The Oscar-winning “Ida” directed by Pawel Pawlikowski is a movie that forced me to ask myself the question, “What would I do if all was lost?”
Set in 1962 Poland, “Ida” (played by Agata Trzebuchowska) is the story of an 18-year-old, orphaned, novitiate ready to take her vows when she learns from her Aunt Wanda (played by Agata Kulesza), her only living relative, that she is Jewish. Wanda is everything Anna, (her real name is Ida), isn’t. She’s a drinking, smoking, powerful former prosecutor, and a manizer—the impure to Anna’s pure. Together, this odd couple embarks on a journey to discover their family’s past in the Holocaust.
Shot in black and white with extended long shots, the spare and reduced scenery has the effect of stripping away any distractions. We are left with a very clear view of the psychological battles each woman is waging as she comes to terms with her past. One wages externally and loudly; the other is quiet and contained. It is a haunting and heart-breaking tale and one that I will never forget.
Here’s the article I wrote for the CommonHealth Blog on WBUR about overcoming my childhood asthma.
Unraveling My Childhood Asthma: Did Motherhood Cure It?
May 09, 2014
I recently started singing lessons — a rather mind-blowing pursuit, since for much of my life, singing was out of the question. How can you sing when you can’t even breathe?
At 18 months old, while my dad, mom, older brother and I were driving from Virginia to San Francisco for my father’s new Naval deployment, I started wheezing. The asthma attack landed me in the hospital.
Emergency room visits and hospital stays punctuated my childhood and early adulthood. I could have been a tour guide of any Intensive Care Unit: “Over on the right is a shot of adrenaline, or epinephrine — try that first. If that doesn’t work, try the nebulizer on the left and IV over there.” These visits became so routine that as I got older, I often told the doctors and nurses what medicines I needed: Prednisone. Albuterol. Theophylline. These were the mainstays, but there were many others over the years. I took them in such large doses that one time they made my blood toxic.
Emergency was a word my family understood. My mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor when I was 3 years old; she was 28. For five years, until her death, she battled her disease in and out of the hospital, too. I went to Bethesda Naval and she went across the state to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. I don’t remember ever seeing her hospital nor do I recall her ever seeing mine.
A Motherless Child’s Stress
Asthma is a disease of the respiratory system. It is serious business. Seneca, the Roman philosopher and Stoic dedicated an essay to it, called “Asthma,” in which he said that of all the ailments he’d suffered, asthma was the worst of them all. “Doctors have nicknamed [asthma] ‘rehearsing death,’ he wrote.
But asthma also has a powerful psychological or psycho-social component; with symptoms potentially exacerbated by emotional stress. As a child, I never realized it, but looking back I see it clearly: for all my suffering, asthma distinguished me. Got me noticed. In a childhood of disorder — marked by my mother’s death, and family chaos and constant moving — my own illness provided order. It wasn’t until the birth of my first child that my symptoms truly ceased.
In my own childhood, the asthma triggers were abundant: animal dander, dust, mold, pollen, cigarette smoke, a common cold, a change in temperature, or, yes, the particular stress of an ever-shifting “home.” When I was exposed to any of this, the airways of my lungs inflamed, constricting my breath. This caused the gasping for air or wheezing sound that is asthma’s signature.
When I was in distress, everyone could see and hear me. An asthma attack is very public. When my airwaves constricted, so would I. My shoulders and back tightened and I would fold in on myself. I must have thought that by making myself small, my lungs would have less work to do. I would stay like that until help arrived.
Often help involved a round with my “Machine” — a blue, compact Maxi Mist Compressor, also known as a nebulizer. I’d wrap my lips around the mouthpiece filled with steroids and saline solution and inhale the cool medicine. Relief was usually quick.
This Machine traveled everywhere with me. Once I started wheezing on a car drive. My dad had to pull over to a 7-11. We plugged the Machine into a socket in their storeroom. I sat on a cardboard box filled with Doritos and started breathing again.
Asthma is episodic. Mostly I breathed normally. In middle school and high school, I even rowed crew, ran track, and played tennis. Asthma is also genetic. Some of my cousins on my dad’s side had it, but no one had it like I did.
Order In A Disordered World
As the daughter of a naval officer, and without a mother, I moved 12 times as a kid into 11 different houses and six different family configurations.
