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

My Dinner With Vince | By Laura Bracali

I have taken well over a month to ponder this issue. A meal with Vince? What I can say for sure is I can't think of a memory I have of Vince that doesn't include food. When I was trying to narrow it down to one particular story, there was an underlying problem ... we not only enjoy delicious grub, but we also indulge in thirst-quenching spirits. For this reason, my memories are vague!!!!

I recall a fabulous trip to San Francisco but the memories are vague--we walked the streets, stopping for margaritas along the way. Was it Indian for dinner?

Happy Birthday, My Dear Cousin! I always look forward to our visits--the good eats, too many drinks, and great conversations!

With much love,

Laura

Vince, My Paisan | By Sondra Roberto

My friend Vince was a real hunk-ski

So handsome he made the girls squeal-ski

But he claimed to be a fellow Italo

To which I replied, "Oh, hell, no!

Whoever heard of a paisan named Bielski?"

So Vince declared, "For Pete's sake!

A delicious carbonara I will make

With cream and pancetta so thick

And savory chunks of garlic

One taste and you'll know I'm no fake!"

So with good friends and good wine we did eat

And marveled at Vince's great feat

And I accepted as fact

(his dago credentials intact),

A finer half-Italian I never did meet.

In fact, there's no chef better than him

For carbonara and other great things

But, Vince, being your pal

I'll tell right now

Now that you're fifty, use skim.

--Sondra

My Dinner With Vince | By Mike France

When it comes to food, my wife is from Venus and I am from Mars. She comes from the planet where people are knowledgeable about food, can detect sophisticated spices, enjoy subtle flavors, and can say intelligent things about cuisine. I come from the planet where people react in a simple, arithmetic way to butter, salt, and sugar. The greatest tribute I can pay to Vince is that he makes dinners that my wife and I both love. Again, and again, and again. The ribs, the eggplant parmigiana, the guacamole, the margaritas. Lowbrow enough for me, highbrow enough for her. Too many weekend chefs aim high and execute low. Vince is the opposite. Something about being the intellectual from Michigan has created a democratic, unpretentious food sensibility that targets $9 entrees and makes them taste like $30 entrees. In my book, that's as good as it gets. 

My Dinner With Vince | By Bob Ivry

Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.

Now that we have that out of the way, let me take you to a tropical beach where the sand is too hot to walk on and the water is the same color as the sky. We're lounging in hammocks in a roofless cabana made of bamboo limbs tied tightly together. At high tide, the hissing surf comes a meter or two from our doorless door. A Toltec fertility temple slouches halfway to ruin in one direction; a rocky shoreline lurks just out of view in another. As long as the current doesn't take us out to Cuba or our feet damage the coral reef, floating in the lazy waves is nourishing for the soul. But it doesn't feed the belly. So we walk, sometimes scramble, over the pile of car-sized black rocks to the local market, where we load up on hot tortillas, zaftig mangos, and avocados as big as our heads, and take them back to our hammocks. Imagine the tortillas melting in your mouth. The mangos yielding like a willing bride to your knife. And when you bite into the avocado, the juice running down your arm.

It was half a lifetime ago but it's here with us, isn't it? Happy Birthday, Vin, and I hope we'll remember the mangos of today twenty-five years from now.

xo, 

Bob

All My Dinners With Vince | By Aunt Becky

I really don't know where to start except in 1969 when I met a beautiful blond, blue-eyed little boy by the name of Vince. It was love at first sight and a love for his energy and love of food. I have never seen a child enjoy food as much as Vince did at his age. Vince at a very early age would devour his food with his face one inch from his plate so as not to miss a single morsel. To this day he eats the very same way.

Vince has grown into a wonderful husband and father and always thinks of his whole extended family when he comes home to Michigan. He always plans a huge get-together with family and old friends with lots of food, wine and Becks beer. I cannot really say which is my favorite meal with Vince because all of them are my favorite. I do look foward to the annual Stag Island family-friends weekend with Vince, Chris and Luca because we all know as a family Vince has planned a weekend of great food and conversation. This past summer we had a great time with the photos of the three Vinces in the family and reunion of all of Luca's cousins, who love him very much.

