With Clark Wolf

here, there, everywhere, eating. shlepping. laughing.

Just before Christmas I got an email from my buddy, the food-world legend Clark Wolf. “I’m going to be in London, come up and spend the day?”. And then he added: “I’ve got my recording device for my Savoring Sonoma NPR show. Wanna talk?”.

These days it takes a lot for me to go up to London from Waterlooville. Besides the worry of Covid and the lack of masking, there are train strikes, underground and bus strikes, plus its a whole days trip and I don’t want to leave my little Lambchop, my tiny feisty terrier, for so long. It was my first time up in London since the pandemic began, and I dragged my heels make no mistake, but when Clark emails, wanna see me? The answer is always yes.

It feels like I know Clark Wolf forever, my entire life—like, who did I laugh with, shlep with, consider the world with, comment on every every everything with, before I knew Clark? I can’t even remember.

Here’s how we officially met: flashback to LA, circa turn of the 21st century. I was invited to be a part of the journalists contingent in a chefs’ cheese-cooking competition. I got on the plane and flew; the hotel was on the beach, and while that has nothing to do with the cheese cooking competition, I’m not gonna lie and say it had nothing to do with my deciding to go.

Clark Wolf—radio and television host, star restaurant consultant, based in NYC and Sonoma County, as well as author of American Cheeses— was moderating, though moderating is a dull word for what he did: more like a very entertaining master of ceremonies. He walked out holding his mic, grabbed our attention with some hilarious comments, and before you know it we were all laughing. Then, ushering the chefs to the kitchen where piles of cheese and a wide array of ingredients awaited, announced in a “Ladies and Gentlemen, get your engines ready” moment, set the timer, looked at his audience and said: “Go”.

The chefs scurried, it was exciting, it was nail-biting. Successes were amassed, failures were wept over, then cast aside for new ideas. We journalists wandered around, watching the chef-action, bathed in a miasma of delicious melty cheese fragrance. Then, when the chefs had finished, and a presentation table was covered with plates of elaborate technique, daring concepts, fancy-shmancy cheese creations, he turned to us journalists and asked: "How about you guys? Wanna try?"

While I’m usually up for cooking in even the most challenging situations, the chefs had already used most of the ingredients. I rummaged around, found some bread, snagged a tuft of cilantro, a lump of goats cheese, a handful of aromatic seeds, and then, after I elbowed a few other journalists aside to find space at the stove, made something from my heart.

Since we journalists were not in the competition, when Clark read out the winners, first place went to...someone else. Of course it did. We weren’t competing, but you know, I still get a little…competitive at such moments, thinking: my name? Even if I’m not competing. I know, it makes no sense and I probably shouldn’t even confess it in print, but I can say this stuff to you, right?

Second place? Someone else. Of Course! And third place again, was...someone else. Clark continued: But I must give a special award, because it is just so delicious!

And then I heard my name, with my goats cheese and toasted seeds with cilantro chutney on a warm, soft, flour tortilla, and I was so happy. But its important for me to tell you: of course I was thrilled for myself. But i was even more elated for the triumph of taste, for something getting an award simply because: delicious. When it comes down to it, unique concepts, innovative creations, fancy presentations, are all an exciting feature of culinary life. But at the heart of it all: delicious. Delicious is the most important thing.

Throughout the whole afternoon, from melted cheese to chef melt-downs, the highs, the lows, the heady scent of cassein, and sampling all the goodies at the end, I kept thinking: I know Clark from somewhere.

I felt so good in his presence. But I didn’t think too much about it: some people are just like that. Still, over the years I wondered: why does he feel so familiar?

While it turns out he ran a jewel-box of a cheese shop on Nob Hill that was right next door to the veterinarian that I took my kitty too (and of course stopped for cheese), I didn’t think that was the connection.

Then: Bingo! Clark ran the SF outpost of the ever-so-chic Oakville Grocery. Years (and years) ago, when I was a poor struggling food writer and artist, illegal caterer, a single mother of a beloved daughter, living in San Francisco, I stopped in to visit the gorgeous goodies I could never afford. You know what its like: the aisles are filled with amazing ingrediets, gorgeous labels, ambassadors of the places they come from. Even if you can’t afford them, sometimes you just need to visit them.

It was on my way back from dropping my daughter off at kindergarten, and since I saw a parking place, I was required to park; this is an unwritten SF law.

So there I was, walking into the shop nonchalantly, positive I would be kicked out as if the whole world could sniff that I was out of my league, and couldn’t afford any of their splendid offerings. I mean: who did I think I was? I hoped the guy behind the counter wouldn’t notice me. I walked through the door.

Almost immediately he came out from behind the counter and and sidled up to me. With wild dark curls, a tall slim build, he was gorgeous. I was intimidated. But instead of being snobby and condescending, which I completed expected, this guy felt like an instant best friend, a friend who he would make sure got just the right thing to take away, for the right price, and feel supremely good about herself. I left the store with whatever I bought which I don’t remember now as it would have been small and inexpensive, but it felt like a treasure. And more than that, I left with the burden of every-day struggle lifted from my heart. Cause I walked in feeling like crap, and walked out feeling like a cared for human being.

Here we are eating a magnificent sandwich of jamon, on the streets of Paris.

Here we are in Italy: salami, cheese and what seems like a lotta olives on the plate; also the bread is pane cafone, Naples’ amazing rustic sourdough bread. I am impressed that Clark has a coffee in his hand, as usually a waiter in Italy, especially in Naples, will be utterly unable to serve you coffee with food. I understand; it goes against their culinary ethics, their waiters oath of looking after the well-being of their diners. To break that code and actually get a cup of coffee with your salami you must apply-mega charm.

Below is Thanksgiving roast chicken in Paris, on what we refer to since as “our roast chicken tour of Paris”. One week, 6 birds. At least. And endless frites, little salady leaves, a basket of wonderful bread. Quintessential Paris, at its best with Clark.

I can’t find a photo of Clark and I in Athens, Greece, on Vefa Alexandriou’s television cooking program. But we were there! There aren’t enough pages on my newsletter, indeed, in the wide expanses of the internet, to tell about all of the laughs we have had, all over the place.

So I bought my train ticket and miracle of miracles, the strike didn’t slow it down. Clark and I met up at London’s Borough Market; I wanted him to taste Stichelton cheese from Neal’s Yard (its sensational).

I also wanted to bring Clark a small gift of welcome to the UK. The small gift of welcome turned out to be a huge box as the smaller ones were sold out. Here is Clark holding the shortbread up in front of Borough Market. He emailed me later: he left a trail of shortbread crumbs throughout Europe, nibbling them along the way.

Here is the link to our radio interview: