Booksmith Recollection II: The Blue Max

In another life, I worked in an independent bookstore, when St. Augustine still had one; it was called the Booksmith and it was without any doubt a magical place. It sat in a picture-perfect spot, on the corner of St. Augustine's central plaza, overlooked the beautiful bay and Bridge of Lions, and had as a sort of back door (this has its own stories) the famous Trade Winds, where more or less everyone in St. Augustine has gotten drunk at least once. There are so many Booksmith stories that I have a list of the ones I want to tell you sooner or later, in this here blog.

But tonight's tale, my little ones, is about one of the Booksmith's frequent visitors. Like most of the other almost- or once-famous people who frequented the store, he was humble and quiet about his accomplishments and we were always glad to see him. He was the author of several books, the most famous of which was a novel called The Blue Max, which was made into a movie. Like the stupid young person I was, I never got around to reading the book, but today, I happened to see the movie. It was good. And I found I was a little ashamed of myself for not having paid attention any sooner.

When he came into the Booksmith, he was always called "Mr. Hunter" and he never corrected us or encouraged any more familiarity, though as I've said, he was quiet about his own accomplishments. He was unassuming, friendly and kind. By the time I knew him his big moment of fame had passed, I think. He'd served in the second World War and had published his famous book perhaps a decade later; the movie of the same title was released in 1966. Twenty years and more had passed, and he'd continued to write and had also re-invented himself as a fine artist, building a sort of second or third career as a painter of historic aviation. I only knew this in the sketchiest of ways. Diana, who owned the store and was (and is) a master at The Art of Detail, knew it well and understood how it all fit together. I relied on her for cues. But basically Mr. Hunter was an ordinary-looking person behind whose average face I was too young and ignorant to see. And there's a sub-plot.

Mr. Hunter was married to a sweet, smart lady named Tommie. By the time the MadriGalz began their affectionate career at The Cafe Alcazar, I'd developed my own love affair with Miss Tommie's antique shop. It was called The Blue Max and was located, along with our beloved cafe, in what was once the swimming pool of the Hotel Alcazar, around the turn of the last century. Tommie had a collection of some of the most beautiful pieces you ever saw, and most of the ones I bought came from a jewelry case at one end of the shop. She had a small lamp of the sort you might have on a bedside table, and under this magical light you could look at her collection of jewelry. She would give you the most astonishing discounts, and would keep things for you for MONTHS while you figured ways to trim your grocery budget...oh, but these are other stories, my dears: this is only a sub-plot, after all.

Completely accidentally I stumbled across The Blue Max, the movie, today. It starred George Peppard and Ursula Andress, the latter of whom was dressed in a fabulous early 20th century wardrobe, which is, admittedly, what caught my eye, about halfway into the film. I'd missed the beginning, where the writing credits had appeared; thank you, The Internet (as your Aunt Becky would say)and Matt Cribbs, for giving me imdb.com. According to good old imdb, Mr. Hunter's personal dream of being a fighter pilot did not come true because he was green/red color blind. Color blind. Imagine. So he became a respected writer (he continued to serve as a writing coach to local writers well into his 70s) and painter (his original work continued to sell, and he considered The Blue Max cover art, which he did himself, to have been his first sale). Beyond my imagining when I was a young bookseller was a complex life, built brick by brick and lived in fullness, and this was Mr. Jack Hunter.

It's almost a better story than The Blue Max. Almost.

Ode on a Grecian Salad (and its amazing antecedents)

If you've been reading along for a bit you've already figured out that the Cafe Alcazar is sort of the spiritual living room of the MadriGalz. It's a fine match of philosophies. Our simple a capella arrangements of Christmas carols reflect several centuries. The Cafe is nestled inside a lovely turn-of-the-century hotel which is now home to both the offices of the City of St. Augustine and the breathtaking collection of the Lightner Museum, where simple, beautiful food is served and after lunch people are happier than they expected to be. If you look closely at the picture, you can see that the Cafe itself is in the deep end of antique (and now completely dry) swimming pool. The Cafe is centered in an assortment of shops featuring art and antiques, where the theme of straddling centuries is perfectly reflected.

