Lliam Christy
Guitarra Flamenca
SUB: Fiery Spanish music and dance right here in River City!
Guitarist Lliam Christy is the musical director of St. Louis’ Los Flamencos, and “Guitarra Flamenca” showcases his expert skills – ranging from the fast and fiery to mournful and romantic. The technical dexterity required for flamenco’s lightning-quick runs, percussive slaps and dual melody lines is daunting, and Christy does it all with aplomb. An accomplished guitarist and composer across many genres, Christy’s formal music education came courtesy of Webster University, and in recent years he has furthered his studies with renowned guitarists in Spain.
The music on “Guitarra Flamenca” is so evocative of the region of its origin that it’s impossible to not be taken to another land while listening. You’ll find yourself thinking of stone courtyards, café tables and twirling skirts. “Guitarra Flamenca” exhibits flash and bravado on tracks like “Cordoba” and a slow, pastoral feel on “Recuerdos de la Alhambra”. My favorite track -- “Rumba de Azul” -- conjures slow travels through dusty countryside.
Most folks may equate flamenco music with the Gipsy Kings. And while that’s not entirely incorrect, some flamenco purists may scoff at that group’s popular approach and perhaps their French home (their ancestors fled Spain during the Spanish Civil War). The roots of flamenco go back centuries and have global reach but are generally centered on Andalusia, the southern-most region of Spain. Developing at this crossroads between Europe and Africa, flamenco is built upon a collision of diverse and rich cultural influences -- gypsy, Arab, Moor, Jew. And flamenco is not merely music. While guitar is central, flamenco is an art form that includes dance, rhythmic hand clapping and foot stomping and singing. It is also multi-faceted with dozens of different forms, known as palos. Obviously, there’s a lot to be learned about flamenco.
And learn you can! Along with dance director Beth Haney, Christy manages Los Flamencos, perhaps St. Louis’ only dedicated flamenco organization, and they provide a great many opportunities for private and classroom instruction. Los Flamencos was formed by two guitarists in 1997 to promote the art form here and Christy became music director in recent years. Christy and Haney and guests perform regularly in St. Louis at concert venues, workshops and private events. You can also catch them most Mondays at Modesto on The Hill and periodically at Mirasol in University City. Find out more and purchase “Guitarra Flamenca” at www.los-flamencos.com. (Note the hyphen.)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Pitchfork - Sounds Like Chicken
Pitchfork
Sounds Like Chicken
Sub: Swingin’ country band has problems with various farmers’ daughters.
When I first popped in “Sounds Like Chicken,” I thought I’d discovered Missouri’s answer to Riders In The Sky – the charming western swing band you may have heard singing “Woody’s Roundup” and other tunes on the Toy Story 2 soundtrack.
But on closer listen, my impression was proved wrong. Pitchfork is a lewd, hell-bound bunch, more like the buzzed uncle who tells the young ‘uns slightly dirty jokes at the family reunion. See, the Pitchfork fellas reside out in the country somewheres; it’s hot ‘n dusty, and the ladies look real invitin’ but they’re sure to lead to ruin. It seems the boys have experienced their share of woman-fueled misfortune, and they’re here to tell you ‘bout it . . . in song. The first words uttered on the disc are: “Baby, I swear I don’t know who she was!”
“Sounds Like Chicken” leads off with “I’m Gonna Love You ‘Til the Wheels Come Off.” I don’t know if this phrase implies longevity and dedication or vigor (perhaps all three), but I’d like to hear it propagated throughout the American lexicon. (Imagine it replacing “We’ll always have Paris” or “You had me at ‘hello’.”) From the “…Wheels Come Off” assertion we move to “Sweaty Betty,” who we learn “was born in the back of truck – took to men like water to a duck.” This Sweaty Betty, you can imagine, leads to plenty of trouble for singer Mike “Skeeter” Heeter (who also plays washboard by the way). Skeeter winds up “running for my life on a Saturday night.”
“Sounds Like Chicken” is packed with redneck vernacular. “Holler” appears twice -- in reference to geography, not yelling. And “trailer park” is rhymed with “fark,” the utensil. But all of it somehow refers back to the womenfolk and how easy it is to get into trouble out in the country. There’s even a song here whose title – though devoid of foul language -- I can’t mention. People who think the Britneys and Nellys are too risqué should take note of boys like Pitchfork, who sing (a lot) about “Sneakin’ off to do the do ‘cause we got nothin’ else to do.” This is the music parents need to worry about . . . particularly if it accompanies a float trip, camping or other activity that might feature cut-off jean shorts.
