This is kind of fun . . .





Also a strong reference here: http://hipsterhunter.com/















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Are you down with www.yiddishhustle.com

Rancho Bravo + Fainting Goat = High Vaue & Happy Belly

Twenty going on 20

On a cool Sunday morning in July we waited.  We waited along the edge of the beach where Golden Gate Park gives way to the Pacific. 

In between the Park and the water lay a path and on the path we could see a stream of people out into the vanishing point.  Not just people, RUNNERS!

It was 1993, and Adam Dawes and I had scooted out to cheer on our friend Steve Apfelberg.  A gifted athlete in high school, Steve was the brave first soul of our set to try his hand (and legs) at a marathon.  Adam and I had calculated that Steve would be reaching within a 30 minute interval, and so we gazed down the path to see the stream of participants one-by-one, like a string of ants. 

Somehow, off in the distance, we caught sight of a pair of runners.  They were not quite holding hands, but somehow tethered together by some gossamer material.  As they glided closer to us, Adam and I could better make out what was happening.  The runner on the left was exceptional.  He had made it to mile 20 running a sub 8:30/mile pace..  The runner on the right was exceptional.  He also had made it that far that fast. . . and he was blind.

We looked on, at first utterly silent in our humility.  Then we began to cheer.  When you see another human being go through something like that, you gain a sense not of guilt of sympathy, but a deep feeling of privilege to be a part of it.  That experience inspired me, and it filled me with resolve to run a marathon.

This past Sunday in Portland, I lined up on an equally cool fall morning to run my 20^th marathon.  I asked my running partner, Katie Burk, how she felt.  Being her second full marathon, Katie openly admitted to a case of nerves.  Then the gun went off, and the schmaltzy music started playing.  We started walking in downtown Portland.  We crossed the starting line (4 minutes).  We started trotting.  Then we started running..

Like past marathons with Melissa Lemberg and Forest Key, Katie and I had been faithful training companions, calling each other before 7 AM on Saturday mornings to make sure we were ready to go out and move “a few precious miles closer to the marathon start line”.  In preparation for Portland, we had completed runs of 18, 20 and 22 miles, averaging between 9:40-9:55/mile.  Katie had gotten me through a half marathon @ an average 8:41/mile pace.  Somehow, on the longer runs, I was able to coach Katie along, too.  What I lacked in short-distance speed, I made up for in longevity.

On race day, Katie and I did what I had done in my 19 previous marathons. We went out too fast.  We kept looking at our GPS watches, reminding each other to slow down.  Too much rest.  Too much Gatorade.  Too much coffee.  Too much ADRENILINE! Trying to go out slow in a marathon is like trying to avoid dipping a finger into a bowl of brownie batter.  It’s just not going to happen.

At mile 10 we saw Katie’s partner, Tessa, and Megumu.  They were all bundled up and cheering for us.  At the half-way point, we had averaged 9:24/mile.  At mile 15 Katie had some foot pain.  At mile 16, we attacked (and destroyed!) the famous St. John’s Bridge Hill.  At mile 17, I had “uncomfortable moments” sponsored by my right second toe.  At mile 21, Katie was struggling again.  Then we saw a woman holding up a sign that read “Tap into your inner Kenyan!”  We laughed.  We drank a terrible Gatorade wannabe, and then we sped up!

Right around mile 23, Katie asked me how I felt, being marathon #20 and all.  I thought about that for a few paces, and then I answered her.    Having never been a speed demon, I cannot say that reaching a certain time has been the motivation.  It gets back to what I first witnessed all those years ago in San Francisco.  To be so close to so many exceptional people at once is a privilege.  It is an executive course in the Human Spirit, and the tuition fee is simply a few hours of training.  And when I have some small role to play in moving a good friend through the pain and challenge, then I am all the more fortunate for it.

We crossed the tape in 4:11:52, averaging 9:37/mile. 

Then came the royal vestments of all marathoners, the Mylar sheet.   Then came the booty of triumph;  Redvines, bagels, hugs and kisses from Megumu, a hot shower at the hipster Ace Hotel.  And, finally, the meal of sweet victory. . .  an amazing pastrami sandwich @ Kenny and Zukes Delicatessen.   

As with all 19 marathons before, I knew #20 to be a great privilege. A highlight event that is all part of Life’s rich pageant.

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Are you down with www.yiddishhustle.com

July 25, 2009

18:07 CDT

It starts in Chicago.

The American Airlines lounge in K Terminal lopes into quiet time.  Business men in shirtsleeves take in cricket highlights on the BBC.  A woman in a sari munches on almonds, taking little sips of soda water. 

Already I feel that I am in another place.

July 26, 2009

01:49 CDT/12:19 Delhi

In 3J on a 777 staffed by the geriatric ward (what is it w. U.S. carriers and long-haul attendants?)  How did I wind up in Mick Jaeger Class? 

I doze off with some Bollywood tunes milking through the Bose phones Rhinga, rhinga, rhinga . . .

