photo Tom Costner 1985

Back up at the house, Crystal headed to the Egyptian room to set up the tables and arrange the chairs and tablecloths. I stood for a moment assessing the space and walked into the living room. There were the muted sounds of people doing setup in other areas of the house. The caterer had arrived and I could hear pounding coming from large granite mortars and pestles; they were making fresh salsa for dinner.  The living room, with sectional floor to ceiling windows on two walls looking out at the front yard, gave a feeling of blurring the line between indoor and outdoor.  It was empty except for a long narrow couch and the table.  In the corner stood a large stuffed gorilla, brought from the Fillmore Auditorium. That gorilla greeted concert goers for years inside the entrance at the top of the stairs.

In one corner was an atrium area filled with soil and indoor plants. There was a man on one knee, with his back to me, busily transplanting a plant with the greenery in his left hand and a small trowel in his right.  He was dark haired and wore very loose, spanking-clean white pants and a black t-shirt.  Completely nondescript.  He stood up and looked at me with his head slightly bowed forward. He had piercing eyes that immediately connected with me.

“Who are you?” he asked pointedly with a subtle pout to his full lips.

“My name is Beth Hensperger and I am here to do the table setup for Mimi,” I replied.

“Let me call my man and he can handle all that for you,” he said briskly and authoritatively.

“Oh, I am able to handle it all myself, don’t worry, but thank you anyway,” I replied slightly less briskly and with my own air of authority, punctuating it with a small smile.

He instantly relaxed and his face broke into a wide soft smile, saying, “Okay. I’m Bill.”

“I thought so. Nice to meet you, Bill, and thank you for having us in your home,” I said as I offered him my hand in greeting. We shook hands and spent a long moment assessing each other eye to eye, half smile to half smile. He turned and disappeared down the hall, giving me nonverbal permission to get to work.

I stood for a moment. What had taken me by surprise was that photographs did not do this man justice. Bill Graham had a fierce reputation in a business populated with characters straight out of characterville. He looked short, dark, aggressive, bossy, and manipulative, albeit efficient, in one-dimensional images. In person, he emanated alot of warmth and a soft-edged assertiveness that was not invasive in any way. It was melded with a self-assured, unaffected projected energy that pooled close to his body that would be labeled charisma and self-confidence. He had lots of natural electricity, an apparent keen intellect, and a startling loving kindness in his gestures. He was also simply the sexiest man I had ever met. Ever.

I took the time to glance around the empty adjoining room, where the entertainers would later perform.  It contained an upright honkytonk piano against the wall.  Over the piano was a black and white poster-sized studio-posed photo of Janis Joplin and her band, Big Brother and the Holding Company, in the plainest of frames. It had frozen the beautiful essence of the youthful 60s culture–the hair, the clothes, the expressions of contentment and hope, staring out into the camera.

I turned around to walk back to the living room and there on the section of wall that separated the walkways into the room, was a plexiglass case jutting out containing Janis’ microphone.  Above it was a lovely portrait of her.  It was incredibly simple.

As I walked out, I glanced down the long hall that reached to the back of the house. One side of the hall was an unbroken solid wall; lining the wall were small plexiglass frames, each containing a dried flower arrangement, sort of like little bridal bouquets. I stepped over to read the inscriptions below. They were bouquets that commemorated different civic and personal awards given to Bill over the decades.  There were dozens of them stretching down the hall.  This man was sentimental.

I was able to finish the centerpieces before guests began to arrive. They not only looked great, but had an aroma of sweet wheat bread mingled with the fresh floral. Whoever sat near them would enjoy that.

It was balmy for a February day and I wandered outside into the dusk.  The pool was set down a level into the hill. It was still, like a pond, brackish and green from algae.  No swimmers would brave that water.  There was a catering assistant grilling large shrimp and meat kabobs on the lawn.  We were alone and the food smelled good in the fresh air.  As I stood next to him, he asked me if I was Mrs. Graham.

“Oh good grief no,” I replied laughing.

“You just seem like you belong here,” he said. “Kinda in charge.”

“Nope, I’m just like you,” I said. We both laughed.

I went back inside and sat down on the couch next to a woman. We started chatting and it ended up she was taking creative writing classes. I was having my first cookbook published in the next year, so we talked shop.  Mimi came over and introduced us. It was her mother.