As a music fan and reviewer, I’m usually focused on sounds first and words second, and rarely does anything country-flavored keep me engaged. That’s just me. But the tales on “Sounds Like Chicken,” which is expertly played and recorded, keep me chuckling from beginning to end and bring me back for repeated listens. If forced to give it a score, I’d give it a Styrofoam cooler, two packs of Marlboro reds and a case of Busch.
Sounds Like Chicken
Sub: Swingin’ country band has problems with various farmers’ daughters.
When I first popped in “Sounds Like Chicken,” I thought I’d discovered Missouri’s answer to Riders In The Sky – the charming western swing band you may have heard singing “Woody’s Roundup” and other tunes on the Toy Story 2 soundtrack.
But on closer listen, my impression was proved wrong. Pitchfork is a lewd, hell-bound bunch, more like the buzzed uncle who tells the young ‘uns slightly dirty jokes at the family reunion. See, the Pitchfork fellas reside out in the country somewheres; it’s hot ‘n dusty, and the ladies look real invitin’ but they’re sure to lead to ruin. It seems the boys have experienced their share of woman-fueled misfortune, and they’re here to tell you ‘bout it . . . in song. The first words uttered on the disc are: “Baby, I swear I don’t know who she was!”
“Sounds Like Chicken” leads off with “I’m Gonna Love You ‘Til the Wheels Come Off.” I don’t know if this phrase implies longevity and dedication or vigor (perhaps all three), but I’d like to hear it propagated throughout the American lexicon. (Imagine it replacing “We’ll always have Paris” or “You had me at ‘hello’.”) From the “…Wheels Come Off” assertion we move to “Sweaty Betty,” who we learn “was born in the back of truck – took to men like water to a duck.” This Sweaty Betty, you can imagine, leads to plenty of trouble for singer Mike “Skeeter” Heeter (who also plays washboard by the way). Skeeter winds up “running for my life on a Saturday night.”
“Sounds Like Chicken” is packed with redneck vernacular. “Holler” appears twice -- in reference to geography, not yelling. And “trailer park” is rhymed with “fark,” the utensil. But all of it somehow refers back to the womenfolk and how easy it is to get into trouble out in the country. There’s even a song here whose title – though devoid of foul language -- I can’t mention. People who think the Britneys and Nellys are too risqué should take note of boys like Pitchfork, who sing (a lot) about “Sneakin’ off to do the do ‘cause we got nothin’ else to do.” This is the music parents need to worry about . . . particularly if it accompanies a float trip, camping or other activity that might feature cut-off jean shorts.
As a music fan and reviewer, I’m usually focused on sounds first and words second, and rarely does anything country-flavored keep me engaged. That’s just me. But the tales on “Sounds Like Chicken,” which is expertly played and recorded, keep me chuckling from beginning to end and bring me back for repeated listens. If forced to give it a score, I’d give it a Styrofoam cooler, two packs of Marlboro reds and a case of Busch.
Fragile Porcelain Mice - The Best Of Modern Rock
God bless Fragile Porcelain Mice. No, really. They have saved me. I’ve been writing reviews for Sauce for, I believe, a year this month, and lately very little has arrived in the CD pile that inspires me enough to write. I was growing quite concerned about the state of Midwestern rock. (I know there are good and interesting bands out there, but they don’t seem to land product in my hands. Bands and friends of bands, pay heed to the footnote at the bottom of this column.)
So, I was dreading my trip to Blue Sky Distribution, from whom I regularly receive a short stack of CDs to review. Well, I walked in the door and was greeted with: “Do you have the new Fragile?”
“Fragile Porcelain Mice?” I asked. Now, I’m admittedly old and un-hip, so I was unaware that Fragile was even still active. Well, hallelujah. And God bless Fragile Porcelain Mice for releasing “The Best of Modern Rock.”
