of Juliet, the Magazine volume 2, part 3

of Juliet v2. p3 2019 $20

"this is everything I hope you can see"

IN THIS ISSUE

Curtain Notes

1

Lobstering

3

Summer Sports

11

Deep Clean

12

August Goodbye

Profile: Alison Letters from Roman Half Moon Bay

Interview: Josh + Katrina

quit your job

You Never how to: Nabe Forget Your First Steakhouse 22

Revew: Kimi Takesue's 95 and 6 to Go

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Katie's Corner

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Home of Somerville's Most Unique Dining Experience As well as Juliet CafĂŠ Gratuity Free Dining.

Living Wages.

Great food.

Great jobs.

Great company.

Juliet is:

Katrina Juliet Jazayeri, Proprietor / Wine Commander / Set Designer Joshua Lewin, Creative and Culinary Director Katie Rosengren, Director of Operations Will Deeks, Assistant Culinary Director Ariel Knoebel, Service Manager Samantha Mangino, Service Manager Rachael Collins, Chef de Cuisine Megan Mooney, Sous Chef

Staff, in order of appearance:

Reggie Tarver, Carlos Ponce, Rosa Quintanilla, Gilberto Santos, Elvis Reyes, Annie Gilmore, Sergio Rodriguez Garcia, Walter Vasquez, Andrew Jeffries, Nora Connolly, Jessica Azagoury, Dana Droller, Merissa Jaye, Maddie Trainor, Evelyn Li, Hannah Riffe

of Juliet is:

Joshua Lewin, Editor at Large Katrina Jazayeri, Front + Back Cover Katie Rosengren, Managing Editor Will Deeks, Director of People and Process Samantha Mangino, Features and Special Projects as well as Layout

Contributors: Ariel Knoebel Michelle Favin Nina Coomes Lucia Jazayeri Merissa Jaye Julianne Gauron

Produced and managed by the staff of the award winning restaurant, of Juliet is not only a fulfilling creative project, founded on Juliet's characteristic excellence in craft, but also an experiment in developing economically viable support structure in the arts.

Contributors and staff share in the profit of the project. Like the restaurant itself, supporting this endeavor not only provides a unique and fulfilling experience for fans and readers, but an opportunity to develop skills and be paid for them, for those involved in the creation.

Free to read online since 2019, of Juliet is supported through optional subscriptions, accepted on a Pay What You Can basis; learn more online, at ofJuliet.com Your support will go directly to sustaining our minimal expenses, 80% of revenue collected above that is returned right to our contributors. Revenue retained by the company is reinvested in new projects in media, and new opportunities for our team.

Prospect Tower Observation is the self-produced, DIY friendly, media tentacle of the hospitality group behind some of Boston area's most highly acclaimed, and highly independent restaurants, Juliet, and Peregrine by Joshua Lewin and Katrina Jazayeri.

Contributors JULIANNE GAURON Julianne is a multi hyphenate creative who spent a decade in the design industry before transitioning into her first love, storytelling. She works with nonprofits, foundations & companies directing branded content in short film or shooting documentary style photography for them. In her spare time she is often in the outdoors, volunteering at rescue farms and plotting how to expand her fur family.

ARIEL KNOEBEL is a writer, food historian, and sometimes illustrator when she is not helping lead the front of house team at Juliet.

In her time off, she is likely wandering in the woods with and a hot beverage in hand and her dog, Whiskey, underfoot, or cooking and watching bad TV with friends.

She was raised to never leave the house without a book, and is always open to recommendations.

LUCIA JAZAYERI is the creative director and one of the original cooks at Clover Food Lab. She’s worked there pretty much consistently since graduating from BU in 2009, except for 3 weeks when she was a PA on Top Chef DC (and nearly had to drive a van to the FBI). Lucia illustrates the joys and challenges of building a local-food empire in the fast food space, and in 2014 was named one of Zagat’s 30 rising stars under 30. When she’s not working, you’ll find her cooking fundraiser dinners, ignoring dishes in her sink, or relaxing in front of chips and salsa with her parents and sister Katrina in Austin, TX. One day she will finally see the Minions movies.

MERISSA JAYE Merissa is an oftentimes host at Peregrine and a sometimes server at Juliet. Born and raised in Greater Boston, you can find her biking around town with a backpack full of gym clothes, peanut butter, and overdue library books.

MICHELLE FAVIN is a half-Korean artist, currently living in San Francisco, CA. She uses natural pigments in her work and is inspired by things both soft and strong. She loves working with people all over the world to create sacred, special pieces for their homes, the people they love, and in this case, to accompany all the beautiful prose in this magazine. Come say hello @michellefavin on instagram or on www.byfavin.com.

NINA COOMES is a Japanese and American writer, performer, producer, and artist. She was born in Nagoya, and currently resides in Chicago, IL. Her writing has appeared in EATER, Catapult, The Collapsar, among other places.

SAMANTHA MANGINO is a writer and third-generation restaurant professional. Born in Yarmouth, Maine, she grew up with a restaurant named after her, and parents who helped to develop her disdain for the kid’s menu. She takes her martinis with gin and olives and her chips with extra dip.

KATIE ROSENGREN is the Operations Director of Juliet + Company, a job which combines two of her favorite things, making spreadsheets and eating food. After a decade plus detour in New York, Katie and her husband- both native Mainers- are happy to be back in New England and call Somerville home with their son, Henry. In her spare time, she likes to fight the patriarchy, eat all the food, and watch lots of TV.

1

Curtain Notes

We’re late! Sorry about that. But, also, we’re kind of early. I know that it isn’t a fully appropriate excuse for being late to one thing — being early to another. But in this case, these things are all so closely related that I think the only way it makes sense to introduce this new issue is to share with you the other things that have been taking shape.

Before that, though...I have to admit, we are actually more than late. We are skipping an entire issue, so the one that you now have is the final one of our second year. We already combined two seasons into one in the middle, for the planned Spring/ Summer edition...because, you know, it’s our lazy summer, too! Juliet, the restaurant, does the same thing...the typical production season of the restaurant spans three menus, but throughout the middle seasons we do just five, to span both.

The thing is, though, for me this is really tough. The three issues a year format is something that was really important to me. There are, loosely, three sections to each magazine (which ok, is not unique to us, really), there are three issues each year...and the magazine plan spans three years, at which point I fully expect we’ll extend the plan, but likely with some pretty big changes.

