This will be something I’m thinking about including in the beginning of The Seasonal Bar. The first part, I’m thinking, will be about my restaurant journey, and goddam, it’s been a long one. If you read this blog, you’ve been privy to a fair amount of my old restaurant stories here and there. Yes, they go on and on. I hate to use the cliche “tip of the iceberg” but that’s about the only thing that describes it well. Just the tip? Ahem. Is there anything else in nature or life that shows little but has a great mass beneath it? Head of the cyst? Tip of the turd? No, too gross. There’s got to be a good culinary term out there. Pilot light? No, different metaphor. How about something to do with the galaxy? Neutron star? Something we can see with the naked eye which owns an impossible mass and is collapsing in on itself ready to become a black hole. Ok, so there we go. These stories I tell here are like viewing a neutron star. Meh.

I describe myself as a red dwarf. Small, old, and relatively cool.

When I hit LA it was nearly impossible to find a job, but I also decided on a lot of really stupid wardrobe ideas in job interviews. I went to an interview in a pair of shorts once to a two star Michelin joint, I also walked in to an interview in full spandex (tights and a rashguard) after training because I got wedged into rush hour traffic and didn’t have time to go home and take a shower and get dressed. Hey, at least there’s a cool story to tell.

I came across the country without first securing a job, or an apartment for that matter. Some money saved but no fucking clue whatsoever. I had visited LA just once before…When I was 17. This type of judgement will often occur when we look back at our younger selves. It’s easier to have the gift of foresight when you’ve already lived through your bad decisions.

Part of the original training at Rustic Canyon entailed going to the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market with the bar manager, Aaron Ranf. I arrived around nine in the morning, Wednesday. He was there already. A quiet guy. Glasses. Short beard. We both punched in and then got in his car. We spoke very little on the way there. Mostly about how we had both lived in Boston which gave us a quick connection.

Here’s a confession: Before I worked at Rustic Canyon I could have cared less about the fine art of the cocktail. I barely drank at all and if I did it was a beer with a side of scotch. To me, cocktails were silly and made no sense. If you wanted to drink something, then just drink.

So there we were, strolling around, checking it all out. The Southern California seasons made no sense to me at the time. I was more accustomed to those of the northeast. You know the drill (maybe you don’t), some peas, radishes, beans and rhubarb appearing in late, late May, pretty much everything else coming around in June and July, then corn in August, and then all of it shutting down at the end of September and beginning of October. Five or maybe six months of growth, weather dependent.

This was early November, so what I would call tiki season nowadays. Quince, dragon fruit, cherimoya, passionfruit, guava, and if you’re lucky, yuzu. We picked stuff up, brought it back to the restaurant and bagged and tagged it. The ethos of Ranf straddled that of Chef Fox (seasonal, local, as little waste as possible), except that he used the freshest ingredients. Nothing was cooked at all. This was something totally new to me and the cocktails themselves were the best I ever tasted…Not that I knew much about them, but his were a revelation. This fueled me in a way. It conjured up the dormant part of my existence where I had spent my former life in kitchens. I could be creative at work again. There were formulas, rules, and attention to detail.

The Ranfer was a big fan of muddling which, to me, is probably the best but also most annoying way to prepare cocktails. Best because you’re using the freshest possible ingredients at that present moment. Annoying because during a busy bar night it creates a fuck ton of mess to clean up–seeds in the tins, herb leaf pieces everywhere, etc.–and it’s also difficult to keep produce perfectly fresh every single day of the week. The cocktails are inconsistent unless you weigh your fruit for each potation. E.g. small tomatoes or strawberries versus the bigger versions.

Here’s a couple of Ranf classics:

Corazon de Fresas

2 oz. Mezcal

.75 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

.5 oz. Simple Syrup

2 Medium Sized Strawberries

2 Fresh Basil Leaves

4 Drops Saline Solution (10:1)

Muddle everything together in your cocktail tin except for the mez, then add it afterwards. Shake it all up with ice and double strain into a small coupe.

This one, on paper, looks almost too easy and simple, but that’s the whole point. It’s fucking delicious.

Sage Advice

2 oz. Gin

.5 oz. Simple Syrup

One Half of a Ripe Meyer Lemon

Two Sage Leaves

Same concept here. Muddle the stuff and then add the booze. Shake it, double strain it. Quaff it down.

Props to the Ranfer. In my hero’s journey he’d be my Obi Wan, my Qui Gon Jinn, my Mr. Miyagi.