Fifty Five Degrees and Counting

Like a good hedonist, I am gaining pleasure at autumn’s expense this afternoon, watching the oaks and maples change into their more colorful garments before dispensing of them entirely. Similarly, I am also basking in the afterglow of an incredible week of restaurant life, much in part to the review in the Lincoln Journal Star on a week ago Friday.

Reviews can make or break a place, and we certainly saw the former at work all week. It allowed folks to know that we now serve a dinner menu every night of the week, and attendance proved that fact. Around 6pm on Wednesday night, a usual night off for me, Karen called and said to get down here because they were already in the weeds. My bother quickly changed to adrenaline when I got in the kitchen and reminded myself that this is why we do what we do; we make people happy, and doing so better make me happy as well, or I’m in the wrong business.

Success breeds success, because if good news is really good news, it spreads virally on its own. If I can talk about my restaurant, I’ll take every chance I’m given. But if I can get you to talk about it for me, that’s even better. Customers make better advertisements than ads in any publication.

The conversation about success usually leads to questions like this; “When are you going to expand?” or “You could franchise this, you know?” And while I appreciate the reasoning behind it, it’s the opposite rationale that has made our concept work.

A franchise is a formula built on the lowest common denominator: What’s the lowest level of skill needed to reproduce the product? The reason our food stands out above the crowd is it made with increasing skill. We are constantly reading, studying new ideas, trying new techniques so we can present better plates in front of you. We are currently tearing through Michael Ruhlman’s Charcuterie, a book on curing, smoking and preserving meats. The Tasso ham we made convinced us we need to keep moving in that direction. Eventually all our meats on the Meat Plate and Ploughman will be created in house. It made us happy when we took the first taste, so we assumed it would do the same for you.

I am a thankful man this afternoon, and now I know what my dad meant when I would hear him say countless times, “my cup runneth over.” To be a part of this little hub of activity on the corner of 8 & S streets in Lincoln, Nebraska, I dreamed it would be good, and now I know what good feels like.

Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue..

{photo of Ellis Island}

The bad thing about time off is that it eventually comes to an end, but I'm not complaining, mind you. We had a great weekend away, and I have a great job to which I can return.

This photo shows Ellis Island playing the Hall Stage in the underground pub at the Weston Brewing Co in Weston, MO. It is two stories underground and originally was used to lager beer at a cool, natural temperature. It has now become a unique venue for music, certainly the most distinct place I've ever witnessed. I love finding places like this one; literally hidden away, off the beaten path, unknown to the masses, which is how it keeps its charm.

We found a table at the edge of the balcony and decided to stay put for the duration. This gave us a great vantage point to see the acts all day. It was about as good a day as I could ask for.

{photo of Screamin' Orphans}

Irish Music in a German dug cave

{photo of k&k}

Enjoying the first real time off since March with Karen this weekend. Ironic that Ireland was our last destination, and now an Irish Fest is our choice. Held in Weston, MO, this little underground pub was one of three stages from which to enjoy some outstanding Celtic themed music, including a long time favorite of mine, Seven Nations. {photo of 7N}

A surprise act was Flannigan's Right Hook, a KC based act that did more covers than original tunes, which I thought was surprising, but effective. How they found their way into a version of Time, by Pink Floyd, with electric fiddle substituting for Roger Waters soaring geetar, then into a traditional Irish jig, was beyond me, but they did it. I asked the fiddler after the show how they came up with the idea to blend those two songs, he said, "I don't know, but that is my favorite part of the show." I think it was mine, too.

{photo Flannigan's Right Hook}

Back off the throttle just a bit, son

Enjoying a nice relaxing Monday with cup of coffee at Aroma, one of my favorite Omaha chill spots. A woman asked me at the Farmer’s Market yesterday if my mind ever shuts off, and I told her that my best option was to just keep it idling on lower RPM’s than normal. It works better for me to divert my attention than it does to power down. Like when I woke up at 5am this morning, it does me no good to stay in bed, else I end up staring at the ceiling. I might as well put the waking hours to good use.

At this point, my writing doesn’t feel like work. I’m sure if I had to crank out X-amount of words on a daily basis that it might get wearisome, but for now I find it enjoyable to put a few thoughts down in written form to share on my blog.

I’ve started reading, once again, one of my most favorite books. It certainly is the one I have re-read more than any other. It’s the book titled, A Very Small Farm, by William Winchester. I sometimes feel a little embarrassed to admit that a story about a subsistence farmer has come to mean so much to me. Any time we identify the “why” behind any kind of passion, it reveals a vulnerability that requires us to care for it.

I can summarize why I love this little book in one line of the story,

“It was for the most self-indulgent reasons I came to the farm--to be happy.”

Who among us would not admit that it is this very motivation for which we all yearn? Who does not want to be happy? Who does not want to be able to wake up each day with anticipation and not dread? Yet how many of us believe that it is even possible to attain that kind of state of being?

But here is a man, about my age, who finds pleasure in the daily chores of work on a farm. He writes of fascination in the smallest of details, like the flight of a chimney swift or the methodical weaving of a web by a spider in the corner of his house. His descriptions of the clouds in the sky, or the acrid smell of the smoke in the air from a nearby grass fire, make me stop and ask myself if I am capable of doing the same?

Several years ago, knowing how the Oklahoma Rural Mail service works, I decided to write William a note of thanks for his book and to tell him how much it meant to me, and simply addressed the envelope, William Winchester, Rural Delivery, Collinsville, OK and sent it on its way. God bless those postal carriers, because a few weeks later I got a reply, indicating that the post made it to its destination. He thanked me for the kind words, and sent me a packet of Sioux heirloom tomato seeds to try, the ones he described culling out from the more vigorous plants. They were some of the best I’ve ever grown.

While William in his shyness would probably be embarrassed to hear me say this, but I consider him an indirect mentor of sorts. None of us gets to the place we are in life without the inspiration of some other human voice. Often these voices are in the form of a father, mother or coach or teacher, each telling us we can do it and that they believe in us. I don’t care who you are, you have someone like this, it may be a very small voice, but there will be one. Make sure you lean in and listen.

As I read William’s words once again, I find my voice now in his. It is for the same reasons I came to the restaurant that he came to the farm—to be happy. Yes, the work is demanding, but the remuneration is disparately rewarding. To hear laughter in the dining room, to read an online review, or to hear a customer say, “That’s probably the best meal I’ve ever had,” you can’t buy that kind of feeling.

I get no compensation from this recommendation other than the payment of gratitude from people who gained the same inspiration I did from reading it. Somehow this holds more value than a monetary one.