Flesh and Blood
Pig on a Hot Tin Roof
Of Consistency and History

FLESH AND BLOOD

By Jane Handel

Hopi farmer in his cornfield, 1970" photo courtesy Jane Handel

When my 6-year-old son was chosen to play the role of corn in his first-grade class play, Down on the Farm, he was thrilled. For his acting debut, corn seemed more fulfilling than some of the other options - a tractor, a mouse, a cow, a barn, or even a farmer. He was not alone. According to his teacher, corn was a role coveted by several of his classmates. But my son has a special enthusiasm for corn so I suspect he will play his role with gusto. As I've listened to him practicing his lines, I've become increasingly reflective about the significance of corn in my life and in all of our lives.

Corn is one of my favorite foods also. It evokes many nostalgic memories, especially those associated with the time when I lived among several North American Indian tribes including the Hopi in Arizona. During my visits to Hopiland, I had the privilege of attending many Hopi ceremonies and special events, and observed firsthand how potent corn is as a sacred symbol in Hopi culture. Cornmeal is sprinkled at every ceremony, and to greet the rising sun. It is a common offering at all rituals. When my daughter first visited Hopiland in the early 1980s, a friend who was a kachina-maker gave her a very special gift of the spotted corn kachina, Avachoya, and this gift continues to be one of her most treasured objects.

My friends in Hopiland were Traditionals, a term used by them to describe a way of life that is in harmony with the earth and the tribe's spiritual precepts. Being a Traditional also meant being a farmer who employed the same cultivation techniques as those practiced by his or her ancestors for the past 2,000 years: saving seeds from previous harvests, planting them with a simple stick for digging, singing songs and planting prayer feathers in the fields to encourage rain and assure a bountiful harvest. With this method, the Hopi have managed to grow corn (and melons and peaches and just about everything else) in one of the world's most arid regions. The ears of corn they produce are small, multi-colored, beautiful, and flavorful. They have a distinctive chewy texture and, arguably, it is the best corn I've ever eaten.

Despite my understanding of the role corn plays in Amerindian culture, until I began to do research for this essay, I was somewhat ignorant of its early history. I didn't realize that the Mayans were the original cultivators and disseminators of corn, or maize. The word maize literally means "that which sustains life," and Mayan mythology states that the first man and woman were made out of corn. For pre-Columbian cultures and, subsequently, for most Amerindian people including the Hopi for whom the Corn Mother is virtually synonymous with Mother Earth, the cultivation of corn was not only integral to their way of life and culture - it was their flesh and blood. For many, the question of who was created first - earth, man, or corn - is impossible to answer.

While listening to my son recite his lines, visualizing him as a cornstalk with ears that "grow big and give you corn without any tears," I think about the sad irony of those words. In fact, despite its nurturing and spiritual history, corn has become one of the world's most problematical crops. It is causing many tears in many places. According to Michael Pollan, who writes eloquently about so many issues related to food, we now have too much corn. His article, "This Steer's Life" (New York Times Magazine, March 31, 2002), is a disturbing expose of the perils of corn-fed beef - from the increase in saturated fat contained in the meat, to the antibiotics needed to cure the cows who are made sick by the corn, to the herbicide and fertilizer runoff from growing the corn that is polluting rivers and oceans. Worldwide, the cultivation of corn is increasing with every passing year. But in contrast to the cultivation techniques developed by Native Americans like the Hopi, who practiced biodiversity and adapted maize to the vagaries of locality, the modern plant is bred for reliability and high yield. In order to maintain this uniformity, modern corn requires more fertilizers and pesticides than any other crop.

There is also much concern that the surfeit of high-fructose corn syrup, which now accounts for 20% of the calories consumed by children, is one of the primary causes of obesity. Pollan asserts that our dependence on maize, which is the number one crop in the United States (more than double any other crop), is an environmental as well as a public health problem. If it is relied upon too heavily as a staple in the diet, as it now is in some African countries, it is unhealthy since it is low in protein and vital amino acids. Although the traditional Mexican diet is based on maize, with 70% of most individuals' calories coming from tortillas, it avoids these health concerns because the grain is preprocessed in an alkali bath that results in greater availability of niacin. Mexico's indigenous diet also includes beans and chiles that are important sources of protein and vitamin C.

One of the foods that I frequently long for is corn that resembles the Indian corn I came to love - flavorful, chewy, and rich in color - not the cloyingly sweet, uniform variety that is ubiquitous in our supermarkets. Of course I also long for a world in which everyone has access to nutritious food that is grown in an ecologically sensitive way without the help of petrochemical fertilizers. In the meantime, I hope my son has fun playing his role as a cornstalk, and I take solace knowing that my daughter is watched over wherever she goes by her spotted corn kachina.