There are two stories here, really: the story of the Cafe, and the story of How The MadriGalz and The Cafe Make Christmas Magic. They're as entwined as Barbry Allen and Sweet William, so you may have to hack through the briars with me a bit. The best way to share a restaurant experience, of course, is to take you there, and since I can't do that I have to use words. So it'll take a bit longer. Be patient if you can, my dears.

The Cafe part of it began for me with an incidental visit. Someone said, "Let's have lunch at the Alcazar" and I found myself sitting over a plate of something called "Artichokes Giovanni" which was more or less artichokes and mushrooms served over pasta, with a delicate topping of beautifully browned bread crumbs and a hint of lemon. It was preceded by a green salad with a tahini dressing from which I've never quite recovered, to this day. And though it's all a bit foggy, that first visit of mine, I think it may have been someone's birthday or some other celebratory occasion, for there was coffee and a memorable oatmeal cookie pie with ice cream (this still brings a tear to the eye of those who've tasted it). The food was good. In fact, the food was VERY good. But there was something else happening, too, something that happens at the most special of restaurants, something I wish I could better put into words: everyone felt right at home. I don't mean "at home" in the sense that you could take off your shoes or do anything rude at the table without reproach. I mean that there was a feeling of connection. You nodded at people seated at neighboring tables, because you had the feeling they might be distant cousins you'd forgotten. There was sense all around the room that you'd finally found a seat at a table where they remembered you, where they brought out the best wine for you, where you could rest, and eat, where the music suited you as perfectly as the wine and where you almost thought you might have invited all these (strangers) people to eat lunch with you. Upon reflection I realized that I'd had the feeling of stepping past a long line of people who had reservations or were trying to get a table, being recognized by the maitre'd and immediately seated at my favorite table and served something special that wasn't on the menu. And that's what it was, and is, to have lunch at the Cafe Alcazar.

Lorie sold the restaurant a year or so ago, but I asked her about its history because I had no memory of its evolution. She worked at Cafe Alcazar for nearly 20 years and owned it for almost 12. When asked about the menu, she gives all the credit to its previous owner, Maureen, claiming that she herself isn't much of a cook, but Maureen's innovations ("She is incredibly talented with food," Lorie says) needed no refinement. Remember the Curried Chicken Salad recipe I gave you? That must have been Maureen's creation, originally, perhaps including its setting in the elegant menu offering "East Meets West", where Curried Chicken Salad sets off green garden salad and fresh fruit to perfect advantage. And the Greek salad? The crepes, filled with something fresh and delightful du jour? All Maureen, or maybe one of a succession of chefs who worked in the kitchen over the years, each touch changing and refining the result. But the sense in the place that you're one of the insiders, that the maitre'd seated you at your favorite table, without you asking or even offering a tip? That's all Lorie.

And here the two stories begin their intersection. There had been a madrigal singing group in St. Augustine for some years under the direction of Sister Patricia Eileen (SPE), based at the Cathedral. (In fairness I should say that as in many small towns the best musical talent tends to find its way to the local churches; St. Augustine is no exception. There is today a fine group called Vivace and there are probably others doing period music. Religious feeling has less to do with it than you might think. I promise a story about this some of these days, my dears, to do with pipe organs and dreams and people who are part of both.) Both Miss Judy and I had been members and when it faded away, we continued to sing madrigals in different vocal configurations when we could. We worked as a trio for a time with our soprano friend Tracy until she moved away and the singing of Christmas madrigals was set aside. We would get the odd request every year, but close harmonies don't work with two voices unless the arrangements are very carefully constructed. And so we left it.

One year we got a couple of requests at about the same time. One was to do something purely for the sake of entertainment, and one was to provide the music for a holiday church service, but we had no soprano. Oh, I shouldn't say that: we had Miss Judy and she is an amazing soprano, actually, but she's too strong a weapon to post at that station. With her vocal range and ability to sight-read and sing different parts, she always served as our utility player. With my own limitations, this meant we needed someone with a clear, blend-able upper range, who could sing the melody in most cases, so that I could sing the lower harmony and Miss Judy could do whatever the hell magical thing is it that she does. And suddenly, I thought of Lis. I'd been listening to her sing for more years than I cared to count, but had recently come into closer orbit with her, gotten to know her, and dared to ask. And she said yes! Imagine. This amazing voice, this astonishing person, deigned to sing with me and Miss Judy, and there we were, unexpectedly: The MadriGalz.