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The three issue format was originally envisioned as being emblematic of a trilogy — why? Well, really good things come in threes. Or it takes three tries to get it right? I don’t know. Our basic training programs are mostly designed in threes, also...even if it isn’t always overtly this way. The basic set of three is pretty simple to understand...beginner, intermediate, advanced, that sorta thing. This is generally taught with similar information, but with stronger foundations to draw from at each step along the way. Another way we look at it is that there is a beginning, there is a period to settle in, and then there is beginning again, mastery is just an invitation back to the beginning.

We have a nearly four-year old restaurant, a two-year old magazine, a six-month old restaurant, and we have a whole lot of us who are going back to the beginning, for one reason or another, to keep all of these things floating.

Speaking of floating, you’ll get a lot of information about surfing in this issue (surprise!) And I’m done with explanations, and ready to move on into the work ahead. The missing issue has been lost at sea! It will return later this year, washed up on shore, to be shared with you, I am sure of it. It has to. Three sets of three, that’s important. And there are three seasons covered within these pages, so...for now, then…we are going to be ok.

Thanks for being here. If you find the contents of this issue to be a little weird...well, wait until you see what we do with the rest of this year.

There is so much I’d still like you to see, Joshua Lewin Cook and storyteller; craft as immersive performance.

Aspiring to something… I almost know what t Juliet + Company JulietAndCompany.net ofJuliet.com

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L O B S I N G BY JULIANNE GUARON

T E R

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Goodbye to Summer Sports

by Merissa Jaye

Chrysanthemums yell to the bright slate of sky, and the silver lace of the daytime moon and we were biking along the brutalist horizon of concrete, the street touched the edge of the river. Where we watched daytime simmer out to navy and street-light gold remember highway drives from baseball fields beats pouring from volvo speakers, car turned to cathedral, glass stained purple, dark orange and everything sounded like a psalm remember the cool empty gym, our basketball games how we lay back to catch our breath I remember the knobs of my spine, pressed on shining court floor, sweating in dim light

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Deep Clean

By Samantha Mangino

My high school chemistry teacher made us do a deep clean of the lab before every holiday break. The first time she told us about this ritual was before Thanksgiving. She explained that she does the same thing before leaving her home for a trip. She tidies up her space, and this is a morbid thought she warned before going on, because if she died on a trip, she’d want things to be orderly for whoever entered her house without her present. This is most certainly a grim thing to tell a group of sixteen year olds, but it did make an impression since her words come to mind before I leave for a trip. It started in college, making sure my dorm room was pristine – something one never imagines possible - and now in my current home, I spend the days and hours before a trip dusting my ceiling fan and scrubbing my stove top. It's a day of tending to the details that are easy to put aside until tomorrow. It’s one of my favorite things to do. What my teacher should have mentioned to us was that there is also no greater joy than coming home and having everything be in its place.

So in many ways, I was predisposed to loving the aspect of my work which requires tending to every corner of our restaurant. Before we go on our two breaks, first in January and then in July – our final day before vacation is spent cleaning every surface, emptying every drawer and fridge, and purging what we no longer need or will not be able to use before its expiration. It’s all hands on deck and will go on for hours. I love the deep clean so much that I’ve been known to come in to help even when I’m not scheduled. I also find something particularly special about the deep clean we complete in January. It’s always on the first day of the new year and has unexpectedly become my favorite way to usher in a new year.

Cleaning is not something I generally get a thrill from. It is instead a particular type of happiness that comes from peeling back the layers to get back to the base. It’s all tedious – especially as we work to shut down the restaurant and the yearning for a vacation begins to creep in. When you lock the door at the end of the day, there isn’t a task to be left incomplete for tomorrow. There’s a peaceful finality that needs to be addressed in every action. Everything is intentional, and it makes going into the new year feel like a blank slate. There is something about seeing our front of house beverage fridge with everything taken out and scrubbed with soap and water that gives me incomparable satisfaction.

When we’re closing Juliet and we finally finish for the day, we want to leave with the one notion – that there’s nothing left to worry about for the next week. We put in those few extra ounces of hard work to close out our year. It feels like recognizing what we did in and out of service for the past 6 month, by rewarding ourselves with a fresh start as we head into the next. I think Mrs. Pinkoski would be impressed by the deep clean we do each year at Juliet. I’m grateful for her morbid words of wisdom that come to me even as I become further and further removed from that chemistry class. The sentiment has carried me through the first independent years of my personal life and is lingering into my professional. For that I’m grateful, and maybe even has me looking forward to our next break.

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August Goodbye

by Julianne Guaron

Late August Indian summer teased, the ocean was especially warm, crystal clear and the tide particularly low. I don’t think it was a moon tide, but the water was out far, exposing the flats of the sands rarely shown, the ripples and the ridges alive in the light like a creature. Life by the ocean is defined by the moon and her tides. All things are interconnected living on the edge, and we accept that we too are a part of this ebb and flow, as humans have been since the beginning of time.

I was in Minot for a few final summer days before I headed to Africa for three weeks. August is so bittersweet, with its perfect golden light, the shadows long, they are like a sundial of time passing. We bask in the sweet air as it kisses sun warmed skin. But like all the best things in life, grasping at it can destroy it. All we can do is revel in the gift and hold onto the memory in gratitude when the season passes.

Standing at the sink in the sun washed kitchen, I offhandedly mentioned it was perfect swimming weather, having already gone. My mother swims “once in a blue moon” as she’d say, perhaps twice a decade, so it was just an observation. But I walked into the upstairs hall to find her riffling through her closet looking for her ruffled one piece navy swimsuit.

Wary of her taking off on me, I changed quickly and we walked together, hand in hand. She pointed out flowers and birds, the same as every walk: her favorite majestic beech tree, robins, flowering bushes. I gained my need and love of nature from my parents, but from my mother the curiosity for knowledge and names. We walked Grasshopper Lane, every crack and pothole familiar to us. I grew up here, and my mother grew up walking this road with her mother.

Mom always used to say we should “go check to see if the beach was still there,” although this is not an entirely idle joke in the Northeast. Minot is the infamous landfall of many Nor’easters, and our neighborhood beach is beloved by dramatic weathermen from all the national channels.

