cat, or licking the sauce out of yogurt containers while we’re washing 1,000 dishes because the dishwasher didn’t show and there’s no telling when the night will be over. Rarely do we make time to sit and consider food for ourselves, the way we expect and hope the people we feed will.
We don’t always take good care of ourselves: on balance, no balance. I knew that about Beau.
When I last saw him in August, he pulled me aside to tell about yet another body blow to his business, to him. It hurt bad. We said “we should get coffee”. But though I thought of him often, we were both putting out fires, and didn’t.
Beau delighted in the decoration of the plate, the “little sprigs of happiness”, as a patient once called the art of garnishing. I had taught her class to scavenge the herb garden for what made the plates pretty, to wash and snip and make all the plates look the same, and delightful. This was a revelation to her, and every day after she insisted every plate be garnished properly. I wish I’d told him that story.
Of course we always think we’ll have one more visit, one more meal to eat, to serve, to enjoy our craft. Today, I sit and eat a mindful meal (as I preach to others) in your memory, Beau. Sit, at a table, and eat without phone or computer or work. Five minutes to prepare with what’s here, it includes all the things. And as we should (as we do for customers, for clients) I stop to note where all the elements came from:
So many foods in a simple brunch, so many contributions. An embarrassment of riches.
mango nectar, butter: who knows the chain of people, and cows, boats, planes, trains and automobiles bring tasty favorites to my beloved Costco?
onions, garlic, red oak lettuce, ham, cheeses from our lovely little co-op, so many hands working to get this good fresh food from farms to lovely displays to my plate (not to mention the cows and pigs “committed”)
eggs from our local producer, where 20 years ago my little girls used to love to go pick up our order in person so we could watch them “dance” as they were sorted and candled
bagel from the beach, so lucky to have been there recently, ekeing them out from the freezer
coffee, the lifeblood: how fortunate are we to have this at our fingertips, swallowing it by the quart? How rarely mindfully sipped: each bean grown, shipped, roasted for our medicinal gulping pleasure
hot sauce: from a brilliant woman who tends the vegetables, makes it by hand, tells the stories, honors the memories
People celebrating things, (now long overdue) could buy bags of potato chips and bottles of wine. But they don’t: they hire people like Beau and his team because the food matters, and the pretty matters, and it should always matter that your food is good, and beautiful, no matter the occasion. I teach my students that good food is not magic: it’s Art, and Math, and Science. But knowing how to put those things together on plates (especially hundreds of elegant plates at once) can seem pretty damn magical, and Beau knew it never hurts to let them think you wave that magic wand over it.
Thanks for reminding us of the magic behind the sweat and blood and strife. It’s always there.
When I fall short in aligning my intentions with my actions, when I re-boot, start over, I will yank on that bright bandana and remember you fondly. Rest in peace, chef. Rest in freaking peace.
