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532 Columbus Avenue
San Francisco, California 94133-2802
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ph: 415.399.0499
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Last night at Rose Pistola in North Beach, I dissolved into the organic flow of the kitchen. One particular chef caught my attention. He was the last to inspect the plates before they hit the tables. There was something about him, as I observed and could not quite leave alone to his notice from time to time, I guess. There was this amazing rush in the restaurant, thus it felt as almost slow-motion, like we were all in water, all moving synchronized in some odd sense. It was this bobble of presence, so fragile, so easy to burst, yet even, as forks hit the floor, waiters stumbling on each other, and steamed “mussels-trains” crossing landscapes of tables (simulating the foggy bay on an early morning) this chef was not to bring dismay to the compassion of his kitchen. Every time I searched in a situation of rupture for a just acknowledgement from him that this was an illusion, we were not all in water, synchronized, interdependent and loved. I was disappointed, as the waiters messed up their orders or could not find their plates, he never left their side, and so it felt, he never left mine either. The food was excellent, but as many times before, the food seems to become an inaccessible garden of Eden, in which the love for life is lived in the composition of the plate, and not quite in the presence of the chef, as he meets humanity, the guest, the other through his plates. The question is: Can the love of the plate, as a gift of food, speak as load and clear without the compassion of the chef? Off course, I started to wonder how he got there; in the kitchen, on North Beach, San Francisco, the United States. Where did this little Buddha of the kitchen come from? Thus, it seemed not really very important as we all have our paths, more importantly, I guess, was my recognition of the joy of sharing the path of his ways for just one hour of my life. And maybe for an hour of your life as well?
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