Minot has been true north to our family for generations. We ran free, herds of cousins riding bicycles to the ocean tennis and exhausted home in time to pass out: windows open, golden light and salty breezes flowing in. Minot was where my mother was happiest, surrounded by family, nature, and memories. The lighthouse, Minot’s Light, is one of the most deadly on the eastern seaboard, but it flashes a cadence of 1-4-3. We say this signifies “I love you.” This contradiction is apt for New Englanders, and our family as well.

My mother was a woman of language, she knew proper English- written and spoken- better than anyone I’ve ever met, and was brutally demanding in her expectations. She loved literature, the origin of words, or turn of phrase. Every summer when all we wanted to do was run wild, she assigned us homework: Math, English, French, and dreaded Latin. As an adult I recognized her many gifts. In a culture careless with words, I miss her knowledge and passion.

As Indian summer flickered, Mom and I walked down the steps worn flat by decades of winter storms. I held her hand and as we crossed the shallows, the golden light on our backs. In that moment I realized that this was probably goodbye, our last summer together in our most sacred of places. I had prepared for our goodbye for four years, had gone through the motion so many times my heart had broken into pieces by the constant grieving, but somehow as we walked across the sand, I knew in that twilight she would not be back.

I held her hand tighter, and took her arm with my other, for her sake or mine I’m not sure, and the bitter sweetness overwhelmed me, like the salty water around us. She nervously stepped deeper into the water and dipped to her waist, laughing at the warmth and the sparkles of light, the pure joy of it all.

Life was so often there just beyond her fingertips, but her debilitating anxiety and depression held her back.

She filled us up with so much of life, brutally insistent in the demands she made of us, for us, but I often wonder if she missed her own.

I didn’t let go of her hand as I dunked under the welcoming waves, the warm salt water washed over me. I knew this would be my last swim of the summer too. We stood, the waves lapping around our thighs for a long time, awkwardly out of step on the ripples of the sandy bottom but sharing the magic and the loss. The sunset lost its luster as we finally turned towards the west and slowly walked back up the width of the beach. She was laughing, high on the adventure, thrilled with the beauty of the place she loved enveloping her.

I left for Malawi 4 days later and my parents 14 moved back to Boston for the winter.

When I returned to the US, my mother’s Alzheimer’s had overtaken her almost completely, and in November we moved her to a memory care unit as we could no longer keep her safe. She cannot read and she has lost most of her words, the greatest love in her life. Although I say “I love you” as much as I can, she often seems confused about which child I am, or even who I am.

The seasons have changed, and as strange as it still feels, in the last few months as her memory has failed completely I have grieved her, and released her, and in doing so have found a sense of gratitude.

Gratitude for the years I spent with her before the illness as friends, the awful years witnessing the illness and her daily loss of self, and the occasional humor, supporting and loving her. Receiving what she was able to give. It was not easy and I cried most days, felt broken and alone, but I survived which often felt impossible.

I think of her more these days than I ever did when she was well- a confusing irony- and I will miss her every day of my life. I know I will grieve her yet again when her body leaves us, as then I will be truly, finally unmothered. Alzheimer’s is a beast which carves a person right out of their body and their life, piece by piece as they stand before you helpless and mourning. But I showed up, and there was also love.

Because life is in the ebb and the flow. We know we cannot change this, but we can choose to experience it as fully as possible; all the hurt, all the horror, the joy, all the beauty, the bittersweet, and the love of this precious fragile thing. And for all of that, I can be nothing but deeply grateful.

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Alison Roman is my Captain America

by Samantha Mangino

In a warm kitchen with wooden fixtures, a large gas stove, and a wood-fired oven, Alison Roman can move through the room making mini aperol spritzes and tending to prep before entertaining a room of 20 people. In midcoast Maine, she looks perfectly at ease in the space while she cooks alongside Annemarie Ahearn, friend of Roman’s and owner of Saltwater Farm, where the event is taking place. You’d never know Roman was away from home. Most fans of Roman usually see the videos of her recipes from her first cookbook, Dining In, or from her New York Times column recorded in her cozy, white Brooklyn kitchen. Her versatility is clear. Her recipes can be cooked at home as easy weeknight recipes, or as the main course for the dinner party she’s gathered on this evening in Maine.

Since the release of Dining In in 2017, Roman has been getting people cooking at home. Your friends are baking “The Cookies” or “The Stew” and posting the photos to Instagram. Yes, there’s a certain virality to it all, but it doesn’t feel glossy or done out of a desire to share that you’re part of a club. Roman invites questions about her recipes on her Instagram and in these moments, she’s less of a food writer and instead the Internet’s favorite coach. She wants you cooking and she wants the food to taste good.

Roman’s journey started in pastry in San Francisco before moving to New York to become a food editor at Bon Appétit. It happened purely by going where her gut was taking her. With every move, and every worried conversation with her parents, the words “I’ll figure it out,” guided Roman through each transition and new job. And she certainly did. Roman would leave Bon Appétit to work full-time on her cookbook and by that time, she was onto something whether or not she fully realized it. Not only had she figured out how to make a career out of cooking and writing, but she was also tuned into something that had been missing from home cooking Cooking at home requires a kind of commitment that most people are scared of. In an age of pre-portioned meal delivery services with easy instructions, Roman is rallying a group of people to go out and find the ingredients, buy anchovies, and take the time to cook at home. And she’s getting people to do it again and again. “Trust is important. If someone makes your recipe, and then another and they work.

Whenever they see your name, they’ll make it.”

Then Roman goes a step further. What started with the Food Network bringing Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Rachael Ray into your home to give you a personal tutorial on how to cook one of their dishes,Roman brings into the age of social media, fielding questions through her Instagram and reposting what she sees. There’s a sincerity and accessibility to her work. Not just because many of her recipes are available online, but that she makes herself available. You don’t have to write in and wait a month to hear from the editor to get your questions answered.

With Alison Roman, nothing gets lost in translation.

That was how I was first introduced to Roman. For my 21st birthday, I decided to host a dinner for friends and I’d recently picked up Roman’s first cookbook.

What had drawn me to it was originally the nice use of blank space and glossy photos, but what made me buy it was the uncomplicated recipes that seemed easy enough for me to make in my dorm kitchen. I wanted to do something a little special for my birthday and make dinner in my cousin’s apartment. I’d gone grocery shopping, found all the ingredients, and brought them back only to panic and find the wrong thing. Having followed Roman on Instagram and seeing her answer questions, I asked her if the tomato puree I accidentally bought instead of the diced tomatoes would work in her NYTimes baked rigatoni recipe. Within minutes, she replied to my DM. We exchanged a few messages back and forth, she wished me luck on the party, and the baked rigatoni was a huge hit. Yes, the recipe was great to begin with, but Roman’s willingness to help and show someone making her recipe how to be flexible made me feel successful It all goes back to trust; there’s a relationship between writer and reader that Roman has opened the door to. She doesn’t need to answer questions,and I rarely see other writers taking the time to do so. .