Wherever I went, I took my meds, wheezed and went to the hospital. It didn’t matter if it was Aiea, Hawaii or Washington, D.C. Regardless of the coast or city, of the weather or school, I always had my inhaler, my Machine and my doctors.
In one of these homes, when I was 3 years old, my mother fainted while talking to our neighbor, Mrs. Chang, on the telephone. Mrs. Chang called her name many times. When she didn’t get a response she hurried to our house and found my mom lying on the floor unconscious. That was when the doctors discovered the astrocytoma tumor in her brain. My dad was on a destroyer in the middle of the Indian Ocean. It took him three days to get home. When he finally did, I was in the hospital, too.
This time I practically stopped breathing altogether. The doctors intubated me by way of my nose to get the air moving again in my bronchial tubes. Nasal intubation happened four more times when I was a child. I only remember one of them. I lay on a bloodstained hospital bed after waking up from the anesthesia. My nose throbbed like it had been pummeled. The rubber tube scratched the back of my throat. I bled for days.
“The scariest was the time you had to be air-bagged,” my dad said recently when I asked him about these attacks. I’d never even heard of air-bagging and had to Google it.
“You stopped breathing,” he said. This time I started breathing again not through a tube but with the help of a brown bag.
Unfortunately, my mother didn’t have a brown bag. Doctors tried radiation. They tried chemotherapy. They even opened up her skull three times to scrape out the cancer. There was usually improvement after each surgery. She’d get out of bed. She’d chat again. Her hair would begin to grow back. But the tumor held firm. It won.
I have little memory of her being well. I picture her in bed leaning against a pile of pillows. She’s wearing a brightly colored, patterned silk robe to conceal her deteriorating body. Her cheeks are puffy. Her bald head is covered with either a brown wig styled like her natural hair, but with a too-perfect gloss and bounce, or a headscarf, tied gracefully to the side. Even when my mother was at her sickest she always looked elegant, as if a dignitary might stop by at any moment. She was the wife of a rising star in the Navy, after all — a man who would eventually make Admiral.
Right before she died, she called my brother and me into her room. She had something important to tell us. “I’m going to die soon,” she said. “I love you very much and will always love you. Remember that always.” I can imagine the tears and the hugs but it’s all a blur. That is the last time I remember her alive.
Seven months after we buried her on a hill, under a tree, in Arlington National Cemetery, we left her behind and moved again. Another call to duty.
Before all that, when I used to sniff the roses in our garden, eat the not-quite-ripe tomatoes off the vines, and climb the magnolia tree outside our house in Virginia, my mom called me Sassy Pants. In a picture of her, my brother and I before cancer’s arrival, that nickname seems appropriate. We are all wearing striped shirts. My hair is brushed, shiny and pulled back in a little barrette. With my eyes sparkling and my head tilted, I look as sassy as any well-tended kid might.
But as more and more chaos swirled around me as a child—sickness, packing boxes, moving vans, new towns, new schools and new caretakers — Sassy Pants retreated. And someone less demanding and more watchful emerged.
Except with my asthma. It was only my asthma that brought Sassy back out. When I was 13 years old, I was hospitalized for pneumonia. My cough ruptured my air sacs. It then collapsed my lung. I was already in bed hooked up to oxygen and IVs. To re-inflate my lung, the doctors punctured a hole in the front of my chest. They shoved a tube into the top of my lung. The pain catapulted through my back and lodged under my shoulder blade. Comfort was inconceivable. The tube connected to a burbling machine that slowly ballooned my lung. To keep up my strength, I walked the corridors of the hospital wielding this machine and its long extension cord.
After two weeks, I was fully inflated and ready to go home. But when the doctors removed the tube, air whooshed out with it. I knew something was wrong when putting on my shoes winded me. My lung had collapsed again.
This time the doctors punctured a hole in my left side, under my armpit, and shoved in a new tube.
Flash forward 32 years: I’m chatting with a psychiatrist friend of mine about psychosomatic illnesses and I start asking about asthma, and my severe and scary version of it as a child. He said the theory behind psychosomatic illness today uses the example of a three-legged stool. One leg is genetics, one is temperament and one is exposure to stress. When you have all three, you might get one sick person. But when you remove a leg, the stool can’t stand and the sickness might go away. This three-legged stool concept, also known as the biopsychosocial model, was formulated by George L. Engel a psychiatrist at the University of Rochester, who published his theory in the journal Science in 1977.