Vince, your Uncle V enjoyed good food as much as you do and would probably have some really funny anecdotes for this but all I can write is that for the last 40 years I have known you, you have always had a special place in my heart, even though your eating habits have given a mother or aunt a few moments of despair. I wish you a very Happy Birthday and look foward to many more dinners with you.

The Ratings Game

Vince likes to play this little game, apparently because it's fun to torture himself. Whenever he makes dinner, he forces me to rate it. So I do. And I'm honest. Because Vince is very thick-skinned in most ways, and because, well, I can't help but be honest, even if it hurts. So a dinner will not just get an A, B, etc., but a gradation of that--A- or B+--with full commentary. This is all on Vince's insistence, you understand.

Now anyone who has had Vince's cooking knows it rarely falls short of a great meal. So really, a B+ for Vince is like an A for the rest of us. But he's the type of person who always sees room for improvement, a trait that can be maddening at times but in all is a very, very good thing. (He's pushed me in more ways than one, to my benefit. Thank you, honey. :P)

So a typical "ratings game" dinner conversation might go like this. 

Vince: "So what do you think? How is the risotto?"

Me: "Okay, it's great overall. But here's what I would say. I think it's a bit dusky."

Vince: "What? Dusky?! What does that mean?"

Me: "Well, it could use a little brightening, really. I like the mushroom flavor but it needs a little something to bring it up. I think some sort of sweet herb could do the trick, or maybe a handful of sun-dried tomatoes."

Vince: "What?! It's perfect, though, isn't it? I mean, how would you rate it?"

Me: "Honestly? Because, you know, I have to be honest."

Vince: [Nods head, looks down anxiously.]

Me: "I'd have to give it a B+ to an A-."

Vince: "What?! B+?!"

Me: [Nodding.] "And I think a bit more lemon."

Vince clutches his head and moans in agony, a very Italian gesture. He then challenges my "review," but eventually agrees. Ah, just another low-pressure meal in the Bielski-Borris household. 

xo,

Chris

Tasty Morsels

I don't have a story to tell of a specific meal enjoyed with Vince, just fond recollections — some tidbits — filed in my memory: relaxing evenings sitting around Chris and Vince's kitchen table nibbling on tortilla chips and piquant guacamole, cutting the heat with ambrosial, limey margaritas; the time that Vince rescued my gravy from blandness by spiking it with Grand Marnier!, thus saving Thanksgiving; and the appearance of a Rioja at almost every meal shared together, a wine that will forever remind me of Vince.  

— xoxo Gina

Editing--Just Another Excuse to Talk About Food

For most people, it would have been a straightforward story meeting. For Vince and John, it was another excuse to talk about food.

It was the early 1990s and we were all working at San Francisco Weekly. John Roemer was our main news writer, an intrepid reporter with flair who once wrote a news feature on the Mission's burritos. This was, John tells me, at Vince's behest, and the project entailed much "research" on the part of both John and Vince. (A good editor must be "hands-on," right, though it doesn't usually mean "hands-on the burrito.")

Well, Vince and I shared an office, so I got to overhear not only his brass-tacks editing sessions with less gourmand writers but his nearly operatic discussions of food with John. John would come in with a story to pitch but the news could wait. For Vince and John needed to talk about the best way to do a pork roast; whether it was better to use the traditional parsley in vongole or do John's version with basil; the itinerary for a daylong feast that would include a trip to Tomales Bay for oysters (eat there or bring back?) and end with pasta, dessert, and way too much wine in Sausalito.