There’s also a simplicity that comes through.

There aren’t master stylists behind her books, instead Roman styles all her own food to make sure it’ll look just like yours will at home. It’s what her latest cookbook, Nothing Fancy: Unfussy Food for Having People Over is centered around. While this book is another excellent collection of recipes that are inspiring people to make use of their kitchens, it also tells a story.

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An Evening with Alison Roman At Saltwater Farm September 6, 2019 The Menu Spicy Anchovies and Fancy Potato Chips Fancy Citrusy Olives Clam Pasta with Chorizo and Walnuts Lemony Watercress with Raw and Toasted Fennel Tomato-Poached Cod with Chile Oil and Herbs Torn Plum Browned-Butter Cake

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Letters From Half Moon Bay a mythology

by Joshua Lewin As far as our series of mythologies goes, this one is going to be a lot more direct. I guess it is even more of an admission. This is less a myth, than a busting of myth.

I could write about 100 pages on the significance of the stretch of road between San Francisco and Santa Cruz, California; to me, personally, the long route it took me to get there, and to our business...this road represents so much from initial inspiration, to the periodically necessary reprieve of the hard work of each day.

There is a spot along this road, that is about halfway...very roughly speaking...between the two points. This spot is called Half Moon Bay. Partially I love this spot because of the similarity of its name to a book by a teacher of mine, Fred Marchant, “Full Moon Boat.”

I had the book in my bag the first time I rode through Half Moon Bay. I was nodding off in the passenger seat of the car; Katrina does most of the driving, most of the time, and I got the name of the book cemented in my memory as “Half Moon Boat,” as we drove through. It was a few months before I cleaned out that bag and remembered that it had been a full boat the whole time, but it was too late.

Along the highway as you pass through, there is a store that sells wetsuits on a rack outside.

A huge rack. Like a giant clearinghouse for wetsuits. There is a wave in Half Moon Bay, called Mavericks. It is one of the largest waves in the world. It has killed people, more than a few — but not enough to have vacated all of those wetsuits for sale.

I’ve surfed a wave, but not very well, and the waves I’ve surfed have, measuring from the surface of the water — which I’m not even sure if that is the way they are normally measured — wouldn’t have come up much past my hip. Mavericks is not that kind of wave.

It is the kind measured in stories.

The people lost for good in that wave...what stories could they have told? Just to get there you have to paddle out through water as cold as 45 degrees F, that is notably infested with great white sharks. That tale about sharks attacking surfers who look like seals in their wetsuits...that comes from places like this. It is understandable the sharks get confused, there are seals everywhere, and they probably taste very good. This confusion is no consolation to the surfer on their board.

Once there, bobbing and shivering away in hopes of a 15 second ride... the waves themselves, which are known to go rogue and take out spectators and bystanders, threaten to drop even a skilled surfer, from heights of 15 - 40 feet (water is not soft at that height). As one source suggests: “To get the most out of Mavs, surfers need to take off under the lip and then commit to it with body and mind…”

Truth is, I’ve only been to Half Moon Bay once. I mean, actually stopped there. We ate ice cream at a Baskin-Robbins. We couldn’t find the wetsuit outlets. The letters I sent, were just business related, dropped in a mailbox near a strip mall. But regardless of any of that, we are committed to our Half Moon Bay, with body and mind.

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Late last summer, William Degarmo, a ghost from our original production, These Wild Apples, which debuted alongside the opening of our now three year old menu, Les Pommes Sauvages, sat down with Josh and Katrina to get a little bit of behind the scenes information about our new menu this year, Mavericks: Northern California + The Bay. Josh and Katrina were living inside The Whitney Hotel at the time, around the opening of our second restaurant, Peregrine. They probably hadn’t slept much, and, honestly, we can’t confirm that this conversation happened as presented...especially because unlike Josh, we don’t actually stand behind the fact that this ghost exists. So, we felt the need to let you know the source was questionable.

Enough of the facts line up that this conversation serves as great background to find your way into one of our newest menu productions, so here it is for you, regardless.

Degarmo: I know you don’t have a lot of time today, so to start with, is there anything new going on that you’d like to fill me in on?

Josh: Really all we want to tell you about this month is our new for 2019 menu production, Mavericks: Northern California + The Bay, which opened last night.

Katrina: My best memories of California are tied to road trips, whether short or long, they always came along with music that marked a particular moment in time- sometimes a reflection of a current obsession, other times a trip back to when wooden surfboards and piles of abalone lined the shores. The beauty and the mystery of California for me, is the ability to hold nostalgia and progress in equal measure. [the wine list during the Mavericks production is formatted to fit inside that mixtape of sorts of the early 00’s, the blank jewel CD case] Josh: Katrina went to college in California, Santa Cruz to be specific. I was taught in school that California was a bad place, full of bad people. Turns out Santa Cruz is the greatest place on Earth, and San Francisco isn’t so bad either. Ever since I visited the first time, which wasn’t until I was almost 30, I’ve been on my way back there, always, one way or another.

Katrina: The road between San Francisco and Santa Cruz is the best place to ever be. And not just in my memories.

You’ve simply got to see it to understand, as fields and pastures, and rolling hills give way, over and over again, to crashing waves just around the bend.

Josh: And great places to stop and eat, too.

Katrina: Duarte’s!

Josh: Artichoke soup and abalone sandwiches

Katrina: And wineries to visit; like Bonny Doon, we carry selections from them in both of the restaurants.

Josh: Bonny Doon was dropped here on Earth from a spaceship, really, which is why it fits in so well in Santa Cruz, and Lioco specializes in “wine from special places” which they seem to define as Santa Cruz, Sonoma, and Mendocino; all of which I can get behind, easily.

Katrina: Another wine on the Juliet list for the Mavericks season that I am excited about is a Cab Franc called Clos Mullet from Lo-fi. The Lo-fi winery actually inspired the wine list design, modeled after a mixtape for the car ride (but for the rest of that story you’ll have to come see us).