Love, Babies And Song
After my collapsed lung, the wheezing and attacks continued — through new stepmothers, new towns, new schools, new chaos. Then after college, I moved to San Francisco. I met a guy. We fell in love. I noticed that I wheezed a little less. We moved to New York City. We got married and bought an apartment. Only once did I visit the hospital — and that was when we first moved there.
When I turned 32 and was pregnant with our first child, I stopped taking medicine. I’ve wheezed a few times in the 13 years since. Doctors tell me I still have asthma. But you wouldn’t know that from my medicine cabinet. Empty.
I used to joke that the natural adrenaline needed to stay alive in New York City and not get run over by a cab cured my asthma. Or maybe it was that our apartment was dust and mold-free. Or maybe that third leg on the stool, the one of stress, wasn’t there anymore. I’ll never know.
In my last singing lesson, I had a breakthrough. For weeks, I composed myself like a classical singer with my feet firmly rooted, my body erect, and my hands at my side for maximum focus on my breath and my sound. But instead of it coming out with force, it sputtered. It was as if my breath was clenched, my air tightened. My songs were losing their resonance. And I was losing my confidence. My teacher tried everything from chanting to craniosacral adjustments. Nothing worked. My sound was inhibited, stuck in my body. Last week, she suggested I move with the music. “Throw yourself into it, do an interpretive dance. Really express yourself,” she said. As I sang the George and Ira Gershwin standard, “The Man I Love,” I swayed my body and waved my arms. The sound exploded out and something deep inside suddenly felt “untrapped” and buoyed by breath. The notes weren’t perfect but they were out there — and without a single wheeze.
Sarah Baker is a freelance writer and blogger. She lives with her husband and two children in Cambridge.
My daughter, Anna B, took this beautiful photo. It was taken in the Mad River Valley in Vermont. It led to so many questions in our family. What’s the story behind it? How long has the truck been there? Did the tree burst through the hood? Was there a tree and the owners, possibly artists, used a crane to gently lower the truck over it?
On a Tuesday in March, a Dodge Sprinter Van painted with puffy white clouds, deep blue waters, and green hills speckled with farmhouses pulls up in front of the Bridge Street Butchery in Waitsfield. The Grateful Dead pulses on the radio. The driver, Ethan Wood, owner of Wood Mountain Fish has just driven 200 miles through a blizzard from the Boston fish pier to this little town in the Green Mountains of Vermont to make his delivery. In the back of his van, below his skis mounted on the inside, he pulls out a cooler. Nestled on ice, he has sushi-grade tuna, scallops so fresh they’re still twitching, and oysters from Martha’s Vineyard.
“The least I can do is drive through a foot of snow,” said Wood, “the chefs in the Valley are amazing.” He hustles into the Butchery, a beautifully restored 1845 building, jokes with the owner Jeff Lynn, and scrambles back to his van. He has one more delivery to make and then he can hit the slopes at nearby Mad River Glen.
At first glance, the Mad River Valley might seem like just another quintessential Vermont landscape—quaint with its covered bridge and historic downtown, dramatic with its meandering river and steep mountains, picturesque with its Belted Galloway cows and round barn. It is all of these things. But there’s also something magnetic that makes people, like Wood, trek through blizzards to get to this place.
It’s partly the amazing outdoors. Skiers flock to Mad River Glen famous for its single chair and slogan, “Ski It If You Can” and nearby Sugarbush ski resort. There’s also an abundance of cross-country touring and snowshoeing. Or if sledding is your thing, you can hike with a Mad River Rocket Sled on your back, turtle-style, a mile up an unplowed mountain road, enjoy hot chocolate at the top, and cruise the longest run of your life. The summer time is just as fun with biking, hiking, and kayaking.
Beyond the Valley’s outdoor draw, though, is a serious food culture making it a culinary destination, too. There’s something tasty for everyone whether you’ve driven here for a day of skiing and a good meal or settling in for a week and cooking at home.