For those of you unfamiliar with Fragile Porcelain Mice, they are stalwarts of the St. Louis scene, harkening back to the early 90s. Seeking comparisons, I offer the Jesus Lizard, Shellac, The Refused. They are the Deftones’ twitchy, menacing cousin. To those of you who read Sauce for wine reviews or pasta tips, those namedrops may mean nothing. So, imagine a rumbling, house-size machine with spinning blades and swinging hammers. It’s running harder than it should, shuddering and rattling off bolts. It is beautiful in its complexity and power but terrifying in its potential for collapse. This thing is being operated by a man somehow audible above the din. He’s ranting at you, warning you, imploring, trying to save you. Fragile Porcelain Mice is that machine, and singer Scott Randall is its operator.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is beautifully packaged (designed by Clayton’s Hughes Group). A dark 18th century floral painting disguises the roiling lake of fire into which listeners are about to be tossed. The opening track, too, creates a false sense of calm. “We Have Problem” is a repetitive dirge that hypnotizes you before dropping you without warning into the shredding teeth of “Disposable.” And for the duration, hold on for dear life.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is propelled by one of the most inventive rhythm sections around. Mark Heinz’s muscular drum work and David Winkeler’s chugging bass nimbly construct Fragile’s complex time changes. Slathered over this are Tim O’Saben’s writhing, angular guitar lines.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is a concept album of sorts, speaking to today’s packaged culture and the cancerous sameness and mediocrity that produces in cliques, music, fashion, etc. All are held in contempt – the sellers and the buyers. Everyone winds up in Randall’s crosshairs – uniformed punks, dour Goths, suburban homeboy wannabes, and the companies that perpetuate their sacred trends.
There are too many priceless lyrics to quote here, but the overall flavor can be summed up in these lines from “Bound in Platinum:”
What you are rolling on
What you have been seen to wear
That is all that concerns you
Never been so insular
And you once had a conscience
Fragile seems to throw up their hands in closing the album. Realizing that today’s trends will be replaced by tomorrow’s, the band offers “No Solution” in response to the problem introduced at the disc’s beginning. Perhaps that’s a good thing. As long as there are targets for Fragile’s ire, we may continue to benefit from their music.
So, I was dreading my trip to Blue Sky Distribution, from whom I regularly receive a short stack of CDs to review. Well, I walked in the door and was greeted with: “Do you have the new Fragile?”
“Fragile Porcelain Mice?” I asked. Now, I’m admittedly old and un-hip, so I was unaware that Fragile was even still active. Well, hallelujah. And God bless Fragile Porcelain Mice for releasing “The Best of Modern Rock.”
For those of you unfamiliar with Fragile Porcelain Mice, they are stalwarts of the St. Louis scene, harkening back to the early 90s. Seeking comparisons, I offer the Jesus Lizard, Shellac, The Refused. They are the Deftones’ twitchy, menacing cousin. To those of you who read Sauce for wine reviews or pasta tips, those namedrops may mean nothing. So, imagine a rumbling, house-size machine with spinning blades and swinging hammers. It’s running harder than it should, shuddering and rattling off bolts. It is beautiful in its complexity and power but terrifying in its potential for collapse. This thing is being operated by a man somehow audible above the din. He’s ranting at you, warning you, imploring, trying to save you. Fragile Porcelain Mice is that machine, and singer Scott Randall is its operator.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is beautifully packaged (designed by Clayton’s Hughes Group). A dark 18th century floral painting disguises the roiling lake of fire into which listeners are about to be tossed. The opening track, too, creates a false sense of calm. “We Have Problem” is a repetitive dirge that hypnotizes you before dropping you without warning into the shredding teeth of “Disposable.” And for the duration, hold on for dear life.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is propelled by one of the most inventive rhythm sections around. Mark Heinz’s muscular drum work and David Winkeler’s chugging bass nimbly construct Fragile’s complex time changes. Slathered over this are Tim O’Saben’s writhing, angular guitar lines.
“The Best of Modern Rock” is a concept album of sorts, speaking to today’s packaged culture and the cancerous sameness and mediocrity that produces in cliques, music, fashion, etc. All are held in contempt – the sellers and the buyers. Everyone winds up in Randall’s crosshairs – uniformed punks, dour Goths, suburban homeboy wannabes, and the companies that perpetuate their sacred trends.
There are too many priceless lyrics to quote here, but the overall flavor can be summed up in these lines from “Bound in Platinum:”
What you are rolling on
What you have been seen to wear
That is all that concerns you
Never been so insular
And you once had a conscience
Fragile seems to throw up their hands in closing the album. Realizing that today’s trends will be replaced by tomorrow’s, the band offers “No Solution” in response to the problem introduced at the disc’s beginning. Perhaps that’s a good thing. As long as there are targets for Fragile’s ire, we may continue to benefit from their music.