Clos is the French term for a walled vineyard, built to protect the grapes from theft. This cuvee name is a deception, and a very funny joke about pretentiousness in wine. You may read this name and think it should be French and pronounced accordingly (moo-lay, perhaps), but no, this wine is named Mullet because the vines at the front of the vineyard grow shorter than the ones at the back of the vineyard…perfection. This wine is bitter like Campari (in the words of the winemaker themselves), bitter orange, mulled wine.

Josh: The title of the menu, Mavericks, is a reference to one of the biggest waves to surf in the world, not in Hawaii...but off the coast of Half Moon Bay, which is about halfway between San Francisco and Santa Cruz. Katrina herself, you might say, is always half way between San Francisco and Santa Cruz...even though at the moment that means Massachusetts.

Katrina: I went to school at the University of California, Santa Cruz...fun fact, Santa Cruz is the birthplace of the O’Neill company, which you know as a surfwear and accessories company, but cold water swimmers around the world know it as the inventor of the modern wetsuit. Our school mascot was the banana slug, although we had no official sports teams, and our mascot comes with a slogan: “No known predators.”

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Josh: Santa Cruz is a place where you can practically be in both a redwood forest and on the beach, at the same time, where your AirBnb host will drive you to breakfast, and where the fallen fruit at the university garden - which is a world renowned farmer training program - is free for the taking.

Katrina: This isn’t all Santa Cruz, though. Our menu journey begins in San Francisco, a place of incredible diversity, both in the culture, and in the food. Great tacos exist next to traditional sushi and sashimi, next to incredible Italian and Mediterannean restaurants [some consider the unique climate of the Bay Area to be an extension of the Mediterannean region (not literally, of course)]. All next to restaurants that are revolutionizing American cuisine at the highest levels, from the most modern (like Josh’s favorite, Atelier Crenn) to the absolutely simple (Chez Panisse). Spanish is almost as likely to be heard spoken anywhere as English...followed closely by multiple Asian languages, most prominently Japanese.

Katrina: Hey, I gotta go Josh: Can I just tell them about the corn in sea foam and magic roots?

Katrina: Sorry, no, time to go.

Josh: Ok, let’s just go over the title real fast Mavericks: Northern California + The Bay aka: Letters from Half Moon Bay aka: West Coa– Katrina: Stop. Leave something for tomorrow.

Josh: Tomorrow starts tod…

Katrina: Stop.

Josh: We just don’t get the same kind of diversity in everyday life here in Boston, and there is nothing so American as so much difference, in our opinion. Actually, this menu production is meant to kick off a years long series we are tentatively naming American Classics, and well, some of the things we trot out to share might just surprise you if all you are expecting is the contemporary continental canon. More on that later.

Katrina: Ok, just one last thing. Like Cuina Catalana earlier this year- which was also brand new for 2019- Mavericks, although absolutely guided by Josh and me, is actually almost entirely the work of our team. That team includes managers Katie Rosengren and Ariel Knoebel, and chefs Rachael Collins and Megan Mooney. It is their work you got to experience those nights. It is their work that Josh and I experienced as well...as their efforts brought our vision to life.

Katrina: Oh, did you have any other questions?

Josh: Hey! \ Katrina: Bye!

Josh: Who are you talking to? Anyway, the dishes presented combine both very simple as well as modern techniques in cooking, and follow a path that traces the cannon of things that are considered classics of historical California cuisine, nods and homage to Josh’s hero and mentor, Dominque Crenn, and overt celebration of the diversity of influence in the cuisine commonly experienced in the contemporary Bay Area.

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quit your job.

from Ariel Knoebel It became clear to me that I needed to quit my job sometime in the middle of last year. I felt patient exhaustion in my voice as I responded to the dull echo of ideas I had heard years before, sitting at an annual meeting I had forgotten the purpose of. After the meeting, I walked out into the still, golden light of early fall and mourned the loss of the enthusiasm I once held for this work I no longer cared to do.

The aimless wandering of my early twenties had just straightened out into a path leading somewhere, even if I wasn’t quite sure where just yet. I was starting to peek at thirty on the not-sodistant horizon, that arbitrary milestone where we’re all supposed to have things figured out. I looked back at the road I had travelled in this career, ahead at the path I was on, and I took a hard right turn into a new industry, with opposite hours and unknown health codes to follow and a wide set of as-yet unlearned skills to explore.

I spent the winter with my head down, bundled in stress and blustering through the impossible routine I had set for myself. I was working two jobs, spending my days feeling bored but exceedingly competent and my nights stumbling through the exciting woes of being a beginner again. I would crawl into bed bone tired and aching from physical strain and the stress of high stakes - if I was going to go through the trouble of charting this new path, I better not only love it, but get damn good at it fast enough to prove that I was making the right choice.

One day with an hour to kill, I decided to take a meandering route through the city from my new job (where I was feeling settled, if not yet successful) to one of the very last days of my old one. For the first time in what felt like months, I looked up to see where I was headed. Rosy swaths of the springtime sunset hung thickly in the distance. The street was lined with sleepy grey trees, aching to toss their lime-soda green just blooming buds into the gold leafed air. The breeze, which for so long had been bitingly cold, stirred warmly on my skin. Everything around me vibrated with an excitement to grow new roots, to reach fresh branches towards the sky like an early morning stretch, to begin again.

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How To: Nabe — Japanese Hotpot

by Nina Coomes Invite 2-4 friends over for dinner on a cold, blustery day. Ideally the type of day where you feel lucky just to be inside. Lug out your donabe — earthenware Japanese pot — if you have one, and if not, a wide saute pan is fine. Fill ¾ full with water, add a dashi sachet and simmer for a few hours. Take care not to ever let the dashi boil, as this will flatten its delicate flavor.

After an hour or two, your house will begin to smell like warm, heady broth, with a slight mineral tinge, like the sea. If using chicken as your main protein, this is where you will add in your boneless, skinless thighs (get your dry and stringy breasts away from me). They will poach and relax in their broth bath, releasing their own delicious fattiness and flavor. Do skim the broth from time to time for the scum the chicken will inevitably release.

If using only tofu as your protein, or chunks of a soft-fleshed white fish (cod would be great!), or thinly shaved pork or beef, you can add your protein right before you’re ready to eat such that they are only just poached.

(Let me say here that the perfect tofu for nabe is soft, silken tofu, not cut with a knife but broken up artfully, better to be eaten like a hot savory custard.)