When the volume rose, for neither is a quiet man, I would sometimes grumpily shout over the partition that they really needed to quiet down and finish up so we could get some f@!#ing work done. But often I said nothing, for I was listening to the details of my next meal.

xo,

Chris 

So Many Feasts to Remember | By Shirim Nothenberg

It is hard to even know where to begin when writing about the most memorable meal I have enjoyed with Vince. There was that summer evening we spent on Chris and Vince's deck sipping margaritas made with freshly squeezed lime juice and watching Vince lovingly baste an enormous rack of ribs on the grill. Its equal was during a weekend in Sag Harbor when Vince turned the simplest hamburger into a divine creation by adding olives, garlic, and some other ingredients I was too slow or drunk to catch. And then there is the guacamole…. And that only captures the summer months. I did not think a cold and dreary winter Sunday could be rescued until Vince whipped up a few croque monsieurs and popped a bottle of champagne. Better yet was the utterly decadent multilayered eggplant parmigiana he served on a frigid winter night in the cozy living room of their first apartment in Brooklyn. While I could continue to detail meal after amazing meal, one truly stands out. It was the end of August and peak basil season. Vince grilled the most beautiful steaks, which he served with perfectly al dente pasta tossed with the creamiest, most fragrant, home-made pesto imaginable. All served with incredible pinot noir. A meal I will never forget.

Recounting all of these feasts merely demonstrates what everyone already knows: that Vince is an absurdly good cook. While that certainly makes any invitation to his home more than merely enjoyable, it is not what makes those times great. It is the warmth and grace with which he and Chris welcome you to their table, and the intelligent, insightful, and witty conversations that are guaranteed to ensue. Some of the best times I have had since moving to Brooklyn have been spent lingering at Chris and Vince's table, wine glass in hand, listening to Luca and Eli wreak havoc in the bedroom while savoring the company of two of my most cherished friends. Happy Birthday, Vince. 

Love, Shirim

Dinner with Vince in Brooklyn

Steve and I have had many a good dining experience and plenty of enjoyable drinking and eating sessions with Vince & Chris, many of them on their lovely deck in Brooklyn. Today I’m going to note our night out at the Blue Ribbon restaurant, which was preceded by cocktails and appetizers chez Bielski. The night was Saturday March 26th, 2005, and it was probably one of the few times we all ate out without the toddlers (L&L), as Chris's Mum was at hand to look after them that evening.

If we could re-do a night to celebrate such a special occasion as Vince's 50th, it could be this one, not just for the good food and wine, but for the great company. Perhaps this time we could take the kids as they'd enjoy the fries? And I might suggest putting Matt Damon at the next table - as long as he's not filming the next Bourne movie.

That night we ate tasty fishes and meats, washed down with a hearty red Cahors wine, Chateau Lamartine, vintage 2001, (13% Alc.) We talked, we laughed and we got a little tipsy; there was a real buzz in the place, and it was coming from our table! I thought I’d add these ditties that we wrote down that night:


All: "The wine was fine, even if we ain't on the Rhine,
That line was fine oh wife of mine!"
Vince: "Matt, fat. Steve's cat."
Steve: "Vince da mac daddy after dat."
Chris: "It was him!"
Deborah: "Oh, why did Matt have to leave."

Vince is such good company - entertaining, funny and packed with interesting stories. He doesn’t allow meals to be rushed by ordering too quickly, but he doesn’t like slow service either. Dining, lunching or brunching with Vince is an enjoyable event; he would be one of the guests at my desert island dinner party.

We raise our glasses - "in Vinnie veritas."

My Dinner With Vince | By Hogan Bielski

"Laughter is brightest in the place where the food is."

-- Irish proverb

"Your brother is making dinner." That's it. No "This is your mother," which was her standard phone greeting, or even "Hello." In that dry voice she would use with more than a twinge of sarcasm. But I had come to know exactly what this conversation intro meant and the proper response, for Vince was in town. "So what's he making this time, Ethiopian goat or what?" Mom would always laugh and I would find a comfy spot for the dialog to follow.

"The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you're hungry again."

--George Miller

And the trouble with remembering Vince's individual dinners is they seem to just have all melded together, thanks to the whirlwind pace of his visits back to Michigan. The accompanying partying and libations may have had something to do with that, but one thing is for sure. When Vince comes to town, he will be a'cookin' at least one family dinner and times will be had. But that Carbonara, oh, that one refuses to be forgotten. The best of Vince's creations during his THERE WILL BE PASTA phase indeed took days to recover from but was worth every delayed onset gastric symptom. I would wager that to this day that meal had the highest caloric and LDL cholesterol count of any single serving I have ever ingested. Perhaps that is why I don't really recall the banter and solving the problems of the world that usually occur afterwards, but would still do it again without hesitation. Of course, the second time around I will be prepared and take the following day off work.