PIG ON A HOT TIN ROOF

Story and Recipe by Claud Mann

I grew up in Berkeley in the 1960s and '70s, the son of gratefully displaced Texans. Both of my parents effortlessly cast off their Texas accents early on and willingly embraced all things Californian. Luckily for me, this included my family's active participation in the San Francisco Bay Area's burgeoning restaurant renaissance. Fond memories include warm loaves of Acme sourdough, weeknight restaurant forays to restaurants like Narsai's, The Baywolf, the California Culinary Academy (where I was later to attend school), and, of course, what my grandmother called "that new place on Shattuck" - better known as Chez Panisse.

To the casual observer, we looked the part of the typical, well-adjusted, Berkeley liberal family. My mom taught yoga to seniors and administered music therapy to depressives in her spare time. My dad drove a lime-green Citroen, had a nodding acquaintance with Angela Davis and Eldridge Cleaver, and smoked a pipe he had hand-carved out of apricot wood from our own trees. My sisters wore Birkenstocks and studied African dance (fortunately, not at the same time). For my part, I remember pursuing many of the interests typical of the average Berkeley boy my age: gathering wild chanterelle mushrooms in the cow pastures above Orinda, burying various time capsules deep in the earth with artifacts that I considered emblematic of the period (mostly Bill Graham Presents posters, TV Guide, and the Berkeley Barb), and learning the secret for flawlessly prepared calf's liver from Mr. Theorie, our local and very grumpy French auto mechanic. (It was marinated with lemon slices and Greek olive oil and then flame-seared over a small, hot charcoal brazier welded together from spare car parts.) We raised Araucana chickens, formed a community garden, marched for peace, and composted. Everything looked so normal but, as is the case with many families, we had a dirty little secret.

Barbecue. At least once a week, my dad would furtively head to the outskirts of town to one of a handful of family-run barbecue houses he had sought out and selflessly tested repeatedly. The kind of place where you could literally follow your nose from blocks away to a hole in the wall where the split hickory was piled up on the sidewalk and the line was out the door with "Q" addicts. One establishment that I recall the most vividly was a house in Oakland where the living room window had simply been replaced with a to-go window. An immensely powerful woman wielding two 14-inch cleavers steadily chopped the Carolina-style pulled pork shoulder on a worn butcher block, mixing in the "bark" (the burnt, crisp outer edges) with the impossibly succulent and moist inner meat, before piling it all on a soft slice of unsuspecting white bread. There was always potato salad and sometimes a pickle. A single unsupported paper plate held the entire meal, so two hands were needed to wrestle the glistening bounty to a table. Thick slices of sweet potato pie awaited all good children.

Fast-forward three decades. Suffering from burnout after too many years in high-end restaurants catering to the "food is entertainment" crowd, I got a gig with Southern Living Magazine as its television food correspondent. My first assignment: Memphis in May, otherwise known as the world championship barbecue-cooking contest. For three days each year along the Mississippi River in Tom Lee Park, 90,000 visitors come to watch over 200 teams from dozens of countries compete for over $60,000 in cash, a man-sized trophy, and - more importantly - bragging rights to be recognized as the world's finest barbecue team. By the time the sweet blue smoke has lifted from downtown Memphis, close to 90 tons of pork products will have been consumed at this legendary event. After 28 years it's now come to be billed as the Preakness of Pork, the Super Bowl of Swine. I suspected I might be going home again.

Flying over the Mississippi Delta, I began to think it made perfect sense that the home of the blues and the birthplace of rock might also be the spot where pork would come to achieve its ultimate gastronomic expression. I mean, why should the same unseen hands that guided W.C. Handy to write "The St. Louis Blues" or led guitarist Robert Johnson to the Crossroads hesitate to whip together some killer ribs at the same time? My stomach growled as I strained to ponder this heady concept. Then we made our descent into Memphis and I commented aloud to the flight attendant about the thin layer of bluish haze hanging over the city, which I thought was smog. I was wrong. It was barbecue smoke - the contest was already under way.

To get an insider's sense of the competition, I finagled a temporary crew position on a professional team by the name of Pig Pounda Kappa. Other swine-inspired team names include The Pork Authority, Notorious P.I.G., Modern Porkfolio Theory, Reservoir Hogs, Any Pork in a Storm, Pork Me Tender, Sweet Swine of Mine, Pit and the Pigulum, South Pork, The Hogfather, and my personal favorite, No Pig Left Behind. (The list goes on and on, but mercifully I won't.) Team captain Gary Kerce, a no-nonsense professional metal fabricator from Loganville, Georgia, led the crew with laser-like focus. As a seasoned professional competitor, he is considered one of the elite. His self-built stainless-steel rig is mounted on a full-size tractor-trailer and probably cost as much as his house back in Georgia. He explained that with a rig this size, he's able to compete in all three major categories at once: whole hog, rib, and the mythic pulled pork shoulder of my childhood.