While the dashi is simmering, prep your vegetables. I like: enoki mushrooms, shiitake mushrooms (fresh or dried are both fine), daikon (any type of white radish, really), green onions, a hardy green like napa or bok choy if winter, or a more fragile leafy green like watercress or chrysanthemum if early spring. Really, the produce aisle is your oyster. Just be mindful of the order you put your vegetables into your pot. Radishes and mushrooms can go in early to add flavor to the broth while keeping their textural integrity, but greens, onions, and enoki mushrooms need very little time to cook through so should be added only a few minutes before eating. Keep things toothsome. No one likes a pot full of mush.

Might I also add that Japanese hot pot is not like Korean or Chinese hot pot where everything can be put in together and stirred. Japanese hot pot is highly regimented and geometric looking. All your napa, all your mushrooms, all your tofu should live in their own quadrant of the pot. Do not mix them together!!

Start a pot of rice. DO NOT DO ANYTHING WITH IT WHEN IT IS DONE. DO NOT SERVE TO YOUR FRIENDS. Speaking of whom, your friends have begun to arrive, everyone has taken off their coats and is sufficiently warmed and wined. While they are milling about, add the above mentioned things that cook quickly. (I also like to sprinkle a small handful of fine salt to brighten the overall flavors.) As the last things cook, you can set out bowls, chopsticks, spoons and some condiments. I suggest salt, white pepper, grated garlic, grated ginger, chili-garlic sauce, and ponzu. Set out bowls, chopsticks, spoons, some condiments. Call everyone to eat and when they are all seated, use oven mitts to pick up your pot from the stove and deposit it in the middle of the table. Open the pot to much steam, oohing/ahhing. Admire your mandala of vegetables. Invite everyone to scoop up whatever it is they want to eat and to add condiments as they wish. Once everyone has gotten their fill and ideally eaten all the solid things out of the pot (proteins/vegetables), take the pot back to your stove.

Dump the pot of rice you made into the broth and let it boil together. When the rice has broken down into a risotto-esque texture, add in a whisked egg or two, as well as some salt. This is what we call shime, or the use of a carbohydrate to end out a meal. This particular shime I am directing you in making is zosui. Some people boil udon noodles in the broth, but I prefer zosui for its filling and versatile qualities. Egg/salt/rice is simple, but if you’re feeling adventurous, you can always add things like chili or kimchi or even cheese! Scoop the hearty porridge into your friend’s bowls. Feel happy and full. Make someone else do the dishes.

(PS: if you’re feeling anarchic, you could have what is called a yaminabe party — a Darkness Nabe Party — where you make the dashi, and then invite your friends to bring whatever it is they want to add to the pot.

Then you add every bit and bob your friends were kind enough to bring over, simmer until they are cooked, and eat the unlikely combination of ingredients!)

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You Never Forget Your First Steakhouse

By Samantha Mangino

Driving to the Bugaboo Creek Steakhouse in South Portland was the beginning of our evening out itinerary. As we traveled in, one of my parents was always calling ahead to see what the wait time was, then immediately responding to the host on the other side of the phone’s answer with, “can we add our name to the waitlist over the phone?” The answer was always no, my parents knew that. They had this over the phone conversation every few weeks likely with the same host, but asking it may not necessarily have been to get any information but out of ritual.

30-45 minutes was always the wait, as the hostess put the buzzer in my small hand. I’d spend the next 45 minutes focused on when it would eventually buzz so voraciously nearly falling to the flour. As we trailed through the restaurant, the room was lit up by a rotating collection of animatronic buffalo, raccoon, and my favorite – a that would pop-up out of a pot shocking whichever table was sat closest to this sight.

The tables were covered in sticky rubber white and red gingham and the menus were half the size of me as a child. It felt like there was always a moderate debate about what to get that that ended with us getting our usual orders. Once our waiter- dressed in a green button-up - took our order and delivered their signature brown bread on the cast iron plate. I’d reach for the bread, careful not to have any of my fingers touch the black plate that I would imagine was so hot it would scorch me if I let my finger anywhere near it. Our entrees would come shortly after and while I was absorbed in my meal, it was always interrupted by the same conversation one of my parents would start with these words – “it’s good, but it’s not York Steakhouse.”

At this point, I only knew York Steakhouse through name and nostalgia of my parents. This restaurant felt like a sort of legend. It had long been closed by the time I was born, but my parents’ stories brought me there many times. My parents didn’t meet until they were adults and never even visited the steakhouse together, but described it like a shared memory. York Steakhouse was where you went on special occasions, even if that occasion was just to dine outside of the house. Everytime my parents brought it up, I met their comments with annoyance as they regaled the same story over and over. Yet, to this day it has stayed with me.

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For a chain of restaurants that was once owned by General Mills and has a thorough Wikipedia page, there’s not a lot of information on the steakhouse. I know this from searching every corner of the Internet trying to find the full history of the chain. This included a variety of cleverly phrased Google searches as well as logging into my alma mater’s library database to find old news clippings. York Steakhouse was founded in 1966 by Eddie Grayson and Bernie Gros in Columbus, Ohio. It was across the street from a shopping mall like most locations in the franchise . The second location would open in South Portland, Maine attached to the Maine Mall by Eddie’s brother Howard. This would be the steakhouse that formed my parent’s childhood dining out experiences. At its peak, there were 200 locations, nearly all of them attached to shopping malls. As we know from the latest season of Stranger Things, shopping malls were our cultural meeting places of the 1980s.

"a very particular and really delicious flavor"

But the chain saw its decline, and today there is only one York Steakhouse standing. It’s in Columbus, Ohio, the location of the first, and it’s still near a shopping mall. However, that mall’s doors are shuttered, a relic of what once was. However, what is most prominent about the steakhouses impact is that its history is now being told through its earliest guests. I know this first hand from my parents but even with a quick online search, you find old patrons recalling their old haunts.

“There was something about their food -- a very particular and really delicious flavor -- that I've never had anywhere else. I don't suppose anyone out there used to work there, and can tell me their secret? Or knows a place that still serves burgers with that particular savor?”

