This is me lurking in the shadows of Doe’s Eat Place, Greenville, Mississippi. Doe’s was originally a honky-tonk, and later a restaurant. On the wrong side of the tracks because Doe himself was Italian, which made him, like the Lebanese and Jews of Greenville, colored folk, the restaurant found itself sneaking white folks in the back door because the steaks were so good. Now anyone can eat at Does, and I do recommend it.
Quick post because I’m supposed to be packing to leave New Orleans and go to Mississippi, but I wanted to show you the Eye, the Private Eye Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award. I got this Friday night. Love to be a member of this organization, so LOVE this award. Thanks, guys.
I’ve had walking pneumonia. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who campaigns on a monster schedule while she’s being treated for it ipso facto proves she has the stamina to be President.
…but the demarcation line really is Labor Day, isn’t it? I did the Facebook cover photo seasonal change, and I thought those of you not on Facebook might like to see the photo, too. This was shot late last fall from the native plant garden at the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx.
And the accordionist, who sounded just like Constantine, Da Vorld’s Most Dangerous Frog. Nice accordion, huh? It’s called a garmoshka. He also played a stringed instrument I don’t know. The group is the Barynya Balalaika Trio. Photos by Keith Michael.
This is the last weekend at the Rancho. Until next year, North Fork!
Yesterday, the world lost a great woman, and I lost a good friend. Bea Kreloff died at 91. She was an artist, a teacher, a radical feminist, a very secular Jew, and a grand dame, one of the best storytellers I ever met. Even if she did tell you the same story a million times. She and her partner, Edith Isaac-Rose, co-founded Art Workshop International, where I teach in Assisi in the summer. She lived around the corner from me and I went over often for coffee (me) or martinis (Bea). One of her few regrets, she told me toward the end, was that she wouldn’t live to vote for a woman for President. There are better pictures of her — and certainly, ones she’d like better, with fewer wrinkles — but this is as I remember her best: on the terrace at the Hotel Giotto at cocktail time, looking splendid, laughing, and holding court. Bea, I will miss you.
And there’s more coming. This was dinner at the country home of my friends Mario and Marina. In addition to fabulous food — more than I photographed — we got the first lesson in wine that ever made sense to me; both Mario and Marina are sommeliers, amateur but certified. The house has been in Mario’s family, as has their home in Assisi, for, literally, centuries.
Table is set; Mario lights the mosquito candles. (They worked, too.)
Jonathan and Barb hang out before dinner.
Rolled meats, vegetables, and breads, skewered and roasted. Never had this dish before. Quite delish.
Cold rice salad.
Two colors of zucchini, one grilled, one marinated.
Plums, so sweet I’m wondering if these are the so-called sugar plums.
Inside the cake.
The house after dark.