And So We Begin...

MDWV | By Larry Linsey

Vince is convincing as the chef du jour
Please sir, I like it--can I have some more?
As I get older, I grow enlarged
Especially when Vince is the man in charge
I like the meat
and I like the pie
and I like to hang out with this guy

Bielski's Up to Something | By Ed Robinson

Yes, it’s true… Bielski has the touch when it comes to the culinary arts. We all know the trademarks: the olive-studded hamburgers, the pancetta-laced risotto, the lime-puckered guacamole. And, of course, the jars of iced margaritas, with a squeezed tangerine for the ladies.

God knows I indulge in these creations to the point of bursting. But what if our dear friend has a hidden agenda, a secret plan, an ulterior motive lurking beneath the saffron threads and thinly shaved garlic? Forgive me, but even as we applaud a half-century of such a well-fed life, I assert that Bielski is up to something when he feeds us, and it’s not just the joy of cooking--it’s lulling you into a gastronomic stupor so he can beat your ass in post-supper games of skill.

Clearly, I speak from experience, having been plied with a grilled steak and a chewy California cab, and then whipsawed by the former quarterback in ping pong, billiards, chess, ping pong again, Trivial Pursuit, and billiards still again (and I was sober that time).

The moral of the story: By all means, break bread with Bielski, especially if he’s authored the meal. But watch out if he wants to break a rack afterwards. The man’s a killer.

Vinnie's Liquid Lunch | By Bernard Ohanian

I’m not the first, nor will I be the last (although I might be the last before he actually turns 50), to note that choosing one meal with Vince-–just one--is a fool’s errand. In my case, I could choose pizza in Brooklyn; Indian food in Manhattan; shishkebab, made by my father, in Duarte, California; or one of many burrito runs in the Mission. I could even choose the time we stopped for a date shake on a drive from LA to Joshua Tree, and our intrepid reporter asked the lady serving this fabulous concoction, “Say, what do you put in those date shakes?” She looked at him as if he had come from another planet (and let’s be honest: it’s hard to imagine Michigan and the Mojave actually being on the same planet) and said, slowly, as if perhaps her audience was too dense to understand a word said at normal speed, “Dates.” For our hero’s sake, in fact, she dragged the word out as if it had two or even three syllables.

But my favorite meal with Vince, and one we shared often, was entirely liquid. (No, no, not that kind.) In the early 90s, maybe even the late 80s, Vince and Bill Shapiro and I met up every Saturday morning in the Mission, at a schoolyard around 23rd and Fair Oaks, to play hoops for a couple hours with some neighborhood guys. The weekend stretched out before us like Eliot’s patient etherised upon a table (can someone please explain that line to me, by the way? It’s never made a lick of sense): we didn’t yet have kids to run around to birthday parties and soccer games, or homes that needed matching furniture. We were just guys in our early 30s, running and jumping (when we still could) and sweating and goofing and swearing--our weekend time all ours to spend as we pleased (or at least so it now seems through the hazy gauze of memory, etc.). So when each week’s games were over, we’d repair across the street to one of San Francisco’s ubiquitous corner stores. We’d each buy a big bottle of Gatorade, maybe a banana and a chocolate chip cookie, and sit outside on the sidewalk, leaning our backs against the store’s wall. Then we’d tell stories (with occasional glimmers of truth) and laugh and bust on each other and gossip about the San Francisco publishing industry and talk about girls. And an hour later, or maybe 15 minutes, or maybe two hours, we would spring to our feet, not yet creaky, and know something too sappy to say then, and too clichéd to say now (but what the heck; I’ll say it anyway): the process that forges lifelong bonds out of shared experiences--even experiences that seem trivial, by no objective measure life-changing--is a treasure, and a mystery, and a great reason to wake up in the morning. Maybe we were just three guys playing basketball and drinking Gatorade, but it sure felt--and still feels-–like a lot more to me.

