May 2013

When ALIVE’s Editor posed the question, “Where were you in ’62?” I knew the answer immediately. I was a freshman at Mercy High School in Burlingame, CA.

The Space Needle—an innovative edifice topped by a revolving full-scale restaurant that seated 250—had recently been constructed for the World’s Fair in Seattle. (In 1962, it was the tallest structure west of the Mississippi.) John Glenn had become the first American to orbit the earth, so “space-age” became the catch-word to hype just about anything, including the food we ate. We wanted it modern, and we wanted it fast. If a mere powder packaged in a hermetically-sealed envelope required only tap water to become a beverage, soup, or whipped topping—all the better. This made us feel we were riding the crest of progress; and, somehow, we were one with the astronauts.

There was a young family in the White House, and their parties were legendary. Official guests no longer endured dubious dinners prepared by U.S. Navy stewards. Now René Verdon, a French-born American chef, ran the White House kitchen in style. He soon became a celebrity in his own right, sharing his recipes in dozens of magazines and eventually writing his own cookbooks.

Washington’s constant stream of notable guests, ranging from diplomats and heads of state to the nation’s finest intellects and artists, now dined on luxurious items like vichyssoise, spring lamb, Beef Wellington, and fresh strawberries. Fine wines were showcased in the State Dining Room, and the world took notice. Lest we feel excluded, the First Lady led us on a private tour of the newly restored White House during an unprecedented television broadcast. This was our House, and we were proud.

As Francophile-fever ran rampant in the U.S., flights to Europe became more frequent and increasingly affordable. Well-traveled Americans (as well as those who only dreamed of a European vacation) set out to recreate the “exotic” foods enjoyed in other countries. Air travel to Hawaii also increased dramatically in 1962, lending tropical flair to our home cooking. At most grocery stores, though, the lettuce was still iceberg and green vegetables were frozen and mushrooms came from a can. So a whole breed of best-forgotten mongrel recipes was born—vile creations like lasagna made with American cheese, and chicken baked with bottled salad dressing and canned pineapple. All washed down with a miraculous new product called Diet-Rite cola.

Beyond the scarcity of quality ingredients, however, most home cooks—aficionados of ’50’s convenience-foods—had little or no technical skill in the kitchen.* But that didn’t deter anyone from embracing home entertaining, Mad Men-style. Commercially-bottled barbecue sauce sent smoke signals throughout suburban backyards; while pre-liberated city housewives struggled to copy ambitious White House menus. (It may not have been Boeuf Bourguignon exactly…but a healthy glug of red wine was probably added to her tried-and-true beef stew.)

To capitalize on these trends a new wave of cookbooks hit the market, featuring budget- or instant-gourmet dishes. (The “I hate to cook” and “how to get and keep a man” genres also thrived.) Eventually all-American Jell-O salads and the humble casseroles of yesteryear were upstaged by French-inspired sauces fashioned from cream of mushroom soup and cooking sherry. (Oooh la la!) Even Americans’ beloved cans took a modern turn with the invention of pull-tab lids.

In both urban and suburban areas, farm-fresh food was something you might encounter only at some remote roadside stand—when the entire family took a long car ride after church on Sunday. Vegetarians were an oddity then; and those who promoted the consumption of fresh, natural foods were called “health nuts.”

It was during this time that an enterprising Swiss-born chef working at the Chalet Suisse restaurant in New York City thought to increase profits by enticing his diet-conscious customers to order dessert. His secret weapon? Melted Toblerone chocolate bars served as a dip with fresh fruit. Dieters eat fruit, right?

The idea was a roaring success. The trend spread not only across the U.S. but to Europe as well, where the Swiss adopted the recipe as their own and started serving it at chic ski resorts. As near as anyone can tell, this was the beginning of the chocolate fondue craze—which still thrives to this day.

In 2013, serve this timeless classic with a selection of flavor-packed, locally-grown fruits from the farmers’ market. Dried fruits and nuts are good for any time of year; but this month think tiny pitted apricot halves; cherries-on-the-stem; chunks of sweet cantaloupe; and big fat strawberries. Lots and lots of strawberries.

Come to think of it, maybe you should double the recipe.

 

Toblerone Swiss Fondue

Toblerone candy bars are Switzerland’s popular mélange of fine chocolate blended with honey and chopped almonds. Each triangular break-apart chocolate log, reportedly shaped to mimic the Swiss Alps, is tucked neatly inside a distinctive little box. Totally charming.

3/4 cup heavy (whipping) cream

6 (3 1/2-ounce/100g) bars milk chocolate or semisweet Toblerone, broken into individual pieces

2 to 4 tablespoons cognac, to taste

1. In a medium saucepan, heat the cream over low heat until hot but not boiling. Gradually stir in the chocolate, letting each addition melt before adding more. Stir in the cognac.
2. Pour the chocolate mixture into a fondue pot and serve warm, not hot. Makes about 2 cups.

Toblerone suggests that if by some chance there is any leftover fondue, it should be refrigerated until firm enough to form into balls, for Toblerone truffles.

*Although Mastering the Art of French Cooking received critical acclaim when first published in 1961, it was not until 1963, when The French Chef came bounding into our homes on PBS, that Julia Child became everyone’s first cooking teacher.

The Danville Certified Farmers’ Market, located at Railroad and Prospect, is open every Saturday, rain or shine, from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. For specific crop information call the Pacific Coast Farmers’ Market Association at 1-800-949-FARM or visit their web site at www.pcfma.com. This market is made possible through the generous support of the Town of Danville. Please show your appreciation by patronizing the many fine shops and restaurants located in downtown Danville. Buy fresh. Buy local. Live well.