Handsome
Handsome - Epic Records
What happens when guitar players from Helmet and Quicksand join forces? Good, good things. Handsome's eponymous debut features the muscular guitar work of Peter Mengede, a member of Helmet through their career launching Meantime, and Tom Capone, present on both Quicksand LPs. Not only is the album graced by their fine guitar work, but it also benefits from production by Terry Date, producer for such jackhammer giants as Pantera and Prong. But Handsome is more than mere fist-pumping mosh fodder. The band employs a songwriting style that is at once embraceable and edgy, and vocalist Jeremy Chatelain is so tip-of-your-tongue unplaceably familiar, you'll rack your brain trying to figure out why you recognize his voice. Things get downright hummable at times, but Mengede and Capone coat the album with just enough dissonant muck to keep the atmosphere pretty sinister.
Stand out tracks include Left of Heaven, which has a wonderfully seasick hook in the verse and thick sheets of guitar at its chorus, and Going To Panic, Thrown Away, and Lead Bellied feature trademark sonic elements of the guitarists' previous employers. But let's not focus on the past. Handsome hoes new rows here, as on the bouncy Dim The Lights, the trippy My Mind's Eye, and the mournful Quiet Liar. They even come dangerously close to Green Day territory on Waiting, but again, the massive guitar teamwork keeps things a little too ugly for mall appeal.
Many of the twelve songs here would do fine on radio, yet surely, none of them will land there. The album came out just prior to Handsome's St. Louis Valentine's Day opening slot for Outback young 'uns Silverchair, and it shows great promise.
What happens when guitar players from Helmet and Quicksand join forces? Good, good things. Handsome's eponymous debut features the muscular guitar work of Peter Mengede, a member of Helmet through their career launching Meantime, and Tom Capone, present on both Quicksand LPs. Not only is the album graced by their fine guitar work, but it also benefits from production by Terry Date, producer for such jackhammer giants as Pantera and Prong. But Handsome is more than mere fist-pumping mosh fodder. The band employs a songwriting style that is at once embraceable and edgy, and vocalist Jeremy Chatelain is so tip-of-your-tongue unplaceably familiar, you'll rack your brain trying to figure out why you recognize his voice. Things get downright hummable at times, but Mengede and Capone coat the album with just enough dissonant muck to keep the atmosphere pretty sinister.
Stand out tracks include Left of Heaven, which has a wonderfully seasick hook in the verse and thick sheets of guitar at its chorus, and Going To Panic, Thrown Away, and Lead Bellied feature trademark sonic elements of the guitarists' previous employers. But let's not focus on the past. Handsome hoes new rows here, as on the bouncy Dim The Lights, the trippy My Mind's Eye, and the mournful Quiet Liar. They even come dangerously close to Green Day territory on Waiting, but again, the massive guitar teamwork keeps things a little too ugly for mall appeal.
Many of the twelve songs here would do fine on radio, yet surely, none of them will land there. The album came out just prior to Handsome's St. Louis Valentine's Day opening slot for Outback young 'uns Silverchair, and it shows great promise.
Helmet - Aftertaste
Aftertaste
Helmet
Interscope Records
An adequate review of any Helmet album could be a mere handful of words: “Aftertaste, new one from Helmet, more of the same, thank heaven.”
Bands are often praised by critics and reviled by fans for exploring new style elements, but recently, Helmet seemed to experience the exact opposite. The rockpress typically slighted 1994’s Betty for boldly going where they thought the band shouldn’t go, but fans eagerly welcomed the groove-heavy follow-up to the band’s 1992 breakthrough Meantime. Perhaps bowing to critical remarks about Betty, on which the band employed oddly effected vocals and delved into bastardized hip-hop, banjo blues, and jazz deconstruction, Aftertaste is a collection of concise, bare-bones songs subtly updated by changes to frontman Page Hamilton’s left-field guitar soloing and the warts-and-all production of Barkmarket guitarist/vocalist Dave Sardy.
Hamilton’s solos--anti-solos really--have historically been skittering atonal outbursts that careen through songs like out-of-control Indy cars, barely able to hold the track. On Aftertaste, however, the solos are brief, simple, legato lines. Based on a just a few notes, they lurk within the mix, sniffing out sonic territory until they fragment and the song returns. Check out Insatiable, for the best example of the kinder, gentler Page Hamilton. Perhaps his new approach extends from the experiment Hamilton and German avant guitarist Caspar Brontzman released in late 1996. Zulutime (Atavistic) presents the two guitarists creating barely mobile slabs of noise in which they seem to be more interested in the evolution and decay of sounds as opposed to melodies. Not only does this idea--in a simplified context--show up in Hamilton’s solos, it also comes through in full force at the end of Crisis King, where sheets of guitar nonsense and radio interference rumble on for nearly a minute to close out the album.