Take Mad Taco. After a morning skiing, before our Sunday drives home, my family—husband and two kids, ages 11 and 13—and I hunger for a tasty burrito. Tucked away in a strip mall, next to Mehuron’s Supermarket, is the tastiest Mexican fare I have had on the east coast. Think gourmet Chipotle. Mad Taco uses only local Vermont ingredients—with the exception of avocados and other fair weather crops—for their small but inspired menu. The smoked pork belly, jalapeno, cilantro taco is a must. As is the roasted yam burrito with rice and beans, sliced avocado, pico sauce and cilantro. It’s simple but filling and flavorful. And make sure to try all of the five or six hot sauces they’re showcasing (out of over 100 they’ve created). The sauces are spicy so beware of their heat meter–each one is assigned a number with 1 the mildest and progressing to 10 the hottest. The latter might require medical assistance. The highest I have ever gotten was a six. Mad Taco is a dive but that’s part of its charm.
With so many meat and produce farms in the area, the Mad River Valley has always been a place for fresh, local ingredients. Farms like Gaylord, Neill, and Jasper Hill supply the restaurants with their cheese, beef, pork, and corn on the cob making the quality of ingredients top-notch. The Mad River Valley also has a reputation of being a birthing ground for artisan food. Green Mountain Coffee started here as a little café in 1981.
As did American Flatbread pizza in the early 1990s spawning frozen pizzas and out-of-state franchises. Dinner at American Flatbread is an iconic Valley experience. Housed in Lareau Farm and only open Friday and Saturday nights you must sign up early for this popular spot. Lining up at 3:30 pm is recommended, so you’ll have to leave the slopes before they close. It’s worth it. As you sip local Lawson’s beer and wait for your Evolution Salad of sweet leaf and mesclun lettuces tossed in a ginger-tamari vinaigrette and sprinkled with Jasper Hill blue cheese, you can watch your pizza cook in their giant wood-fired clay oven. My favorites are the Punctuated Equilibrium with olives, oven-roasted sweet red peppers, and Vermont artisanal goat cheese; and the New Vermont Sausage with local pork in a homemade maple-fennel sauce baked with sundried tomatoes, caramelized onions and roasted mushrooms. Save room for the apple pie also made in the clay oven. The owner George Shenck doesn’t just make the dough; he’s also a philosopher. If you’re lucky enough to meet him ask him about his declarations on the website.
Another not-to-be-missed dinner after a day of fresh air and exercise is at Peasant restaurant on Bridge Street. The owner Chris Alberti traded equities on Wall Street for years and escaped the Twin Towers on 9/11. A few years ago he and his wife, Mary Ellen, and their five children moved from New York and started the East Warren Vineyard. They took over the space that had previously been The Green Cup—A New York Times reviewed restaurant–after its restoration from the destruction of Hurricane Irene. A few feet from the covered bridge and Mad River, the small Peasant has a majestic setting. The food, rustic in feel and leaning toward Tuscan, is simple but with depth. The Tagliatelle with Mushroom Gorgonzola Cream Sauce and the Cassoulet of White Beans, Chicken, Sausage and Pork transports you to a country kitchen in Italy or France. But the Brussels Sprout Salad with Apple, Lardons and Asiago roots you firmly in Vermont. The candlelit rooms, comfortable tables, and bar feel as if you are eating in the Alberti’s home. Considering that many members of the family work there, I guess you are.
Around the corner from Peasant, and the source of their desserts, is The Sweet Spot home of Scout’s Honor Ice Cream and Sweet Simone’s Bakery including homemade bagels and the best cupcake I have had–gluten-free chocolate with dulce de leche frosting—light and full of flavor. This gem of a bakery has just expanded and now has a few seats. Otherwise, if the weather’s nice you can get an Espresso to go. Perfect for energizing you for a grueling bike ride over the nearby Schuss Pass Road. The Sweet Spot is owned by siblings Lisa Curtis and John Vitko. He makes the ice cream and she the pastries.
At the Bridge Street Butchery, next door, owner Jeff Lynn is busy making one of his sandwiches named after famous bridges of the world—The Brooklyn Bridge is Reuben-like or my favorite, Storseisundet Bridge is made with smoked salmon. If it’s the summer, get it to go. Walk two blocks north on Route 100 to Clearwater Sports. Rent a kayak for the afternoon and have a picnic on the banks of the Mad River. As you’re floating back downstream, dream of what you want for dinner. You have so many wonderful options right near by.