“Joan couldn’t be here tonight. She is touring in Europe,” she said. “That girl had quite a lucrative career at one time. She spent her money like water back then and can’t do that anymore. She bought friends cars and tons of shoes. She still has all those shoes though. She loves shoes.”

We laughed. Joan Baez had been performing locally for years in a pair of stunning red boots. Red shoes are well known to be a nonverbal statement proclaiming I Am Woman. That axiom definitely fit Joan and her style of singing.

mimi farina performing 1960s

We ended up sitting there, quite simply the most comfortable place available, even eating our dinners on our laps.  The entertainment began and people were relaxed and satisfied.  Bill circulated and talked to everyone it seemed. I was hoping Mimi would play guitar and sing something like I Am A Poor Wafaring Stranger, but she let the other performers shine that night.

Later in the evening, Crystal hurried over to me, breathless. “You will never guess what I said to Bill,” she said.  I think my inbreath caught in my chest.  Crystal was known for being unpredictable where men were concerned, so anything was possible.

“What?” I asked hesitantly.

“Well, I just went up to him and said that I knew there were three things in the universe that were of the utmost importance to him, that made him tick. God, sex, and methane, in that order.” She looked very proud of herself.

I froze. Oh dear, and while we were guests in his house. “How did he respond to that, Crystal?” I asked.

“He looked very serious,” she giggled, excited that she had made contact that pierced the veil of propriety that normally exists with people you’ve met for the first time.

She drifted off into the crowd. I let my eyes search for Bill. I needed to do damage control immediately in case he was insulted.

Bill was standing alone, looking inwardly contemplative, leaning back against the kitchen stove with his arms crossed. I slowly approached him.

“Bill, my friend just told me what she said to you.  Please excuse her forwardness and let me apologize if need be,” I said.

He looked up at me, with a look of sadness. “It’s no problem, don’t worry at all. God, sex, and methane. Frankly, what she said is true.” He sighed and we both paused in silence.

“This last year building the amphitheater has been one of the worst in my life, one thing after another. I wish I never started the project,” he said with a tone of resignation. He was referring to Shoreline Amphitheater. It had been built on the old Mountain View dump and bubbles of gas were seeping into the air from concentrated pockets of accumulated organic compounds below ground.  During a concert there had been fiery flames shooting up from the grass area packed with people smoking.  The city and Bill were locked in a complex legal battle. That problem had to be solved for the safety of future concert goers.

I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say on that subject since it was so sensitive of one, so we just exchanged some small talk while the music played on.

At the end of the evening, Bill was standing near the door. I gathered my things and approached him while we would still be alone.

“Thank you, Bill, for a wonderful evening. In case we never meet again, I will always remember you as a most kind and gracious host.”

He looked at me with a soft inquisitiveness and became so still that I could feel his breathing. He moved his head very close, whispering. “You certainly are most welcome,” he said slowly. “But I have to say, in my entire life, no one has ever said that to me.  Called me anything like that. Kind or gracious. This is the first time. I never think of myself like that. Thank you.” Then he pulled back and started laughing. “Just remember–God, sex, and methane.”

The limousine pulled up, I crossed his hexagram, and was gone.

Years later I was watching the 11 o’clock news. Bill was killed that night returning to Marin over San Pablo Bay when his private helicopter hit high-voltage electrical wires. It hit me in the chest. A member of the family commented what a tragedy it was; how he was just getting the next chapter of life together with new business ventures and a new relationship. I grieved silently like I lost a close friend.

Mimi and I kept up a casual correspondence and spoke a few times over the subsequent years. She sent me a nice official Bread and Roses letterhead thanking me for my contribution, signed by all the staff. I sent her a copy of my cookbook to give to Joan, Sr.  We said we would find another function to work together again, but it was not to be.

When I heard she was battling cancer, I sent her a subtly and vibrantly colored card that was designed to open like a Chinese screen.  For a while we wrote back and forth, with no mention of her struggle, just light-hearted thises and thats in a few lines. She retired from the daily running of Bread and Roses.

Finally one day I felt like it was time to write the last card. At the end of my message I said, “Don’t write back this time, conserve your strength. Know you are loved by people you never met.” Within a week, I heard she had passed away.

