One, for instance, was being invited to a Saturday evening soiree at a magnificent home on Jack’s Peak (named for Mr. Jack of Monterey—Monterey Jack—get it?). Overlooking Pebble Beach through the wispy fog, this was one of the most incredible places I have ever seen, sort of a Hearst Castle in miniature. Think hacienda with a Thai accent and a heavy dose of taxidermy. Not exactly my cup of tea, but fascinating nevertheless. I just never have gotten into animal-skin rugs with the heads still on.
It was a catered affair, with de rigeur passed hors d’oeuvres in tiny spoons and tossed pizza finished in an Asian-style hearth oven. I was sort of wondering why I was invited. It was a gathering of the beautiful people, the ones who seemingly live in little black dresses and pearls, and in dinner jackets, cummerbunds and spats. I tried to get a look at the guest list to spy where I was on it. My eyeglasses are acting up, but I think I saw my name at the bottom, as “Token Guppy.”
Another fringe benefit was hanging out with Miss Hot Tomato (Tracey Griffith, Melanie’s “little” sister, and a sushi chef in her own right), who was quite the sight with a slinky red dress, red cowboy boots and flaming red hair. She and her accomplices, the Cherry Divas, put on quite the show, shimmying and crooning, “Ain’t nothin’ better than true love and a home-grown tomater.”
Jim Gallivan, MAT, CCA, CCP, CFBE, is the culinary-arts department chair at The Art Institute of Atlanta.