When discussing barbecue, pros like Gary and his brother Roger are as serious as a heart attack - although that might not be the most sensitive metaphor to use at a three-day cholesterol fest. When Gary welled up with tears recounting his very first win on the circuit, I was surprised to find myself getting a little misty with him. It was turning into a fantastic day: Here I was on the banks of the mighty Mississippi, drinking icy cold beer with tough-as-nails Deep Southern metal workers, dry-rubbing whole 90-pound hogs and openly crying as only real men can. It was one of those moments when life seemed … well … complete.

After we pulled ourselves together, Gary taught me a lot more about the contest. As you may have gathered by now, MIM is a dedicated pork event. In most of the South, barbecue is, by definition, pork and nothing but pork, so help me God. Mention Texas-style barbecued beef brisket anywhere in Memphis and it's like you just told a knee-slapping funny one. Folks just shake their heads and giggle right at you - then give you smoked pork. Apparently they also find it oh-so-amusing that outsiders tend to use the term "barbecue" and "grill" interchangeably. My team members even forced me to repeat the following mantra: "Grilling is the act of using any type of fuel to cook any type of food over direct heat on metal grates, whereas barbecuing is the agonizingly slow, hardwood smoking of seasoned pork until it metamorphosizes into nothing short of ambrosia." It didn't even rhyme or anything, so it was hard to remember at first.

When no one had laughed at me for a good 10 minutes, I asked what seemed like a relatively innocent question: "When do we get to put on the sauce?" There might as well have been a big needle scratching across a record. All conversation stopped. It was as though I had added ice and 7-Up to my Syrah in front of the winemaker. When the silence finally gave way to another round of giggling and knee slapping, my Southern buddies sat me down and explained sternly that Memphis barbecue gets its flavor from the quality of the pork, the character of the wood smoke, and the complementary combination of dry-rub spices and marinade. Apparently, judges won't even bother tasting a pre-sauced entry. They hoped I hadn't jinxed them with the mere mention of it. Perhaps it's analogous to quoting "Porkbeth" backstage on the first night of a play.

I thanked my friends and mentors and moved along the river, promising to return later that evening for catfish and hush puppies. The sun was setting as I walked to the far end of the park where the "Patio Porker" teams were sequestered. Whereas the pro teams generally consisted of numerous members spending astronomical amounts of cash on their booths and equipment, the Patio Porkers competition category seemed more my speed. Teams were often no more than two or three guys, a Lil' Chief smoker, and 22 cases of beer. These teams also seemed more reflective and less competitive. Or they could have just been drunk. Right then and there, my producer Ed and I agreed to return next year to compete in this category with our own team of reflective drunks.

As the light faded and I watched the silhouettes of teams tending their fires, it occurred to me that humans are hardwired to be drawn to smoked meat. This is in part due to involuntary physiological responses to certain mouthwatering aromas, but perhaps also due to the security these same smells represent. Our cellular memories must still recognize what our earliest ancestors knew with dead certainty: A hunk of meat and a well-tended fire meant that one wasn't going to starve, freeze, or be ravaged by animals, even if just for that one night. Kind of a big deal 40,000 years ago.

That first Memphis trip was 5 years ago, and since then our Barefoot in the Pork team hasn't even come close to taking home a trophy (although 2 years ago we had an ironclad excuse when a small tornado touched down near our tent). But trophies aren't the point. Each year, friends new and old come by to watch the process, share the results and occasionally get "reflective." As is common in the South, storytelling and music are in endless supply, and team captain Ed Richardson's pre-contest jambalaya is steadily becoming a festival legend. Next year, as repayment long overdue, I may even get around to FedExing a full pouch of hand-pulled pork straight from the contest to Dad and Mom on their little island off of Seattle. Don't worry. I won't add sauce.

OF CONSISTENCY AND HISTORY
A Profile of L'Auberge Restaurant

By Tracey Ryder

Paul Frannsen on the terrace at L'Auberge

Paul Franssen came to California with his young family in 1964. Six years prior, he left his native Belgium bound for Montreal, Canada, which is where both of his children were born. From Montreal, they headed southwest to Santa Barbara, where Franssen worked for the Biltmore Hotel in several capacities. In Belgium he had been a mapmaker, which somehow translated to the Biltmore hiring him on as a public relations photographer. Always looking to get ahead, he soon added customer relations representative to his list growing of job titles. "They had me doing customer relations because I could speak German, Dutch, and French with their European guests," Franssen recalls. Later on, he even added the title of bellhop to his résumé, a job that allowed him to make better money because of all the tips he earned.