Her Bread and Roses is still thriving.

Cornucopia of Bread

Bill Graham at home @1984 David Gans

One day in early January I received a telephone call.

“Hello, may I speak to Beth please,” came the soft toned voice.  “Speaking,” I replied absentmindedly, used to unfamiliar voices inquiring about catering.

“This is Mimi Fariña of Bread and Roses calling from Marin County. I am having a small fundraiser at Bill Graham’s house in Mill Valley next month and I was wondering if you, as a bread baker, would be able to do something for us.”

Anyone who knew anything about 60s folk music knew about Mimi, the sister of Joan Baez. They both went to Palo Alto High School and were often spotted at Stanford shopping center.  Their mom, Joan Sr., also still lived locally.

Bread and Roses is a homegrown Bay Area non-profit organization.  It was well known that Mimi’s heart and soul was actively put into Bread and Roses.  It is a humanitarian social service that had been providing live entertainment to people confined in a variety of institutions–senior homes, convalescent hospitals, correctional facilities, and rehab centers–for over twenty years. Instead of giving a chunk of treasure, a person can give talent or their time. All sorts of local artists from musicians, dancers, and puppeteers to poets and mimes contribute their services.  Mimi was helping others before it became chic.

“Bill is very generous letting us use his home.” she said. “He’ll be there to act as host, too.  It’s a casual evening.  We will be having a great Mexican buffet brought in by this restaurant called Guaymas that just opened in Tiburon, but I was hoping you could do the table decorations and set up for us. I sure would appreciate it.  You are welcome to stay as my guest for the evening as well, to enjoy the entertainment and have dinner.  Please bring a friend.”

Considering it was a charity event, my labor and materials would all be donated, so I was relieved not to be responsible for the entire meal.  My mind had originally flashed on handmade bread for 200, but I did not have to do that either.  There would be fresh tortillas.  Table decorations was going to be fun. And a chance to meet Mimi and Bill.

Anyone who was conscious and living in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 60s and 70s can tell you who Bill Graham is.  Just the most famous rock concert producer in the USA.  He created the legendary Fillmore Auditorium. When that closed he moved to Winterland Arena across the street and booked all the big shows at the Oakland Collisium for the likes of the Rolling Stones, The Who, and Jimi Hendrix.  Bill had just built Shoreline Amphitheater out on landfill in Mountain View, my hometown.  He was so familiar it was like extended family.  I had a friend who worked security for Bill Graham Productions concerts. My Professional Food Society friend Narsai David, a local restauranteur and TV food celebrity, had cooked Thanksgiving dinner for hundreds with a bevy of rented restaurant ranges brought into the cellar of the concert hall for the last concert of The Band for him. I had friends that were sound engineers, band managers, light show technicians, and smaller-time producers.

“I would be most happy to help you,” I said.

“Then I will send you an invitation with directions how to get here,” said Mimi. “The date is February 7, a Saturday.  I hope that is a good day for you.  We will be running a shuttle from Mill Valley Middle School, which is just down the road a bit, every 15 minutes since there is no room for parking at the house. But since you will have to unload the car, just come here directly first. We’ll have all the table linen here, and the tables and chairs will already be set up for you. Call me if you have any other questions and see you there.”

I put my mind to creating the centerpieces for the table. That was easy. A bread and roses theme.  Food and flowers.  After a few days juggling fantasies in my mind, I came up with making oversized cornucopias, a receptacle shaped like an oversized curved goat horn, of bread dough.  They would sit nicely, one to a table, on a bed of ferns.  I would make small round crusty French rolls and have them cascading out of the cornucopia mixed with an equal amount of fresh blood red roses.  It would look really cool and give the emblematic appearance of overflowing abundance.  Just what I wanted to convey.  People could eat the rolls too, if they wanted.  Since I didn’t know how much work was involved, I would also bring Crystal, my friend since high school and one of my most dependable workers, much less a total rock groupie.

I only needed to bake for two days and I used a recipe I made at the bakery over a thousand times. The loading of the car was a snap, too.  The cornucopias and rolls all fit easily into towel-lined cardboard boxes.  Since the guests would arrive about 5:30, I estimated I better arrive no later than 4 p.m. to set up.  At 3 o’clock, Crystal and I were on our way north on Highway 280 into San Francisco and over the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin.