Vince Bielski, Bon Vivant | By Steve De Long

"Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are."
—Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

This is a pretentious way to say you are what you eat. Vince is no exception to this rule. While he’s the kind of guy who embraces life with both hands, he doesn’t eat everything. I’ve seen him pass on breakfast at the Mickey D’s drive up window on the way to the first tee. His coffee-only policy may have been a way of maintaining an edge of hunger in battle but the way he made fun of my McWafflewich seemed to me a clear indication that VINCE BIELSKI DOES NOT EAT GARBAGE.

Still, I wouldn’t call him a gourmand (at least not to his face) – too pompous. Foodie? Almost, but that’s a stupid word. No, he’s more of a food adventurer, a bon vivant. What’s Italian for bon vivant? What’s Polish for bon vivant? That’s what he is.

So when Vince and the family came to London last year he was looking for something authentic to eat. Not some flash-frozen fish ‘n chips cottage pie pub-grub with industrial mushy peas (although that would be probably be very authentic). No, he wanted the real deal, the national pride, the apex of British cuisine: a good curry.

When asked what our favorite Indian restaurant was, we really didn’t have an answer. Tandori Lane is pretty good – or what about that other place? Bombay Bicycle Company? What about the fancy place next to the Thai place? Vince’s innate reporter’s shit detector could tell that we hadn’t had any decent Indian food in the 3 years since we moved here. God we’re lame.

In nothing flat, he was on the horn and had a handful of top choices hand-picked by his people in London. If he wasn’t such a great guy, you’d have to hate him. Top of the list was Tayyabs, a Pakistani place in the East End. A little known fact about Indian restaurants is that most of them are actually Pakistani restaurants.

The troops were mobilized and we set out for our early dinner reservation. Tayyabs is BYOB, so an urgent concern was the best thing to drink with Indian/Pakistani food. Beer, Gewurtztraminer, Riesling? In the end this was completely academic as the restaurant was located in an area drier than Karachi. Halal goat – yes. Beer, wine or liquor – no. Vince is not easily discouraged, so the men headed off in search of strong drink, promising a quick return to the women and children. Luckily we found an extortionist willing to part with a few cold brews within a half mile radius. This London?

Nevertheless, the food was amazing. The prawns were gigantic, the Tandoori sizzling and literally on fire but incredibly tender and juicy, even the lowly samosas a revelation. It was if we had never had Indian food before. We knew nothing.

Vince, please come back and show us where to eat.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big, Moldy Pie | By Julene Snyder

Reading all of these memories of meals with Vince makes me a tad bereft, as it’s been so very long since we shared a meal. (Come to think of it, the last one was February of 2005, when I was in NY for business. Vince was working like a madman, and got home well after dark. The food we shared was yummy, sure, but it was also Thai take-out, not exactly the homemade carbonara that others rhapsodized about. But I digress. Already.)

I recall having Vince and Chris over for dinner at our place on Potrero Hill. My husband, Steve, of course, did the cooking, as I still am unable to do much more than boil water without ruining it. My job was to procure dessert, which was a ginormous lattice-crusted pie from Costco. Steve made his signature pounded chicken breast with a creamy mushroom sauce, tiny spicy potatoes, bluecheese/apple/nut yummy salad and we noshed on sourdough baguette, olives and nuts before we dined.

After dinner we were all incredibly full — too stuffed to even think about dessert — I insisted that Vince take a big slice of pie home for later. A few hours went by, and I was craving something sweet. When I pulled the pie out of the fridge, something looked odd. I looked closer and then lifted up the lattice and shrieked. The top of the apple filling was covered with a thick coating of black thready mold. Yuck.

“Oh my God,” I said to Steve. “What about Vince?” My face, I’m sure, was ashen. I had fed our friend nasty, rancid, moldy pie. (Now I’m thinking that it might have even been his birthday. Nice, huh?)

“You’ve got to call him,” he said. “And tell him. You don’t want to make him sick.” Oh God. Of course I didn’t want to make him sick. I also didn’t want to admit that I had one job — to buy dessert — and I’d screwed it up. I just knew I should have went with ice cream.