20:07 DEL Airport

H1N1 form filled out (symptoms negative).  Breeze through immigration (is this India or Narita?).  I am standing @ baggage claim.  I see a wall of whiskey, one part Chivas and the other Johnnie Walker. Delhi 60-something businessmen are standing in line to buy it.

“Two for one CHIVAS!” chortles some duty free hawker.

I turn to a grey-haired exectuvie carrying a Samonsite attaché and a two bottles of Johnnie Walker.  I tell him that I am going to be a guest of General Singh’s tonight for dinner.  Should I bring the General some whiskey?  The guy nods in approval. 

Now I am pulling my luggage.  I exit into the arrivals hall.  It is madness.  There are signs in Hindi (how do you spell “Brownstein” in Hindi?).  It is like Newark airport, but so many more drivers with signs.  One huge section is only drivers from Taj Hotels.  They are clad in cream colored uniforms.  Many of them have turbans.

One of them has my sign! “A. Brownstein!” I feel like I have really arrived.  The giant Sikh takes my suitcase from me.  It is the last time I will carry my own luggage for a week.

21:03 en route to General Singh’s

I start asking about the Sikh culture.  I get answers.

This week is the Festival of the Sixth Guru.  The Sixth Guru was so wise that he could send a thought from his mind to yours without speaking, and my driver friend illustrates this by taking his index finger from his turban and then putting it on to my head.  He keeps pressing my head for emphasis.

I ask him about the turban and Sikhs, and he explains that exchanging turbans is a sacred form of friendship.  He also notes that if the turban is aggressively knocked off or taken, it may mean an unsavory end to the perpetrator.

I elect not to touch his head.

21:35 Arrive @ General Singh’s

I walk up a flight of stairs to a beautiful flat.  I see my beautiful wife.  She is dressed in some kind of Indian garment.  She is crying.  We have not seen each other in six weeks.  There are other people in the room, but all I see is her.

We are holding hands, and now I am meeting Indians.  General Singh is big and gregarious.  His wife is small and lovely.  Their in-laws are chatty,  and their daughter is hip.  I see my own family now. . . my dad, his wife, my brother, sister-in-law, sister.  It’s wonderful to be here.  Everyone is eating kabobs.  Now they are eating channa.

I am getting sleepy, and General Singh is smiling, wolfing down dahl and rice with his hand. 

22:48 @ the Taj New Dehli

Our van is checked with mirrors for bombs.  Feels like curry version of Tel Aviv, in a very good way. 

We walk into the lobby, and there are 20-somethings seeping out of some bar in the back.  They are the Dehli “it” crowd, and I feel like the time-to-sleep crowd.

July 27^th

06:37 @ the Hotel Gym

Some fellow in an Adidas track suit is following me around as I move from cardio to core.  He is offering me 200 ml bottles of Himalaya Water (a Tata Product). 

8:21 the Breakfast Buffet

My wife and step-mum explain what Idli is.  Dipped in coconut chutney is DY-NO-MITE!  I order a double espresso from the dining room captain.  It is Taj-o-licious.

9:14 We depart for a tour of Delhi

A new Ministry of Textiles building.  An old British Viceroy residents.  A really old mosque.  We take in the sites one after the other.

We visit the Gandhi Memorial, and our guide informs us that Gandhi was indeed “a true Christian.”  What’s up with that?

14:23 Tour is over, and it is lunch time

Best saag paneer of all time!

16:37-18:00 Best Jet lag nap of all time

20:37 Dinner at the Kapur House

Lovely friends from Linda’s HBS days.  They poor a mean whiskey and serve amazing kabobs.  It seems that everyone in the business community in India knows each other.  It is like Linked In . . . minus the unbelievably lame Linked In experience.  Arjun, their son-in-law, and I have a  Johnnie Walker Black after dinner.  One more, and we will be starting a company by next week.

July 28^th

9:37 the Load Out in front of the Taj

Suresh, our sweet-as-can-be driver asks Neill, Lindy, Will, Melissa, Emily, Megumu and Aj if we have everything in the van.  We are leaving for the mystical wonders of Agra, and there is no turning back.

We confirm that we are set to go!

9:41 four blocks from the Taj

“I forgot my Passport.”  Emily, you are my sister, and I love you.  But that is a bush-league maneuver.

12:17 a rest stop en route to Agra

We pull into the roadside area, and park the van.  Some kid nestled on the ground opens up a basket, and a cobra grands up out of the thing.  The kid is playing some wooden flute.  The who thing is surreal.

14:17 We reach the Oberoi in Agra

There are two marble elephants adorned in marigolds at the entrance.  Beyond lies a series of carved marble pools.  Beyond that, the entrance to the Oberoi.

We walk in, and one of the hottest Indian women ever places marigolds around my neck and smudges a Hindi welcome above my brow.  I barely sense her beauty, not only because my wife is also getting the royal welcome, but because in the distance, I see the Taj Mahal.

It is a kind of muggy, misty day, and the minuets and main pearl drop loft out of the green like some perfect poem.  This son of Akbar the Great really loved his wife.

