Last week, I had the pleasure and privilege to share a rare moment with a friend who happens to be one of Hawaii’s master sommeliers. I arrived at work and flipped on the light to find him sitting quietly, reading something on his phone. He had showed up early to assist with a wine tasting.
“Are you related to a chef named Glenn?” he asked, out of the blue.
“Yes,” I replied, a bit taken aback. “That’s my uncle! My dad’s oldest brother!”
“We used to work together,” he said. “Back when I was 24 years old. You know, it’s hard to believe nowadays, but back in those days, we used to do 1,800 covers on a Saturday night, with only four people working the hot line, and your uncle was at the helm. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t know how he did it.”
His voice trailed off in a way that evoked both nostalgia and awe. I could hardly believe it myself. I told him that while I, too, have only worked in high-volume establishments, these days, 400 covers is considered high-volume. How times have changed.
“Where did you run into him?” I asked. “He doesn’t get out that much. He’s in his 80s now.”
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“I saw him at Charlie’s funeral,” he said. He spoke his former restaurant manager’s name with palpable reverence. “Do you know she trusted me so much that she gave me full autonomy over that wine program? At 24 years old! We created a world-renowned wine program together, and it’s all because of her.”
“That’s remarkable,” I acknowledged. “That kind of humility — being able to let go of the reins and her own ego, and trust in your knowledge and skills — is extremely rare these days.”
“Yes! Humility!” he proclaimed with a kind of ‘voila!’ zeal. “We need more humility!”
The next day, I made a point of arriving at work early, hoping to find my friend there again. I wasn’t disappointed. Eagerly, I pulled up a seat next to him and the flood of thoughts and emotions that had consumed me the night before poured out like a tidal wave.
“I’ve been thinking about this since we spoke yesterday, and I want to tell you how much what you said means to me,” I said. “My uncle and I are the only ones in our family who have ever worked in restaurants. It’s like no one else in our family understands why we do what we do. He has even told me, on the rare occasion we’ve spoken about work, ‘Nobody else understands. Only you and me.’”
“He’s a man of few words, your uncle; a real samurai,” my friend said and nodded in understanding. “He was always that way; that’s our culture. But I have to tell you, and I don’t ever say this, but he was one of my heroes.”
His words and tone struck a deep chord, for I had always considered my friend to be one of my heroes, though I had never told him. At that moment, I finally understood a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote I have pondered over for more than 20 years, “Traveling is a fool’s paradise.”
Emerson meant that though work early, hoping to find my friend there again. I wasn’t disappointed. Eagerly, I pulled up a seat next to him and the flood of thoughts and emotions that had consumed me the night before poured out like a tidal wave.
Directions: Shake all ingredients, except Bene soda water, over ice. Add Bene soda water to shaker tin, and strain over fresh rocks into Collins glass. Garnish with lime wheel and coconut whipped cream (optional).