I have eaten almonds all my life. I’ve enjoyed them sliced, slivered, and whole. I’ve had them blanched, honey-roasted, and covered in chocolate. I’ve eaten them fresh from the farmer in San Rafael, California. I’ve scooped them from a heap at the spice market in Istanbul. I’ve even tried them raw wrapped in prosciutto. But the most memorable of them all is the roasted, salted almond from Fastachi’s, owned by Souren and Susan Etyemezian, in Watertown, Massachusetts.
These crunchy, plump, sienna-brown almonds, lightly dusted with sea salt, are perfect. They are nonpareil, size 18/20 from California. In Watertown, the Etyemezians roast them, Mediterranean-style, in small batches in a steel drum. They hand-sift them to make sure only whole nuts make it into the package. They season them with sea salt. The result is a full almond taste—not woody, bland, or bitter. My favorite way to eat them? Straight out of the bag. $11.99/pound http://www.fastachi.com
Until recently, when I thought of the word “farm” I pictured, you know, a farm–grazing cows, big tractors, an old broken down barn, rows of tomatoes and eggplants, a gruff, ruddy-complexioned man in plaid shirt, scraggly beard, and mud-encased boots. I never ever thought of concrete, bus exhaust, sealants, wind, or structural capacity. That is until I met Casey Townsend, a young and serious farmer, whose Northampton Square Rooftop Garden, NSRG, is on the top of a four-story parking garage wedged between Boston Medical Center (BMC), Boston Emergency Medical Services, and two residential high-rise towers. This 6,500 square foot parcel of tilled 14-inch deep soil is expected to yield 2500 pounds of strawberries, rhubarb, bunching onions, scallions, tomatoes, blueberries, cucumbers, zucchini, and lots of other vegetables—like daikon.
“I have never grown daikon as well on a land-based farm as I have on this roof,” said Townsend dressed in a black ski cap and green parka on a cold April day. “They came out about 14 inches long. They were gorgeous.” Townsend’s farm might be in the middle of Boston but his veggies think they are further south, say, in the zone of Providence, Rhode Island. “If the seed package says 45 days, I can grow it in 40,” he said. He plants his peppers and eggplant in concrete cubes and the residual heat comes off the roof and surrounding buildings creating a microclimate. This allows him to grow varieties that need more heat, like collards, and start them earlier in the season.
The Northampton Square Rooftop Garden has three sections: traditional organic, biodynamic where Townsend plants with the cycles of the moon, and bio-intensive where by constantly improving and maintaining the fertility of the soil, he can yield a lot from a little space. Most of his produce goes to the Preventative Food Pantry at Boston Medical Center, a corridor and elevator walk away. No fossil fuel, no food miles, and still warm from the sun. You can’t get more local then that.
Mohamed Hage, the founder of Lufa Farms in Montreal, one of the first large-scale rooftop farms coined this type of farming as “Agricultural 2.0.” Rooftop farms range from small residential plots to large-scale commercial or high-tech greenhouse farms. Regardless of the size, “Green roofs are popping up across America,” said Lauren Mandel, Project Manager at Roofmeadow–a Philadelphia-based green roof firm–and author of Eat Up: The Inside Scoop on Rooftop Agriculture.
Spicy mustard, bitter chicories, and sweet lettuces burst from the rooftops of New York City these days. Gotham Greens has a 15,000-rooftop garden in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. And they are slated to open a 60,000-foot garden in Queens. The Grange just added chickens to their 65,000 square foot farm over Brooklyn’s Navy Yard. Whole Foods is planning a 20,000-foot greenhouse atop their Gowanus store and another on top of a Lynnfield, Massachusetts store. Higher Ground Farm is opening this spring on top of the 55,000-foot Boston Design Center. There’s a farm atop the Community Building and Restoration Building in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And the list goes on.
Mandel attributes the boom to an overall awareness made possible by social media and online articles. This made it The Next New Thing to start a rooftop farm. Once word spread, it drove innovation for better soils, irrigation systems, and green power. When Mandel started writing her book, three years ago, she wrote about rooftop farming in the future tense–“Rooftop gardens will …” she wrote. But with their popularity, she’s had to change every will to a have.