"Anything that walks, swims, crawls, or flies with its back to heaven is edible."

--Cantonese saying (Source: The Chinese Kitchen by Eileen Yin-Fei Lo) 

"I don't know why he doesn't just make something normal," Mom would continue. Vince's cuisine du jour was one of her two complaints during his exotic phases. She looked forward to the event and family gathering that Vince catalyzed, as we all did. It was as if these calls were the prelim to the main event and she couldn't wait to get things started. "Well, whatever he makes is always good," I would respond, which was true. "We'll see," Mom would say, and usually remind me of the single partial failure out of all Vince's many dinners.

"There are five elements: earth, air, fire, water and garlic."

--Louis Diat

Now this one sounds great on paper and was not actually a failure in my mind. Take a leg of lamb, separate it into big chunks, marinate it in a bottle of red wine and half a dozen heads of garlic for a few days, and then throw it on the BBQ. Simple and convenient, a seemingly perfect concoction for up at the cottage, where lengthy or involved preparations become a challenge due to limited resources, time and libation constraints. In fact, it was these dinners at the cottage that ended with the most engaging and varied conversations. When Vince invited the whole extended fam damily, the mix of liberals and conservatives, union members and non, yankees and billies, the ingredients were in place for a lively recipe, to be sure. What failed? Only the dish, perhaps, but not the experience. Grilled to very rare and in largish hunks, the lamb was not a hit. Hmmm, noted I, the outer, more well-done portions were quite flavorful and tasty. So back on the grill went my rare uneaten center portion and, eureka, crusty, garlicky heaven. As I continued to devour the regrilled lamb, I could not convince any others to do the same. A shame, but that left me my choice of pieces to eat at my leisure. The only real drawback afterwards, I could not directly face anyone while conversing with them on the current hot topic.

"A messy kitchen is a happy kitchen, and this kitchen is delirious!"

--Unknown

So once Mom and I would get past the specifics of the chosen cuisine, we would move on to issue number two. "I can't even walk into the kitchen when your brother is cooking!" I would have to agree here since my observations of Vince's cooking style might best be described as loosely controlled mayhem. Nary would a utensil, pot, cooking or prep surface remain unscathed for long. I mean, finding an open spot on the countertop to set down one's bottle of Beck's was difficult. It wasn't that Vince's resultant clutter would remain unaddressed (often thanks to his better half); Mom just couldn't deal with the chaos in process. So at last I would point this out, we would laugh and confirm the date and time, and look forward to a dining and family encounter par excellence.

"Food to a large extent is what holds a society together, and eating is closely linked to deep spiritual experiences."

--Peter Farb and George Armelagos

Well, bro, it looks like I will miss your next visit to town, spending time with you and yours and the group you will gather, and whatever repast your aging mind has in store. Dad just called as I type this, claims he just hung up with you and it's crab legs, and he needs to find some good ones right away (or rad away, as he says). So he sure seems excited at the prospect of your tearing up his kitchen, which constitutes proof positive of your culinary prowess, albeit a bit tame on the menu selection, I would say. Guess you're getting a bit long in the tooth and the gap between you and Dad is finally closing. So next I assume you'll be voting Republican? What? No more Bush vs. Obama debates? Say it isn't so! What Dad is really excited about is you, Chris, and Luca coming to visit, just as Mom always was. The fact you can throw together a mean chipped beef is just the icing on the cake, and, to a degree, the icing that holds our gatherings together and gave Mom a subject to get it all started with. If she was still with us, I bet her calls would have already started in anticipation of your visit and all that truly meant to her. (OK, I know it's Chris who makes the mean chipped beef, but you know what I mean.)

Happy 50th, Vince, wishing you many more birthdays to come, and by the way, as I see it, you owe me a dinner. 

