My parents were my first restaurant mentors. At the Hickory House, our family's barbeque restaurant in Oklahoma City, they made sure I recognized the importance of freshness. Freshness of the food, of the look of the place, of the staff. They taught me that a restaurant needs to look like it's just opened, while giving the impression that it's been there forever.
Constant change, growth and improvement were their freshness secrets, and I've striven to walk in their footsteps: Frontera in 1987, Topolobampo in 1989, a daughter in 1991, Zinfandel Restaurant in 1993, a new book and product line in 1996, and a new, improved, expanded Topolobampo and bar area in 1997.
That last one might sound like enough to tackle in one year, but it hasn't been my greatest challenge. My garden has.
After 20 years doing container gardening in apartments (much of it on a 17th floor terrace overlooking the lake), we moved to a big Bucktown lot. A thousand square feet in flowers, a thousand square feet in vegetables. All organic. While I can't say it's been easy, it sure has been satisfying, and humbling.
You've been eating my mesclun mix, chard, amaranth greens, squash blossoms, radishes and herbs. Well, mine and Mother Nature's. She decided not to be forthcoming with runner beans or tomatillos, and for some reason, she let loose squash borers to cut short the blossom season. I could buy pesticides, insecticides and chemical fertilizers and be done with it. Or I can continue on my sustainable, education-intensive path to achieving the perfect natural balance in my garden. I never liked the easy way.
Besides a more-than-healthy respect for nature, I've gained a massive appreciation for organic farmers -- the kind all farmers were before the advent of chemical solutions. They are some of the smartest people on the planet. RB