14:53 Golf cart to the Main Gate of the Taj Mahal

Our guide, Rajeev, shares the history of the place.  King takes his wife everywhere (even the battlefield).  Wife dies in childbirth on baby #14.  Wife asks for a nice place where her subjects can pay homage.  King takes the whole thing very seriously, and builds the Taj Mahal.

We spend about an hour posing in front of the thing.  The light is flat, so we decide to walk closer.  There are women in the most colorful saris ever. 

We duck into the main mausoleum, and see the tomb of the king and queen (actually, it is a replica; the reel tomb is several feet below the building).  Legend tells that the kind was buried with his left side facing his bride so that his heart could be close to her.)

During the course of our tour inside, a brief monsoon rain washed the sky clean.  The sky is powder blue, and the dusk light is now settling upon the main spire.  It’s really pretty to see this.

17:31-18:28 Jet lag nap @ the Oberoi

I wake up, and I see the Taj outside the window.  Looks even better now. 

20:30 @ the Principal Restaurant

Megumu and I settle in for our first dinner together in India.  There is soft sitar music playing at one end of the grand dining room.  We have a 50-yard-line seats in front of the tandoor masters. 

The rest of the family comes to join us, and we feast out on sinister black lentils (one spoonful is 1,000 calories).

23:11 I fall into an Oberoi pillow with black lentils swirling all around the white marble of the Taj Mahal.

 


Told through the kind eyes of a gift journalist (Anne Fadiman), The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down is the story of cross-cultural communication gone out. 

I got switched on to this as a vid-libro evolution out of "Gran Torino" the macho-mushy excellent film about the hardened racist who finally ends his days "at peace" thanks in part to his Hmong neighbors.

Focused on the trials and tribulations of a small Hmong girl who suffers from epilipsy, Fadiman's work tracks what happens when the best intentions of western medical professionals and the unique, feeling culture of the Hmong cannot find common ground.

Boule is whimsically asymmetric and wrested from the oven w. Harrod's mits.

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Are you down with www.yiddishhustle.com

6:18 and the mid-sized boule lands in a corn-meal dusted 450 degree zone!
Wolfing down Fage and Muesli recovering after the hills. . .

--
Are you down with www.yiddishhustle.com

It is 22:54 the evening before a team offsite.  I am blogging a big game to bake fresh bread in the morning.  Need to have the bread proofing by 5:15 for a in oven slot of 6:00.  Will pull the boule @ 6:32 and cool to rack until 6:50 if all goes well!

After months of research and preparation, I am humbled and honored to launch Sumilu! 

The Natsu 5769 Vintage is now available, and the use cases are almost too many to name.  Wonderful to open the most exciting chapter of this journey, and bitter sweet as it comes shortly after Grandma "Bubbeh" Lu's passing.

Special thanks to the crew that got me this far, especially my amazing wife, Megumu!  Her love, understanding and encouragement were the jet fuel behind this launch!


Aj

The year is 1995. It's 3:21 AM on a chilly September morning, and I am
standing on the corner of Union and Laguna in San Francisco's Cal Hollow
neighborhood. I am making a career change.

Penn graduate and White House policy wonk-come-street walker? It would make
for a fabulous and juicy posting. And it would not be true.

What delivered me to that corner and time was an odd series of events that,
in hindsight, seem perfectly natural. A month before I was sitting in the
(barely used) office of Noah Alper, the undisputed King of Bagels west of
the Mississippi. I had been delivered to Noah via the mesh and web of Bay
Area Yiddishkeit, and, as luck would have it, he hired me.

You don't learn bubkus about bagels here at corporate headquarters, he
explained to me. You need to embrace the experience at its very pith. You
need to get baking flour on your hands! "Retail," quipped Noah, "is
details."

So, on that September morning, I reported for duty. . . as an Assistant
Bagel & Bialy Baker. Over the next three months I would come to know and
understand the intricacies of dough. Rising, proofing, steaming, baking and
busting bagels became soulful for me. It was my white picket fence in a Tom
Sawyer-meets-the-schtetl kind of way.

I never fretted about the early starts, and I always enjoyed the High-C's of other bakers. Bern Katz was an enormous, LA-raised Rastafarian nice Jewish boy, replete with natty dreadlocks. There was Rafael, a single
father from Honduras. And my favorite, Miguel Zuniga. Miguel hailed from Zacatecas in Northern Mexico. He instructed me, quite patiently, in the art of hand-crafting bialys.

Over the next couple of years @ Noah's I would rise into management roles,
mentored by the legendary retail ops guru, Jim Mizes. Jim (and most of the
rest of executive management) would pop into the bakeries and get behind the
counter. No one was above *schmearing* a bagel for a happy Noah’s patron.. Jim
gifted me with “milk crate management” pep talks. Sitting in the cramped
back of the house area (on milk crates, of course), Jim would coach me on
how to keep labor costs low, how to turn c-sat issues into sales
opportunities and how to live through firing people.

1997 I left Noah's for Kellogg, and I traded in my dungarees and arm burns
for an HP 12C calculator and an MBA. But I still wax nostalgic for those
days in front of the 550 degree Revent oven and the behind the counter of
ACME chums and Green St. Babka.