There was no getting around it, so I grimly picked up the phone. Of course, when I got him on the phone he was incredibly gracious about the whole thing, but I’ll bet it took a long time for him to eat pie again without a thorough inspection. Come to think of it, I don’t think he has been to our house for dinner since. Hmmm.

Happy birthday, Vince! Next time I see you, I owe you a nice big hunk of pie. The non-moldy type.
— Julene

My Dinners with Vince…by Stacey Fisher

According to a companion, Thackeray, when presented with a half-dozen 6 to 8 inch oysters common at the time: He first selected the smallest one...and then bowed his head as though he were saying grace. Opening his mouth very wide, he struggled for a moment, after which all was over. I shall never forget the comic look of despair he cast upon the other five over-occupied shells. I asked him how he felt. 'Profoundly grateful,' he said, 'as if I had swallowed a small baby.'
William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

I arrive from Michigan at Chris and Vince’s Brooklyn brownstone on a very warm August afternoon and burst into tears. Why? A newborn baby. Yes, my best friend, Chris, from way back when, from the years of middle school, no less, has had a baby, and I see him and I can’t hold back the tears. I have my youngest in tow, nine-year-old Anja, who is ecstatic to be in the real New York City! Here begins our two-week-long adventure with Chris, Vince, and newborn baby Luca.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one crying. It was hot and sticky and our baby had a bit of colic and he was really letting us know. Chris and Vince were a tad frazzled, so I put on my mommy shoes and worked a little of my baby magic. Soon Luca was calm, Chris was busy pumping (wasn’t that a sight--I’m not sure she appreciated Anja’s giggles), and Vince was in charge of feeding us.

Thus began our culinary adventures in takeout in Brooklyn, NY. We enjoyed many multicultural meals in the August heat. Vince would either order when he got in from work or sometimes he would arrive from work already clutching dinner in brown paper bags. We took turns holding the baby, and enjoyed Indian, Chinese, Italian, Mexican, and Japanese. We even managed an outing to Coney Island for a hot dog, although that was a bit ambitious with a five-week-old infant. We soon were back in the car, much to Anja’s consternation.

I’ve enjoyed many meals with Vince. I’ve enjoyed his food, his laughter, his conversation and graciousness, his never-ending upbeat and curiosity-filled outlook on life. But those hot August days when we were all at the beginning of something new will always remain a sweet and special memory.

My best friend is very lucky. Happy Birthday, Vince. May we all enjoy many more memorable meals together in the years to come.

Garlic and Chocolate | By Bill Vornberger

I've known Vince pretty much all my life. I will always cherish the kindergarten picture of Vince sitting at a little round table with his little square head and a brush cut and Izod shirt looking cute as ever--like a miniature Brad Pitt. I started to hang out with him in sixth grade and our friendship grew over talk of girls and sports and more girls. I spent more and more time at his house and at Steve's backyard basketball court, cutting the fingers out of our gloves so we could play ultra-competitive games in the winter. I will never, ever forget Vince rolling on the ground in uncontrollable laughter after Tom missed a lay-up and threw the basketball over the garage and into the next county.

As Mrs. Bielski grew to know me, she took pity on the growing, skinny kid with the big hair and emaciated look (those were the days--more hair, less waistline). I'd walk into their kitchen and Dolores would ask me if I wanted to stay for dinner. She'd be frying a big steak for Paul and there would be a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove and the smell of garlic and olive oil filled the air. Being the polite teenager I was, I would always decline her invitation with a "No, thanks, Mrs. Bielski. My dad has dinner waiting for me at home." Little did she know, dinner at my house was a dried-out pork chop covered in cream of mushroom soup and an iceberg lettuce salad with Thousand Island dressing. Small wonder Vince never accepted a dinner invitation to my kitchen.