But the boom isn’t just a hipster farmer in Brooklyn with his plaid shirt and muck boots; these farms are addressing a need. “In America, over an acre of farmland is lost every minute,” said Mandel’s book. And the website of Feeding Cities–a conference held at the University of Pennsylvania to examine urbanization and food security—predicts that “By 2050, 7 out of every 10 humans will live in cities.” And as Townsend points out, “as oil prices rise through the roof it will be harder to transport food.”
Hyper-local farming has many benefits. No food miles: those blueberries don’t have to travel from Southern Chile to your plate in a New England winter. Fewer airplanes and trucks means less fossil fuel burned. Rooftop farms create insulation for their buildings in the winter and absorb sunlight in the summer reducing bills by 30 percent some sources suggest. If there are enough of them in a city, it can reduce the overall urban heat island effect—the higher temperatures in cities due to the black roofs and asphalt. Rooftop farms can transform a hot, empty roof into something beautiful and productive. They can create sustainable agricultural environments in urban centers. And, there’s the economics for the farmers. People pay more for produce in the cities. “You don’t have to be a struggling farmer,” said Townsend. “You can get an increased income growing near the city.”
But sky-high farming isn’t as simple as hauling some dirt to your rooftop and tossing in some seeds. It requires planning and is expensive. The cheapest Mandel has heard of is $5 a square foot for a Brooklyn farm. But that farm had volunteers and many donations so might not be an accurate cost. Most soil-based farms, she said, cost about $20 per square foot. But if you’re building a high-tech greenhouse, for hydroponic farming, then the skycould be the limit.
Farmers, on average, according to Mark Winterer, founder of ReCover Green Roofs in Somerville, Massachusetts, make $3 a square foot. But the bigger the farm, the more they can make because of economies of scale. “The people that can afford it are visionaries,” Winterer said. “They put a big value on the marketing of it. But it doesn’t make dollars and sense.” But once marijuana is legalized, “that will be huge for green roofs,” he predicts. Farmers can charge more for pot then they can for carrots.
Not every building was meant to hold forty pounds a square foot of dirt and water. Urban agriculturalist Sandra Fairbank and Chef Michael Leviton found this out when planning their farm atop a garage in Cambridge. Part of the roof can sustain 10 inches of soil, enough for tomato plants. But other parts can only support three inches of soil. That’s fine for microgreens but not for Townsend’s daikons.
Roofs also need to be totally waterproof and sealed with a hydrophobic membrane. Otherwise, umbrellas will be needed in the rooms below as rooftop farms, like all farms, need a lot of water. Townsend waters for 2 to 2 ½ hours a day. His farm gets extra dry because of the sandwich effect with the parking garage below and all of the air above.
And then there’s the theft. Land-based farms don’t usually have vegetable bandits in suits looking for a sun-ripened, juicy tomato to liven up their dull sandwich. But at Townsend’s farm, accessible to the surrounding buildings, he does. To confuse the bandits, he plants tomato varieties they won’t recognize. “Partly it’s education. But, if they don’t know what it is they won’t steal it. All my tomatoes are heirloom–none of them turn red. People keep looking at them, ‘oh, they’re still green…still green.’ So they don’t pick them. I probably lost 200 pounds of produce last year. But if I was at a land- based farm I would lose stuff to deer, turkey, or woodchucks.”
The most scenic way to arrive at the Bridge Street Butchery in Waitsfield, Vermont is through the covered bridge, preferably on foot. That way, you can spy the 1833 beams and take time to gaze over the side at the Mad River below. Once on Bridge Street, you pass Peasant restaurant with its Tuscan menu, and All Things Bright and Beautiful, across the street, where Gaelic McTique crafts wooden Christmas ornaments of your pet.
Then you arrive at 40 Bridge Street. The wooden sign Bridge Street Butchery hand-painted in a clear and clean font hangs over the door of the 1845 yellow clapboard building. Bells clink clink as you open the door. The owner, Jeff Lynn, 43, or his mother Suzee say hello. If you’ve been there more then once they’ll most likely greet you by name. It’s so welcoming you feel like pulling up a chair and settling in. Although this is a butcher shop, not a coffee shop, it’s a place you want to linger.