After the initial charm and excitement of the hotel business wore off, Franssen decided to move his family back to Belgium. But his children really missed life in California, so after only 2 years, they found themselves back in Santa Barbara again. By this time, the Biltmore had gone through some management changes, so Franssen was often looked to as a bridge between the old and new management, who could smooth things over when they got rocky. In addition to tempering the ruffled feathers of personnel, this is also when he found himself on the restaurant side of the hotel business. As maitre d' of the Biltmore's dining room, he quickly learned the restaurant business and felt he had found his niche.

The maitre d' experience convinced Franssen that he wanted to own his own restaurant (and the building it came in too), so he set out to find the perfect location. By then, however, Santa Barbara real estate was already too expensive, which caused him to look elsewhere. Once in Ojai, Franssen found the perfect place right away but it took him over a year to convince the owners to sell to him. Eventually he prevailed and ended up in the building he still occupies today-the lovely auberge on the hill across from Cluff Vista Park-which he purchased in 1980.

Of course, there are no rooms for rent here, only delicious food that can be enjoyed either inside by the fireplace, in a room that reminds you of being at your favorite grandmother's house, or outside on the lattice-covered patio that peeks at some great views of the Valley.

I asked Franssen about his history and about the recipes for his rich, yet delicate, dishes. "I am French on my father's side and Dutch on my mother's. My mother is 96 and still lives in Holland, so I go and visit her every year. When I was growing up, our family was like all the other old European families. Mothers would do the shopping for each day's big meal in the morning-they would go to the butcher's, then to the bakery, then to buy vegetables-everything was fresh everyday. By noon, she would begin cooking dinner, which would not be served for until 5:30 pm or so. That's what she did everyday because it was important to have the family around the table. My cooking reflects her cooking."

Ojai's L'Auberge on the hill

For L'Auberge, Franssen continues, "I developed all the recipes myself by inviting friends over for dinner and cooking for them. The flavors and style of the recipes are what I grew up with." He then goes on to explain that the rabbit dish on the menu is an old Flemish recipe and that the rabbit is marinated in beer for 24 hours, along with vegetables and vinegar, before it is cooked. The real secret of its deep flavor, however, is that it is finished in the oven with its sauce and some dried plums for close to 30 minutes before serving.

I try to get the recipe for the house salad dressing from him but he dismisses my request by saying that it's virtually impossible to make at home. "I make that dressing a gallon or two at a time and still have to use a pinch of this or a pinch of that, which makes it impossible to get the same flavor in smaller amounts." Too bad! All he ended up telling me in detail is that the dressing is a nondairy and yogurt-based. I can honestly add that it's addicting, as is the escargot appetizer (just sop it up with the crusty bread they serve and you will know what I mean).

When it comes to discussing other ingredients for his menu-the meats, vegetables, and herbs-he says loudly, "Produce is not what it used to be!" Other than having to stay on top of his produce suppliers in order to continue getting the highest quality available (which often means changing companies), he's been with the same meat vendor for years and enjoys the relationship he has built with them.

The rest of our conversation reveals that we share a favorite restaurant on the Monterey Peninsula, called Fifi's. It's the closest thing to a real French bistro this side of Paris and it turns out that Paul and his wife, Elaine, enjoy going there as much as I do. We laugh at what a small world it really is.
Franssen's children, whom we can thank for bringing him back to California, have followed in his footsteps to some degree. His daughter, Monique, helps out at the restaurant on Saturdays, and his son, Patrick, works for Marriot Hotels in South America. Patrick is in charge of opening new properties for them in the region, which I'm sure involves smoothing ruffled feathers at times.

As with many restaurateurs, Franssen is not the chef, although he does cook often and developed each of L'Auberge's recipes himself. The credit for keeping the recipes consistent and delicious, however, goes to Ted Gowrie, who has been the chef at L'Auberge almost since it opened. In fact, most of the L'Auberge staff has been at the restaurant for at least a decade, some for much longer.

We end our conversation with a discussion on service. Here, Franssen is adamant: "When people come here to dine, everything is taken care of for them like it should be. We are attentive but not overly so. I refuse to treat customers like children. They have their own tastes and know what they like, so we describe our dishes and wines in detail but we don't make suggestions about what is best-we let them decide what they will like best."

And they do that in true European spirit, I might add, with graciousness and an easy formality that allows you to feel relaxed yet taken care of at the same time-something there just never seems to be enough of these days. Merci, L'Auberge.

L'Auberge Restaurant
314 El Paseo
Ojai, CA 93023
(805) 646-2288
Open 7 days for dinner
Brunch on Saturday & Sunday
Indoor & outdoor dining
Extensive beer & wine list

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