As Vince and I grew closer, our tastes and appetites converged. We discovered our mutual love of chocolate chip cookies. Vince and I could whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies in a fraction of the time it would take to make a good carbonara, and devour them in minutes. Then we would go outside, play more basketball, and run off the 3,000 calories we had just consumed. We did this over and over and over until we could make cookies without reading the recipe. Like all great chefs, we made our cookies by feel, by intuition. This became such a part of our friendship that we continued to bake chocolate chip cookies and send them to each other on our birthdays. The tradition ended not too long ago when our waistlines reached middle-age proportions and we decided we would be better off treating each other to a round of golf as a birthday present.

Back to earlier days, though. Dolores's cooking was forever in my mind and in my nose, and finally, after years of "No, thank you" I finally said yes. It was like a floodgate opened. The garlic, the broccoli, the carbonara, the salads with tart olive oil and lemon dressing, Paul's fresh walleye from the waters off the cottage. The food was simple but sublime. Remember, I grew up on meatloaf and rubber chicken. Vince's family opened a world of culinary curiosity and delight that remains with me to this day.

As we muddle through middle age, Vince and I remain as close as ever. A deep friendship forged by food, adventures, and deep roots, which, no matter how far we travel, we always return to.

Vince, my brother, I wish you the happiest of birthdays with decades more to come of food, wine, garlic, chocolate, golf, and a deep, abiding love and respect for each other.

Bill

Our Dinners with Vince

Howdy Vince, how's it goin'
Here in Portland it's always snowin'
Thinking of your meals
gets the juices flowing,
trying to be oh so loquacious
describing memories gustatatious.
Thinking of you in all your glory
in vital matters gustatory.
The seafood paella in Berkeley's Hills
scallops, shrimps & clams in their shells.
Our tastebuds are quivering still,
"More, more," they said, as the plates were cleaned,
And Vince, with a gleam, topped off the meal with coffee and cream.

The carbonara! the baby-back ribs so yummily charred
In the Brooklyn backyard.

And who could forget those steep Bernal heights
with the stairs to the backyard a vertiginous fright.
Like a jet to the Hudson we swooped down the stairs
carrying dishes & platters of wondrous fare;
shrimp cocktail, salad of Caesar,
heady intoxicants, ice from the freezer.
With Maestro Vincenzo
conducting the feast
with fine food, warm friendship,
and, last but not least:
Salud! on your Birthday!
Buon Compleanno!- capisce?!
We miss you guys!!!!
Love, Althea and Richard

Satisfy the Munchies With Vince | By Steve Valicevic

I've known Vince for nearly his entire life and broke bread with him and his family many times in our younger years. It was always the ultimate pleasure to be invited to the Bielski residence for a home-cooked meal prepared by Dolores.

One of the more regular cooking/eating experiences with Vince that I'll always remember occurred numerous times in the mid-1970s. It went something like this: First, we would prime our appetites and get to a state of hunger that was ravenous. Once in this frame of mind, the only antidote seemed to be a large portion of very rare red meat. We would drool over the thought of this as we encountered the roadblock between us and this fantasy: money. So we would wander down to our favorite market, me in my overcoat and Vince on the lookout. Once there, we would inspect the porterhouse, ribeye, and fillet for both quality and size. When the final decision was made, we both knew what had to be done.

The final state of this experience involved an afternoon barbeque of prime steak, interesting conversation, and great satisfaction.

Happy Birthday, buddy!

Steve

Quality/Quantity Theory

Our son-in-law, Vince, as all of you know, is an extraordinary specialist when it comes to putting together a delicious meal. Having grown up in a fried-meat and mashed potatoes and gravy family, quantity was never a problem for us, although quality food was not mentioned very often. Vince's theory is that quantity is not nearly as important as quality, and as far as family budget, his recommendation is to spend more on quality food. That is, fresh vegetables and fruit, real 100% cheese instead of sprinkled-on parmesan, fresh spices instead of the dried-bottle kind, and so on. Well, he has convinced his mother-in-law, Autumn, and me that quality is the way to go!

Thanks, Vince, for the great dinners and wisdom regarding quality food!

John and Autumn