Aftertaste’s stripped down flavor also results from the fact that the band recorded as a trio. Guitarist Rob Eccheverria departed after Betty to join Biohazard, and Chris Traynor, formerly of Orange 9mm, only recently joined Helmet’s ranks. It must be added that bassist Henry Bogdan and drummer John Stanier turn in yet another phenomenal performance. The two comprise the most consistent and brutally heavy rhythm section since Led Zeppelin’s Jones and Bonham. In fact, to hear a brilliant, in-your-face recording of that rhythm section, check out Helmet’s take on Bjork’s Army of Me, found on Interscope’s environmental benefit compilation Music for Our Mother Ocean.
Sardy’s production reveals his fondness for the electric hum and hiss of the studio, and he seems to capture the band’s tightest, most energetic performance on each cut. All said, it’s good to have Helmet still among us, mining similar territory but employing new understated elements to keep things fresh. It will be interesting to see how Hamilton and company continue to work from their small, though very heavy, bag of tricks.
Helmet
Interscope Records
An adequate review of any Helmet album could be a mere handful of words: “Aftertaste, new one from Helmet, more of the same, thank heaven.”
Bands are often praised by critics and reviled by fans for exploring new style elements, but recently, Helmet seemed to experience the exact opposite. The rockpress typically slighted 1994’s Betty for boldly going where they thought the band shouldn’t go, but fans eagerly welcomed the groove-heavy follow-up to the band’s 1992 breakthrough Meantime. Perhaps bowing to critical remarks about Betty, on which the band employed oddly effected vocals and delved into bastardized hip-hop, banjo blues, and jazz deconstruction, Aftertaste is a collection of concise, bare-bones songs subtly updated by changes to frontman Page Hamilton’s left-field guitar soloing and the warts-and-all production of Barkmarket guitarist/vocalist Dave Sardy.
Hamilton’s solos--anti-solos really--have historically been skittering atonal outbursts that careen through songs like out-of-control Indy cars, barely able to hold the track. On Aftertaste, however, the solos are brief, simple, legato lines. Based on a just a few notes, they lurk within the mix, sniffing out sonic territory until they fragment and the song returns. Check out Insatiable, for the best example of the kinder, gentler Page Hamilton. Perhaps his new approach extends from the experiment Hamilton and German avant guitarist Caspar Brontzman released in late 1996. Zulutime (Atavistic) presents the two guitarists creating barely mobile slabs of noise in which they seem to be more interested in the evolution and decay of sounds as opposed to melodies. Not only does this idea--in a simplified context--show up in Hamilton’s solos, it also comes through in full force at the end of Crisis King, where sheets of guitar nonsense and radio interference rumble on for nearly a minute to close out the album.
Aftertaste’s stripped down flavor also results from the fact that the band recorded as a trio. Guitarist Rob Eccheverria departed after Betty to join Biohazard, and Chris Traynor, formerly of Orange 9mm, only recently joined Helmet’s ranks. It must be added that bassist Henry Bogdan and drummer John Stanier turn in yet another phenomenal performance. The two comprise the most consistent and brutally heavy rhythm section since Led Zeppelin’s Jones and Bonham. In fact, to hear a brilliant, in-your-face recording of that rhythm section, check out Helmet’s take on Bjork’s Army of Me, found on Interscope’s environmental benefit compilation Music for Our Mother Ocean.
Sardy’s production reveals his fondness for the electric hum and hiss of the studio, and he seems to capture the band’s tightest, most energetic performance on each cut. All said, it’s good to have Helmet still among us, mining similar territory but employing new understated elements to keep things fresh. It will be interesting to see how Hamilton and company continue to work from their small, though very heavy, bag of tricks.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Shall We Call Dr. K?
Wow, what do you do when your "personal brand" is potentially shredded by another?
Faced with the deteriorating condition of a loved one, my brother and I were touring a nursing facility. It's a really wonderful place, with a large staff of nuns, which will resonate nicely with the loved one I mentioned.
We were asking questions about a variety of things, and the subject of on-site doctors came up. The charming young nun leading our tour said:
"Oh, yes, we have three on-call doctors -- Dr. Smith, Dr. Jones and Dr. Kevorkian."
Silence. Raised eyebrows.
"Yeah, we just call him 'Dr. K.' instead."
Wow, so many jokes.
Can you imagine -- in this facility full of senior citizens with serious health issues -- hearing over the P.A. system: "Paging Dr. Kevorkian. Dr. Kevorkian, please report to room 324"? Yikes.