“I wanted an old-world feel,” said Lynn about his store. On trips to Italy and Argentina, Lynn and his wife Tracey loved shopping daily at the old-fashioned butcher shops. He longed for fresh meat wrapped in paper not sitting on Styrofoam under plastic wrap in his town. “We didn’t have anything like that here,” he said. Here being the Mad River Valley, home to many multi-generational farms and an incubator for artisan food. Green Mountain Coffee got its start there, as did American Flatbread.
Lynn’s friends tried to talk him out of starting the shop. “You always hear about butcher shops closing, it’s a flawed business model. The margins are so small and you need to be smart about pricing,” he said. But Lynn was determined, maybe even a little stubborn. He had a vision and wanted to make it happen. “I would love to see this kind of old-time business come back in full force. It’s what I want for myself. It’s what I want for my shop. It’s what I want for people who love food,” Lynn said.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, Lynn is part of a trend of people opening butcher shops. It could be the economy–people are eating at home more and looking for better quality. Or, maybe it’s people wanting to eat local meats. “Whatever the root cause, boutique butcher shops saw an increase in demand. There are 2500 more specialty store butchers now than there were 5 years ago. By percentage, that’s a huge difference,” said Eatocracy, CNN’s food blog.
Lynn was looking for an old-world building for his old-world concept when Hurricane Irene ripped through Vermont on August 28, 2011 chewing up bridges, shredding roads, and turning communities into islands. The Mad River raged in Waitsfield and flooded the buildings on Bridge Street. There was so much destruction, that the previous tenants of the building decided not to reopen. But the owner rebuilt and Lynn saw an opportunity. The Bridge Street Butchery opened in December 2012.
In keeping with the old-world concept, Lynn doesn’t have a refrigerator or freezer. He turns over his inventory every two to three days. “Out with the old, in with the new,” he said. Lynn’s meat selection depends on slaughter dates at the local farms. Sometimes it might be whey-fed pork from Jasper Hill Farm, grass fed beef from Gaylord Farm, or Creekstone Farm Angus strip steaks. He makes his own sausages every couple of days and other specialty items like Mediterranean-stuffed pork chops.
“I actually like to see the animals alive first,” said Lynn, when asked how he picks his meat. He checks to see if they’re clean, well cared for, and what their pastures are like. “Then,” he says, “the meat speaks for itself.” He’s lucky because the Mad River Valley has many farms freeing him to be picky and have high standards.
Standards are something he cares deeply about. “I would rather shut the doors then compromise standards,” he said when asked what worries him most about running a small town butcher shop. Cash flow, of course, is also something that keeps him awake at night.
To help with that, he diversified by adding fish to his store. Gorgeous sushi grade tuna beckons you to the fish case where you might discover Katama Bay oysters from Martha’s Vineyard or homemade sushi rolls that Lynn makes when he arrives in the morning around 5:30 or 6:00 a.m.
Fresh fish in the middle of Vermont, hundreds of miles from the ocean, doesn’t sound local. But in the Mad River Valley where locavore is a religion companies like Wood Mountain Fish, the sole purveyor of the seafood to Lynn’s shop, find inspiration.
Ethan Wood, the owner of Wood Mountain Fish, goes to the Boston fish pier every morning. He scours the day boat caught fish looking for clean eyes and bright red gills. If the fish passes his inspection, and it’s something Lynn wants, he packs it on some ice in his fuel-efficient Dodge Sprinter van and drives it 200 miles north to Bridge Street and to other restaurants in the area.
Lynn has been cooking since he was a kid. “Mom was on the road quite a bit so we had to pick up some skills,” he said. His parents divorced when he was young so he and his brother often made their own meals, in the Cleveland suburbs. Their father lived in the Boston area. After college, Lynn worked in restaurants in Martha’s Vineyard and Boston and ended up at the New England Culinary Institute in Montpelier. He owned the Sweet Wood Grill & Bar at Powder Hound in neighboring Warren, but was ready to try something new.
The Bridge Street Butchery has only been open for five months but Lynn feels optimistic. Eighty percent of his customers are local which is a sustainable number in a tourist town. His small selection of sandwiches, named after famous bridges like the Brooklyn Bridge or Ponte Vecchia, bring people in at lunchtime. Lynn knows a butcher shop won’t make him rich. But he traded in the stress and expense of a Boston or New York for the lifestyle of Vermont. It’s a gamble, he knows. “Check back with me in 6 months.”