Love ya,

Hoagie   

 

My Breakfast With Vince | By Dave Epstein

Of the many meals I have enjoyed with Vince over the years, the most memorable took place on Independence Day in 2003, in a dusty California desert town known, ironically, as Independence. It was an accidental breakfast, almost a mirage. Ivry and I had convinced Vin to join us for a climb of Mt. Whitney--the tallest peak in the continental U.S. To ensure that the two lunatics did not throw him off the side of the mountain, Vin brought Waters along for the fun of it. The four of us climbed together from dawn on July 3, struggling without enough water, gut-wrenching trail food and unyielding gravity. We later split into two groups, with Ivry and Waters forging to the summit as conquerors while Vince and I consoled each other at 13,500 feet and beat a defeated retreat.

The four of us reunited in the dark, exhausted and beaten. We awoke the next morning to the brilliant desert sun, pondering a long trip back to the Bay Area. There were no specific plans for further adventure or food, just a gnawing hunger and overwhelming soreness. We hit the road, only vaguely recognizing that food might be tough to find on a normal day in Lone Pine on the way north to Deadman's Pass. As the reality of traveling on July 4th set in, we quietly resolved to accept our hunger until we arrived back home.

To our collective astonishment, we found a holiday block party just past Independence. Traffic was virtually stopped, so we pulled off the road, more to find some shade and a detour than to join the party. We were ushered into a pancake breakfast, where the remarkably friendly people insisted that we have as many pancakes as we could collectively eat. I don't remember much of the conversation, but that most basic of meals epitomizes much of what I have done with Vince over the years--turning unlikely and desperate moments into memorable adventures.

In wishing you a happy 50th, I hope we have the chance to enjoy more adventures together in the future, though with better food.

Your friend, 

David Epstein 

It's a Roux...Really

"It's a roux...really!" I insisted, hoping that by invoking something French, for god's sake, I'd bump up this humble dish. Here I was again, trying to sell Vince on the idea of having chipped beef on toast for Christmas breakfast with our friends Julene and Steve. "Didn't they call it something else during the war?" he asked snidely. "Something on a shingle?" I responded that even his beloved risotto would taste like something scraped from the bottom of a boot if made in an Army mess hall. 

Here's what my beloved chipped beef on toast is (or can be), after all: fresh butter melted in a pan, then mixed with flour to make a, yes, roux :P, after which milk is slowly stirred in to make a white gravy. When the sauce blanche :P is ready, you stir in very thinly sliced pieces of pastrami and ladle the whole thing over toast.

What's wrong with this? Vince likes carbonara but won't touch this? Oh, but carbonara's Italian, not backwoods Kentucky, which is where we got the recipe, from my great grandmother, America Sally Briton, who grew up in a small hill town there. Hmmph.

Alright, Vince isn't alone in his rejection of this noble dish. Hormel itself, pusher of all things pork shoulder, admitted that chipped beef is "an air-dried product that is similar to bresaola, but not as tasty." Though others admit to taking a guilty pleasure in consuming CBOT. 

Yes, my beloved chipped beef was most commonly referred to as "shit on a shingle" by those who served in the military, and, sadly, it hasn't lost that reputation. (If you think that's bad, the Navy term was CFSOT, or "creamed foreskins on toast"--yum!) Now, there might be a reason for these terms when you figure that military cooks didn't lovingly stir it for a half hour and add fresh, high-quality pastrami. Though neither did I, or my parents, in the early years. We used margarine rather than butter, and mystery meat pressed in a package and labeled "chipped beef." Wikipedia probably gives us the most sanguine description of it on the Web, though a picture can say what words will not--check out the top left photo here, which makes it look truly disgusting. The second picture on the right does present it in its full glory, though.   

So back to Christmas morning 1996(?) with Julene and Steve. We were living in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, just above our beloved Mission (scene of more entirely satisfying meals than I can recount, including "raw oyster Communion" at our beloved El Rio bar). I'd told Julene about the glories of chipped beef and we agreed it was the perfect brunch. So after arguing with Vinnie once more about its merits, I prepared it. Julene and Steve arrived, and just as we dug in, fortified with mimosas, they told us the big news--a babe on the way! I ask you, was it coincidence this news arrived with such a phenomenal meal? You can't deny it, V. And hey, your own brother, idol of Luca, lover of fine food, and man of pithy words (see his posting My Dinner With Vince | By Hogan Bielski, above) reveres it.