We took the Blithedale/Tiburon exit off Highway 101 and headed towards the emerald green hills that separate Mill Valley from the Pacific Coast.  We turned left onto Camino Alto, a smooth road that seemed to take us straight up a steep hill into the sky, lined with eucalyptus trees on both sides that acted like a natural canopy. We were not far from the freeway, but in a matter of minutes, seemed to be in a completely different environment.  It seemed devoid of human life.

The driveway was about halfway up the hill on the lefthand side. I was surprised there was no gate and had to concentrate not to miss it. I accelerated up the narrow drive through stands of the large, graceful eucalyptus.  They were so thick that alot of the natural light was filtered out and the mood changed to serene, slightly surreal.  The air was fresh, cool, and slightly mentholated.

My first sight as I was driving was a gigantic sculpture of a skull on a side lawn swell over 10 feet high.  It was a startling image on this lovely driveway; I could have been on a prehistoric island.  It was overgrown with a cacophony of morning glories and other dark green vines, trailing in and out of the eye sockets and other orifices, giving the appearance that the plants were holding the skull hostage on the earth.  Crystal reminded me that the skull was the symbol of the Grateful Dead band, one of Bill’s first clients and close friends.

Across from the skull was an open-work sculpture of the world, tilted on its axis, with Christmas lights hung all over and twinkling.  As I looked at it, it was like a relic from Leonardo di Vinci’s workshop perched on the edge of the earth. I could stare right through the open metalwork into the trees and into a vacuous space above Mill Valley. Talk about unconventional landscaping.

I pressed the car upward and ended up in a small, rather cramped turnabout area in front of the house and three-car garage. The garage door was open and a Jaguar convertible was inside.  The front door was only a few feet from where I stopped the car. Everything felt very close.

As I stepped up to the front door, I looked down.  I had stepped onto a large parquet Star of David, two opposing equilateral triangles superimposed on each other, representing the inner and outer worlds of human matter and spirit.  It is the revered emblem of Judaism also known as Solomon’s Seal, the hexagram symbolic of the divine union of energies that maintain life in the universe that was copied from the Shiva Tantric yogis of India by medieval Jewish Cabbalists.  The revered symbol, known as the Bhaeravi Cakra in India, has been used as a visual tool for meditation for thousands of years for its harmonious effect on the mind. The motif was set right into the porch landing, pulling the eyes effortlessly from the outer points right into the blank center then back up to the door. The door opened as I stepped up and there was Mimi, smiling and welcoming us in a pair of old purple sweat pants.

“Hi Beth, let me show you around.” she said.  I marveled at her graceful figure, her swarthy skin, and flowing black hair.  She had a becoming natural shyness.  She showed me the front room with a big oval dining table, the kitchen off to the side, the large empty room to the other side, and the first bedroom off to the side that was cleared for extra seating.  This was a regular size family ranch-style home, no mansion nor ostentatious residence in any sense of the word. It was spare and relaxed.

Mimi excused herself to go handle a telephone call and I was left to unload the car. Crystal carried in the boxes with me and we placed them in the empty bedroom, which was hung with Egyptian calligraphy wall hangings from floor to ceiling on all the walls.  I recognized the hangings immediately.  Jefferson Airplane, another early band of Bill’s, had taken a series of photos for one of their album covers in front of these parchment-like wall hangings.  They looked authentic.

I had to move the car, so Crystal and I headed back down the driveway and over to the school to park.  A big black limousine was waiting to shuttle us back. It was my first limousine ride and it was really something. Exceptionally comfortable.

End of Part 1 To be continued….

• Little French Rolls à la Bread and Roses

Beth Recommends

You want to use unbleached bread flour or unbleached all-purpose flour for French bread. Unbleached flour is aged naturally to oxidize the proteins and bleach out the natural yellow pigment present in freshly milled flour (also known as green flour).  Bleached flour is aged quickly with chlorine dioxide, has less gluten, and lacks vitamin E that natually remains in flour after milling.  I consider unbleached flour superior to bleached in bread recipes. My favorite brands include King Arthur, Bob’s Red Mill, Stone-Buhr, and Hodgson’s Mill.