The Crisis of Prices

Everything is getting more expensive. From wholesale grain costs to anything transported-which is most everything. I came across a great series of articles in the that covers this crisis from a global perspective. Of particular interest to me was the article that discussed wheat. I talked to Thom Leonard of Wheatfield’s Bakery last week about their soaring wholesale flour cost. We’ve seen it in the high gluten flour we use for pizza. A year ago it was something like $16 for 50 pounds, now it’s over $40. Nearly every supplier we receive deliveries from (six days a week-many, many trucks) has tacked on a fuel surcharge to help cover the increase gas prices. Take a look at the series in the Washington Post.

Smells of My Life

Coffee, pipe tobacco, sauerkraut, cigarettes, sausages, Gallo Chablis Blanc, roasted chicken, grilled burgers, steamed hot dogs, pineapple upside down cake, Old Style beer, coffee cake with streusel topping, Manhattan clam chowder, yeasty pizza dough, spaghetti sauce, garlic bread, scotch, Bisquick pancakes and waffles, meatloaf, tuna sandwiches, sardines, the flavor combination of Italian salad dressing and milk, as well as garlicky spaghetti sauce washed down with milk, the combination of plain roast beef on a Gonella roll, with a side of potato chips and a Claussen pickle, backed by a returnable glass bottle of Coca Cola poured over ice, the carbonation jumping into my nose, slightly burning my lip. Waking up to the smell of brewing coffee, what I know now is coffee; at the time I didn’t even think about it, it was just the way morning in my house smelled. The combined smell of coffee and cigarettes is probably something I’ll never even come close to separating. I don’t recall pipes being a morning ritual, it seems as though it as an evening thing, and I can sense the aroma of some after work scotch in there too. I’m not sure when my dad stopped smoking in the house, but he would come back in from the porch with his coffee and the smoke would follow him closely. That initial smell if the cigarette as it’s lit is still one of the fondest memories I have from summer car trips to the East Coast. I’m sure there are scientists somewhere that are in charge of that smell, actually, they’re probably dead now, but they were geniuses. In an instant a smell can take me places and frequently does. The way Ledos pizza on LaGrange Road in Countryside smelled as you walked in from the parking lot. That remarkable Italian American red sauce smell. Same goes for C and C hot dogs on 31st street, I think it was 31st Street. Dino’s came later, after I’d been to Little Joes. The hot dogeria as I think of them now, I dream about that smell, I can taste that smell. The smell of Wrigley Field was different than Comiskey Park. I can’t tell you why, but way different.

Getting There

I've been longing for a grand trip lately. As the Spring arrives, students finish their school year and my friends make plans for excursions abroad, I'm thinking alot about my journey to Italy last year.

By the time we landed in Paris, we knew we were running late for our connection to Florence. Everywhere we looked were signs for gates A, B, C and E, but the gate we needed, D55A, was a mystery. We sought help from several smartly dressed people with AirFrance name tags, each one studied our tickets closely, then pointed in different directions. Was it the was it the way I had asked for help that pissed them off? Assuming they spoke only French, perhaps if I spoke English loudly they’d understand me, I thought. I was of the opinion, “Look, I’m trying to get to Italy. I have never been there before, but I am the manager of a successful Italian restaurant in Kansas that is sending me there to do research. Obviously, you need to give me concise, coherent instructions to the proper gate. I AM AN IMPORTANT AMERICAN! Wait a minute. I am, in most ways, an utterly unimportant American who has dropped out of five colleges, has minimal job skills and has happened to work at a restaurant long enough without developing a drug habit that I am now the general manager. This restaurant somehow bought into the idea of sending me and the Chef on a trip to Italy to get some ideas. So the AirFrance workers saw through my loud American façade and gave me the ‘we love America’ hook up; fingers pointing everywhich way as our time to make the flight was running out.

Through a tall maze of translucent lucite walls we finally cleared a 20 minute line of security and hopped along trying to quickly put our shoes back on, just in time to find a vacant D55A five minutes prior to our scheduled departure. We overheard someone say that our plane was late. Breathing a sigh of relief as I threaded my belt back through the loops, we noticed a nearby monitor indicating our flight was closed. Assuming this was a good thing simply lost in translation, we sort of stood there near the gate door, waiting to board, then realized they’d meant we were late as we saw the plane pull away. We found our way through another daunting line where we eventually got put on a flight scheduled some six hours later. We huffed a bit, disappointed we were so far from home stranded at Charles de Gaulle, but still many hours from our destination. We were en route to five days in Italy. We better get a drink.

We found what appeared to be a typical airport café. Not in the TGI Fridays vain, but typical in what you might expect at the Paris airport if you’d never been out of the United States before, except for that weird 90 minutes in Mexico at the place with the sombreros and pretend valet parking back in 1999. This café featured bentwood chairs, white tablecloths, properly attired servers and fancy European fonts beneath the sticky vinyl menu covers. We quickly picked out a random half bottle of white wine, a bottle of sparkling water, a cheese plate, some soup and a croissant. Though we pretended to be fascinated by the French cheese and gazpacho garnished with bacon, we really just wanted to drink and quickly made it through three half bottles. A perfect latte later we were sufficiently drowsy and dragged ourselves to the proper gate with four hours to go.

I napped sitting up, clutching my carryon like a stuffed animal. The screams of impatient children woke me up several times, as well as my incessant sleep drooling. Eventually, I was so concerned that we’d miss the flight that I woke up for good, sat there staring at the monitors, double checking my watch and watching the kids freak out. As 7:00 approached, we lined up to get on the bus that would take us out to the plane. I still feared something would disrupt our plans, even as we climbed the steps in the wind to board. I fastened my seatbelt tightly, thinking that if I was securely connected to this plane nothing could go wrong. I felt a whole lot better once we left the ground.

Maybe I was hungry, maybe the altitude deprived me of my true senses, I don’t know. The AirFrance flight attendants glided down the aisle passing out trays of what I assumed were salty snacks. I’d never flown long enough to have any food on a flight beyond peanuts or pretzels, so when I opened the lid of the tray I was shocked. A few slices of bread, some spreadable cheese, pate, butter, a fruit tart and a single serve bottle of white wine. I devoured everything as fast as I could, it was fantastic. I asked for another bottle of wine and stared out the window at the tops of the clouds, growing more excited by the minute.

Basketball Feverishness

Somewhat upscale Italian dining that lacks plasma screens suffers a bit during March Madness. No theme drinks, no theme pastas, just our regular fare and tiny tube televisons at a neck bending height at the bar. That's OK. I thoroughly enjoyed much of the revelry the last week or so from the window of a well secured downtown building. As much as I consider myself a regular American guy, excited by the victories of the local team, I seemed to be the only one downtown concerned with basic germ protection during the last week of sporting celebrations. Since people made fun of me for having latex gloves on, I removed those-only to realize I didn’t have a pocket large enough for my hand sanitizer pump. So I sort of held my hands out away from my body and high fived only those people I considered the cleanest. Sure, a bit awkward, but there were lots of dirty people. I did, though, learn a tremendous amount about sportsmanship, camaraderie and team spirit from these very people I was reluctant to touch.
Team Spirit is…
Taking your shirt off on a somewhat chilly evening despite the fact your physique is not considered beautiful by today’s societal norms.
Dancing poorly in an obviously suggestive manner, in front of many, many people.
Trying in vain, several times, to get the SWAT team to high five.
Drinking and smoking while wearing a swooshy workout suit.
So way go Jayhawks, thanks for a memorable season. And thank you sporting fans for being kind and gentle on the streets of our city.