Or...
"Well, we had another visit from Dr. Kevorkian."
"How many visits from Dr. Kevorkian does one actually need?"
Or...
"Shall we call Dr. Kevorkian?" (And depending on the day, the answer may vary.)
It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Elaine dates a guy who has the same name as a serial killer. But the stakes are higher here: he's a doctor; you're a doctor. It's not like you're dealing with that name while running a dry cleaners.
I'm genuinely curious to know how the (in)famous Dr. Kevorkian has impacted our local Dr. K's business. Perhaps we'll have occasion to discuss.
Faced with the deteriorating condition of a loved one, my brother and I were touring a nursing facility. It's a really wonderful place, with a large staff of nuns, which will resonate nicely with the loved one I mentioned.
We were asking questions about a variety of things, and the subject of on-site doctors came up. The charming young nun leading our tour said:
"Oh, yes, we have three on-call doctors -- Dr. Smith, Dr. Jones and Dr. Kevorkian."
Silence. Raised eyebrows.
"Yeah, we just call him 'Dr. K.' instead."
Wow, so many jokes.
Can you imagine -- in this facility full of senior citizens with serious health issues -- hearing over the P.A. system: "Paging Dr. Kevorkian. Dr. Kevorkian, please report to room 324"? Yikes.
Or...
"Well, we had another visit from Dr. Kevorkian."
"How many visits from Dr. Kevorkian does one actually need?"
Or...
"Shall we call Dr. Kevorkian?" (And depending on the day, the answer may vary.)
It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Elaine dates a guy who has the same name as a serial killer. But the stakes are higher here: he's a doctor; you're a doctor. It's not like you're dealing with that name while running a dry cleaners.
I'm genuinely curious to know how the (in)famous Dr. Kevorkian has impacted our local Dr. K's business. Perhaps we'll have occasion to discuss.
Friday, July 9, 2010
I Met the Legend
I was in the dairy aisle at Shop-n-Save with my daughter and an elderly gentleman stopped me.
Him: "Excuse me young man. My 98-year-old eyes can't see the expiration date on this. Can you?"
Me: "Well, sure." And I read the date to him. "You're 98?"
Him: "Yes, I am."
Me: "Well, you look pretty good for 98!"
Him: "I mowed an acre of grass earlier today." (The temp that day was in the 90s.)
To prove his age, he got out his wallet and handed me his driver's license. Born in 1911. I saw the name -- Oldani.
Me: "Oldani. I think I went to high school with an Oldani."
Him: "I ran a restaurant here in St. Louis for 40 years."
Me: "Really? Called....?"
Him: "'Oldani's'" (with a look that suggested "you moron"). "We started toasted raviolis!"
Me: "Really?! You're the guy?!"
Him: "I'm the guy!" And he made the sign of the cross. It was official.
I turned to my daughter. "Hey, we love toasted raviolis, don't we?!"
We chatted for another minute or two and went our separate ways. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were walking out to our car and heard a car horn. We turned, and there was 98-year-old Mr. Oldani driving out of the parking lot, honking and waving at us.
So, when I got home, I consulted The Oracle. And if you believe everything you read on the interwebs (and I do), Oldani's is certainly a possible birthplace of the toasted ravioli.
Him: "Excuse me young man. My 98-year-old eyes can't see the expiration date on this. Can you?"
Me: "Well, sure." And I read the date to him. "You're 98?"
Him: "Yes, I am."
Me: "Well, you look pretty good for 98!"
Him: "I mowed an acre of grass earlier today." (The temp that day was in the 90s.)
To prove his age, he got out his wallet and handed me his driver's license. Born in 1911. I saw the name -- Oldani.
Me: "Oldani. I think I went to high school with an Oldani."
Him: "I ran a restaurant here in St. Louis for 40 years."
Me: "Really? Called....?"
Him: "'Oldani's'" (with a look that suggested "you moron"). "We started toasted raviolis!"
Me: "Really?! You're the guy?!"
Him: "I'm the guy!" And he made the sign of the cross. It was official.
I turned to my daughter. "Hey, we love toasted raviolis, don't we?!"
We chatted for another minute or two and went our separate ways. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were walking out to our car and heard a car horn. We turned, and there was 98-year-old Mr. Oldani driving out of the parking lot, honking and waving at us.
So, when I got home, I consulted The Oracle. And if you believe everything you read on the interwebs (and I do), Oldani's is certainly a possible birthplace of the toasted ravioli.
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