Reading the above on a Google Group from poster Peter Maranci was the same sentiment I’d heard time and time again from my parents. The way in which so many individuals detailed York Steakhouse makes it seem as though York Steakhouse was a great establishment that history let go unwritten. However, many disagree on its greatness. I could list hundreds more posts in reply to the one above recalling that Peter must have been misremembering something about the chain, but the best reply to his post is from someone named Gunter W. Anderson:

“Actually, there was sort of a golden-age for those cafeteria-style steakhouses in the 70s, and I do fondly remember meals at places like Ponderosa. It seems that they've almost completely fallen out of favor.

Possibly no great loss to the world, but it does serve to make me feel old, as all my old memories become just memories.”

The love and nostalgia that so many people have about York Steakhouse embodies the possibility of the steakhouse. It was the place you went to celebrate an occasion. The love for York Steakhouse is a dated kind of love. When restaurants were attached to malls and shopping centers, meccas for providing the luxuries of being able to get everything you could possibly need in one place. That luxury could extend to dining out too. York Steakhouse was an affordable option while still offering an experience. It wasn’t just about the food. It was about getting in the car to drive there. Picking your main protein, getting to choose from the special key of how you wanted it cooked, choosing the vegetable and starch side, visiting the salad bar and then bringing it all up to the cashier who would then deliver it to you and your family at your table.

It encapsulates the experience of dining out and how that defines what you seek out in your experiences. That it isn’t just about sitting down for a meal, it’s about the company and the ambiance. That dining out isn’t something that is just done any day, but it’s an event whether or not an occasion is actually attached to it.

We don’t eat the same way anymore. That’s why franchises fade. And while we’re nostalgic for the businesses that shutter it isn’t because those are the experiences we’re seeking out, but it’s because they were our first.

Potentially a deduction from my family photos and my parents stories, I can put myself there.

Walking down the line and having eyes sweep across the laminated photos of the protein choices. Would it be steak tips today? Or maybe the filet? Taste buds upon tongue wiggling as you get to reach for your side dishes. Eyes lighting up when dessert choices are presented – a bite hasn’t been taken yet and your stomach is already screaming for the sweet treat to finish your meal. Approaching the register, I can see my grandfather – either my maternal or paternal – rustling into his khaki pockets to find his wallet to pay for

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dinner. No matter how different these two men are, I imagine this interaction happening the same way. He’d take his time, making jokes with the cashier, my grandmother rolling her eyes at her husband or more likely already leading my mom or dad and the crew of siblings to find a table to fit a family of seven. When payments were completed, even though tips weren’t allowed, I know my dad’s father would wait until the manager’s head was turned before leaving cash on the counter. If he got caught then, he’d pick up the cash and leave it on the table after their meal. With his family may have struggled, my grandfather was a restaurant man – he couldn’t bear to not leave even a dime.

I’m not sure what the conversations were like around these tables but to be fair my family aren’t big talkers anyway. But even so, I can’t quite recall what my parents and I chatted about on our nights out either.

What’s hung with me is the nostalgia that decorated their words when they spoke of their own childhood dining experiences and particularly when speaking of York Steakhouse. It may not have been just because of their words – although they are poignant. If you ask my parents about York to this day, they’ll whip into conversation with precise detail – I have the screenshots to prove it. But I also believe there is transcendence in the dining experience. Our family nights out were informed by the my parents experiences out. It wasn’t about the restaurant but what the night out meant. Something special, to be shared with family. And an appreciation for the details. My parents recall all those finer notes to patch onto the memory which, despite having never gone there, has been gifted to me.

I don’t necessarily believe my parents’ beloved York Steakhouse was the unbelievably underrated it has gotten lost in culinary history. In fact, I think its the power of nostalgia that has people fondly recalling the steakhouse on online forums. Or even making the pilgrimage to the last standing location in Ohio. For so many, it was the first experience that remains impossible to forget.This past holiday season as my mom and I drove through the mall, I saw Bugaboo’s signs taken down. The building emptied out months ago, my mom mentioned. A sudden loss flickered in me . To be fair, I hadn’t thought about Bugaboo in years but I had an understanding of what dining out with my parents meant.

I’m sure in a distant future, I’ll be eating out with my partner and our children, and I’ll start to stir up the details of the talking Buffalo that commanded the dining room, the flapping trout, and most importantly, that brown bread on a cast iron pan delivered to your table moments after being seated. The kids will roll their eyes, but I hope they’ll hear it and that it’ll spark something in them. Whether or not they realize it, they’ll be taking note of the dinners of their childhood and storing them somewhere precious.

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Mavericks: Letters from Half Moon Bay or West Coast Best Coast amuse surprise - redacted bread: surprise - redacted market salad. in season vegetables + herbs, Santa Cruz vinaigrette Optional: ciopinno. served in two courses. traditional flavors; modern techniques.

Pacific salmon. corn in sea-foam, with magic roots salad: surprise - redacted tomorrow starts today. pain au chocolate, cappuccino

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Lucia Jazayeri reviews Kimi Takesue’s 95 and 6 to Go 95 and 6 to Go, in which director Kimi Takesue films her grandfather, Tom Takesue, in his Hawaii home for a period of 6 years, left an impression on me the first time I watched it. And it has kept leaving one, over and over again, for almost two years.

The only problem: every time I sat down to find the film or tell someone about it, I would forget the numbers in its title. I recently found out I have Dyscalculia, something that sounds like Dracula, but means that you invert numbers. I discovered this because I started to write my own address incorrectly, after knowing it for several months. Similarly, I would Google “96 and 5 to go,” or “65 and 9 to go,” and find nothing.

It’s a shame, because the film is worth sharing. It’s many things at once: a loving character study made rich by the sights and sounds of the Japanese immigrant experience in Hawaii; a home movie elevated to cinema through stunning focus and editing; and a quirky exploration of the mundane—what Cynthia Fuchs in PopMatters calls “a celebration of poetry and philosophy in everyday life."

While Kimi is hanging out with Tom, she is also trying to work on a romantic screenplay, and Tom throws out advice for the love story elements of her fictional script. His suggestions are shrewd and funny and surprising, born out of a lifetime of thinking about love stories. He loves movies, TV shows, and romantic music from Japan and the US; at one point he sings Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight,” which he says is one of the most beautiful songs in the world.

The majority of the film takes place within the four walls of Tom’s bright, cluttered Honolulu home, where he has lived alone since the death of his wife. The film centers around the small moments involved in keeping Tom’s house running. He carefully peels lettuce leaves, and lights the embers of a small yakitori grill to sear meat. A fan rotates in front of the grill, with bright red and blue ribbons tied to it, perhaps from a past celebration.