Longteine and Kenthao de Monteiro, founders of The Elephant Walk restaurants in Cambridge, Brookline, and Waltham grew up in the privileged class in Cambodia—he was a diplomat. They fled to safety in France when the Khmer Rouge took over their government in 1975. A diplomat without a country was unable to find work, so they established the first Cambodian restaurant in France, according to their website. In 1991, they moved to the United States to be near their daughter and opened their first Elephant Walk.
It was an exciting time for food in America. “In the 1980s and 90s, a new, worldly, haute cuisine grew up from this convergence of Asian cultures in American cities. In 1988, chef Norman Van Aken borrowed the term fusion from jazz to describe the new, experimental way of cooking, whether it included Asian flavors or not,” wrote Sara Dickerman for Slate.com in 2012. The Elephant Walk restaurant focusing both on Cambodian and French flavors exemplified this fusion concept. The restaurant became popular and expanded to two other locations.
The problem with The Elephant Walk today–now run by Longteine and her executive chef daughter Nadsa de Monteiro and her executive chef son-in-law, Gerard Lopez–is that it hasn’t evolved from its beginnings. It might have been new and exciting in 1991 but now the food and the presentation seem dated. For a pricey restaurant like this one, one expects fresh and flavorful options, not bland, tired dishes marketed as exotic. This Elephant is no longer walking, it’s plodding.
Let’s start with the menu. It’s too long. The French and Cambodian split personality coupled with vegan and gluten-free offerings overwhelmed this reviewer. It’s difficult to make satisfying choices when there is so much on offer. Can the Rouleaux–a crispy, light spring roll–stand up to a steak in a robust red wine jus? Or will it leave your palate confused and discordant?
Then, there’s the food. My meal started with stale bread. Next was the Potage Parmentier, served in a highly stylized soup bowl. This uninspiring potato soup with scallion crunch on top–tasting like crispy onions sprinkled from a can–did not warrant the pomp.
The Crêpe au Canard et Champignons sounded mouthwatering—“Warm crêpe filled with duck braised in soy-ginger and tamarind juices, with mushroom and scallion; garnished with dressed greens.” Instead, it was a delicate crepe overwhelmed by a hearty duck stew and chewy mushrooms. The greens were limp, lackluster, and not evenly dressed.
The shrimp in the Curry de Crevettes were rubbery and cold. The sauce was insipid, the red peppers and snow peas elastic not bright, and the cold rice mounded in the corner of the plate reminded me in taste and display of what used to be served in the mess hall on my father’s Navy ship.
But if S’gnao Mouan, Cambodian chicken soup with lime juice, lemongrass and basil, or Amok Royal, a fish stew with coconut milk and Khmer seasonings, is what you’re after, The Elephant Walk is the only Cambodian restaurant in the area. And overall, the Cambodian choices on the menu are more tasty then the French. The Avocat Kanthor, a timbale of diced raw tuna, avocado, and lemongrass, is comparatively fresh and light.
Despite the unevenness of the food, the two-story restaurant is always lively and crackling. There is often a wait. The crowd varies from older professorial types to families to young hipsters with ear gauges. The yellow and red boldly painted abstract paintings that decorate the walls and the giant sculpture of an elephant head that hangs over the comfortable waiting area add to the pleasing ambience. The wait staff is friendly but sometimes overwhelmed.
Maybe people come out of loyalty. The Elephant Walk is committed to the Benefit Restaurant Project. A Benefit Restaurant selects a non-profit each month to receive a percentage of its sales for that month, with a smaller percentage of sales held in reserve to assist in an emerging humanitarian crisis. They have been very generous to a friend of mine who founded a school in Cambodia—offering the restaurant for fundraisers.
Maybe they come because Cambridge has a dearth of East Asian cuisine. It’s a safe bet for a group of diversified eaters with its myriad of options and pleasing cocktail menu and wine list. But safety doesn’t equal exciting. To move from a plod back to a walk or maybe even a stride, The Elephant Walk needs to pair down its menu, ramp up its seasoning, and take some risks. A lot has happened to the food world and diners’ expectations since 1991.