 

 

 

With the events of this past month, going back to another, simpler time sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? I don’t have enough space here to expound upon why simple is usually better than complicated, but suffice it to say when we think of classic films, some of the best are those with simple story lines and life-like characters. American Graffiti is one of those. And as tough as things have been lately, how fortunate we are, with this year being the 40^th anniversary of the film, to be able to celebrate George Lucas’ hit movie.

This entire issue is really the brainchild of my friend, retired film industry promoter Joe Redmond. When he suggested we do a story about the film, I was mildly enthusiastic. When he then mentioned he had met and chatted with the film’s lead actress, Cindy Williams, at a charity event celebrating the film’s 40^th anniversary, I went from enthusiastic to ecstatic!   

Joe sent me photos of his encounter with Williams and I was dumbstruck—the “cuteness factor” of Cindy Williams is as palpable today as it was when she played Shirley Feeney in the hit comedy series, Laverne and Shirley. I loved the show when it ran in the 70s and 80s, and I’ll admit to being as smitten today as I surely was then.

Even though Joe interviewed Cindy Williams, I really wanted to learn more about her, so I arranged for my own interview (page 20). As Joe said about his encounter with Williams, I too found her to be warm and unassuming—within a few seconds, she made me feel as though we were close friends.

Talking with Williams, I was struck by her dedication to her craft. Whether in movies, television or stage, she is the consummate professional who works very hard at what she does. Be it comedy or drama, her body of work over the past forty years speaks for itself. Before our interview, I didn’t really understand the work required to be “professionally funny,” but making it look easy is anything but. Laverne and Shirley, like Seinfeld and I Love Lucy, will remain timeless icons of comedy because of the work invested by the actors.

Most of all, I was impressed by Cindy Williams’ honesty and conviction of values. She spoke passionately of the powerful faith that guides her life, and at a time when some celebrities act as if they rest in the center of the known universe, Cindy Williams stands as a reminder of what a professional actor is. If you’re seeking an example for pursuing a career in Hollywood, I’d point to Cindy. 

Classic films like American Graffiti are rare, as are celebrities with the courage to reveal who they really are apart from the roles they play. Cindy Williams has that courage. The same warmth and depth of character I felt when we spoke, is what radiates from her performances on screen and stage. It’s why she is the successful actress that she is.    

Oh, and of course, being cute doesn’t hurt, either.

 

 

It has probably occurred to you by now, as you thumb through your personal issue of ALIVE magazine, that our illustrious editor is focusing this issue on the United States in the 1960s and early 1970s. Even more specific, I am told, he is glorying in the movie representing that era, namely American Graffiti.

This gives me an opportunity that I have longed for since the year 2008 when I first was published in ALIVE with articles titled the same as my book – Stamps In My Passport. I’ve selected offshore venues and shared adventures with you that I’ve had in those “far-away places with strange sounding names,” always including a passport stamp. But, now is the time! There is one recurring stamp in my current passport, as well as the five retired passports, that fills pages and pages. I now have an excuse to share a story or two about that stamp. You guessed it – the good old United States of America stamp that tells everyone “I’m home!”

My first story is about a run-in I had in the late 1970s with one of those stern but polite customs agents. In those years I made several trips each year as a gemstone courier. A business I was associated with purchased emeralds, rubies, and sapphires from miners all over the world. These stones were then stored in banks in that country – awaiting a pickup. There were drops in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania on the east coast of Africa, and rubies smuggled out of Cambodia by the Khmer Rouge and stored in Chanthaburi, Thailand. I was fortunate enough to be able to pick up these bags of rough stones and bring them back to the United States. This meant going through a different line at the San Francisco airport. Sitting quietly in a small room off to one side, I patiently explained to this United States agent how I came about having these imported items. Always had to assure him I was not laundering money for some evil drug cartel. Even though I always thought I had an honest face, apparently these guys felt I looked guilty. Eventually they let me through, and I always got a stamp in my passport. Those were exciting times for me.

Another one of my fond memories about my United States passport stamp occurred in Singapore. The logic of the US policy at that time has escaped me over the years, but for decades it was in effect. To get a US passport one needed to apply in San Francisco, but for some unexplained reason one could add pages to an existing passport at the US embassy in Singapore. On one of our trips, we realized that we had only a page or two empty and decided to take advantage of this opportunity. The US Embassy was close to our hotel, so we walked to the fortress-like structure – surrounded by a huge iron fence. The spit and polish marine allowed us to pass, and another marched us to the head of the line, while others awaited an audience. The lady behind the desk was helpful, and in a short time we had a fatter passport, with twenty four new pages. When we got back to the United States, the immigration officer noticed the added pages and jokingly said “Let me christen your new pages with a good old solid US passport stamp.” I have heard that Singapore no longer does this – so the experience will remain unique.

It’s apparent that over the years the use of passports has changed. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s we visited relatives back in Michigan. We used to drive across the Ambassador Bridge or through the Windsor Tunnel from the US to Canada. Back then, no one seemed to care a great deal about a passport. In fact, during a number of those years, I didn’t even own a passport much less get a stamp. Little did I know at the time that not getting a stamp in my passport would become such a big deal in my life. Missing that experience would mar a record of years of travel in and out of our most joyous and prosperous country. God bless you, America!