Kimi is clearly impressed by how good Tom is at keeping himself running smoothly too, and there are many small moments of resilience. The film opens on Tom doing pushups. Knees down, but still, how many of us can even do a single pushup? He continues his exercises in the backyard and though he is stooped, he straightens his back and walks back and forth in a straight line. He waters his tropical backyard plants with a luscious lacy stream of water.

Kimi’s “hanging-out-at-home” shots are broken up by wide shots of bright blue ocean, with the occasional surfer or paddleboarder tiny against the sea that fills the frame. These expansive shots take us out of the home, but they also underscore the notion of Hawaii as a midpoint between the US and Asia, nearly equidistant from New York City as Tokyo. It is a midpoint and it is a melting pot.

Tom has lived in Hawaii for nearly a century. Tom’s childhood and adulthood span the Great Depression, Hawaii becoming a state, and World War Two. His family were farmers in Yamaguchi, Japan, who moved to Hawaii where, he recalls, they “worked like slaves” to make their way. There must have been racism too, then as there is now, but the film does not linger on that. I found myself wondering about how Tom was affected by anti-Japanese sentiment and racist internment following Pearl Harbor, and whether things were as bad in Hawaii as they were in California, Oregon, and Washington State. A quick bit of research suggests that internment did not affect Japanese-Americans in Hawaii in nearly the number that it did in mainland US. I was reminded of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ 2017 article about Barack Obama, “My President was Black,” about how only in Hawaii could Obama have grown up with such confidence and dignity, while black kids on the mainland were subjected to daily racism, isolation, and violence. It can never be a direct comparison, but it’s interesting to contemplate Hawaii as a setting for Tom’s unique brand of American dream.

During the Depression, Tom had to quit school, which he loved, to get a job. He explains with a sad yet mischievous twinkle in his eye how he drank shoyu so he’d get thirsty enough to gain enough water weight to exceed the 125-pound weight limit to be a postal worker. He meets and marries his wife. There are movie theaters, the beach, dancing, trips to New York with friends (without the wives) to see the Rockettes and go to musicals So often, the immigrant experience seems cold and painful. In this film, too, there is hurting, longing for ones’ country of origin, regret at how things turned out, bitterness at sacrifices that were made, but there is also a quiet, unabashed love for the America he has grown up in. He carefully clips coupons for bits of American commerce, holding onto products like the bra wallet or a book that will teach him to clean “absolutely anything.”

A lot of the coupons look like they date back to the 80’s.

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Tom loves romance on stage and screen, and is open with his suggestions about the plot of Kimi’s romantic film. His own romantic past is complicated; and the film deals with it in one effectively jarring moment of editing. The film is about aging, but it never defaults to the kind of “let’s feel sorry about old people” and paternalistic voyeurism that is often present in depictions of older characters.

In fact, it is Tom, unofficial script supervisor for one film that will never be made, and official star of a film that is nearly finished, who cracks a joke toward the end of the film and inadvertently (or possibly intentionally) names it. The title is a reference to American football (which Tom loves to watch) and his age. 95 yards and 95 years. 6 more yards, 6 more years to go.

It’s a great name, and one I will no longer forget.

This past spring I visited Los Angeles and hung out with some of my older relatives who I hadn’t seen in many years.

My uncle used to be a general in a country 8000 miles away. He is peaceful, kind, academic, a lover of plants, an immigrant, and a lover of America. He has dealt with loss and risen above it. With his daughter, my cousin, we played a game where I closed my eyes and randomly chose one page in a book of poetry by Hafez, a poet who lived in Iran in the 1300s. He would read the page and was supposed to interpret it in the context of my life.

I ended up randomly pointing to a really arcane section and everyone was laughing because even though my uncle is scholarly, it was difficult to find meaning, except that “everything’s going to turn out well.”

The first time I saw 95 and 6 to Go, as the credits rolled, I turned to my viewing companion and said, “Well, I guess that was the best movie I’ve ever seen.” I still believe it, today, but while I suggest it is a film that is beautiful and successful in its own right, it is the best for reasons that are specific to me, as a lover of small moments in everyday life that don’t always have meaning until they are all added together.

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Katie's Corner from Katie Rosengren

When I moved to Somerville almost 4 years ago, I swore I was done with restaurants.

Moving from New York felt like starting my real life and I had some specific goals; to start my career, buy a home, and have children.

With nearly a decade in restaurants at that point, I just didn’t see how that work would be compatible with the goals, so I set out in search of something else. After spending a frustrating, boring, and broke 3 weeks searching for an office job, I applied to Juliet. I thought it would be temporary while I looked for something else. I’ll celebrate my 4 year work anniversary soon after my son’s second birthday.

I have long been skeptical of the no tipping model in restaurants, for many of the same reasons that get thrown around the Internet. There were serving jobs I had where I made upwards of $30 an hour. How could a non tipping restaurant compete with that?

Tipped positions in restaurants work until they don’t. They work if you’re in a consistently busy restaurant with high check averages. They work if you’re a pretty young white woman. They work until you are ill or injured and have to miss work.

There are many problems with tipping.

Its roots in slavery and the racial bias that persists, the ties to sexual harassment, and the income disparity it creates between front of house and back of house workers. These reasons alone are enough to incite change in our industry.

I’d like to add another problem to this list.

Serving in a restaurant is by and large treated like a temporary job, rather than a career. The image most people have is of a student, or an artist trying to get their “real” career off the ground. While I would argue that everyone deserves the dignity of a living wage, regardless of their situation, the idea that this is not a career, or that the smart and talented among us will make their way out, helps keep this system in place.

It took me a long time to recognize restaurants as my career, and I credit much of that to the way society views our work. I’m smart, I have a college degree, and while it was okay to be a server while I was in my 20s figuring things out, it stops being okay at a certain point. But what do we lose when we look at restaurant work in this way? I almost walked away with 10 years of knowledge and skill - yes, serving is skilled work - taking with me countless opportunities to mentor those who are just entering the field. Paying a living wage (and family leave, and health care…) creates a path for advancement.

To those worried that a lack of tips will result in worse service, I’d like to provide a counterpoint. I have always taken pride in my work, doing my absolute best, because a tip was never guaranteed to me, and I assure you, I didn’t always receive one. Now that I have the guarantee of a living wage, I’m free to focus on my job, and the service I give has never been better.

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