So there, my loves, are the two winding stories. You already know that The MadriGalz try to sing at the Cafe Alcazar every Christmas, and that this year we were invited to sing at Creekside Dinery and Saltwater Cowboy's. You know we have a CD and you know how much we love singing together, and you know our hiberation is underway and will end when the days begin to grow shorter once again.

Brief but tasty, and a preview of things to come - updated

I'm working on a post about The Cafe Alcazar, a restaurant beloved of St. Augustinians and visitors alike, charming for its location in the deep end of the swimming pool of what was once (circa 1890) the Hotel Alcazar and now houses the Lightner Museum as well as the offices of the City of St. Augustine. But I need to find some pictures and think about what to say, and as I was working on those things, the recipe for Cafe Alcazar's famed Curried Chicken Salad happened to arrive and it seemed unkind to make you wait for it. So through the brilliance of its original chef, Maureen, and the generosity of its last-but-one owner, our dear Lorie, Eat Here is delighted to share this little taste of perfection.

Some things to keep in mind before you mix up what might seem to be a simple chicken salad, and is, but needs a thoughtful touch: the quality of the curry you use is critical to the outcome, so use a good one. Lorie recommends Frontier, and it's a brand you can find in most health- or whole foods stores. And before you start, you need about 6 cups of cooked, finely chopped chicken, but you could also make this with tofu. If you want to do that and don't know how, please email me and I'll help you figure it out. Also, the original recipe is halved here for your convenience, to serve a regular-ish number of people rather than thousands.

Put the chicken into a large bowl and add half a rib of celery, finely chopped,
1-1/2 fresh green onions, finely chopped, 1/2 cup finely chopped fresh parsley, 1/4 cup raisins (I like golden ones), 2 cups of mayonnaise, 2 tablespoons of honey, and 2tablespoons plus two teaspoons of the aforementioned curry powder. Mix well, and serve with fresh fruit, green salad and pita bread or crackers. Flavoring tips from Lorie, exclusively for Eat Here readers: if it's too bitter, add a little honey. If it's too sweet, add a bit of curry. And if it needs flavor, add both! And if you want the MadriGalz to come and sing at your Christmas event, you pretty much just have to tell us you'll have wine and some of this amazing salad. Odds are, we'll show up. Stay tuned for more Cafe Alcazar later this week.

Pictured: The Cafe Alcazar, St. Augustine, Florida (photo credit to Rodney Christensen); taken at the shallow end of the elegant, turn-of-the-century pool. Those shadowy figures at the back of the shot, one floor above the restaurant, are the MadriGalz, completely drunk on Curried Chicken Salad.

The long winter nap of The MadriGalz

Tonight the Feast of the Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season on the Christian calendar. As the fading winter light spills through the oak leaves, this means it's also time to say good night to the MadriGalz as winter hibernation begins. To mark the occasion and tip our hats to Cafe Alcazar, here's A Brief History of The MadriGalz.

Long ago, the magical power of St. Augustine to summon creative people together resulted in the arrival of a remarkable Dominican nun, Sister Patricia Eileen Consier, who assumed the duties of music director at the Basilica-Cathedral. (Was everyone delighted? Not by a long shot, but that's a tale for another night, my dears.) This amazing, demanding, gifted woman took a small church choir and dissected it into voices, the better to re-assemble according to the unique abilities of each. It was very much an evolution, and over the course of more than 20years, it looked different in every snapshop. It's a rich source of storytelling ore, likely to be mined early and often at Eat Here. For purposes of this story, it's enough to tell you that SPE, as she was (never to her face) called, helped some of us discover that our bodies harbored voices we'd never imagined: bigger, sweeter, richer...was this us? Could it possibly be? And it was. In many hours of choral rehearsals, individual voice lessons, small ensemble singing and vocalise practices in the classic bel canto style, she polished away at our modest talents and made the most of some voices that might otherwise never have been raised in song. Judy, for instance, the MadriGal to beat all MadriGalz, had been told it was a good thing she could play oboe, because she damned sure couldn't sing. Imagine.


So there was a madrigal group in St. Augustine. It was a good group, too, well-balanced, with about 14 or 16 voices, lovely historically accurate period costumes and a beautiful reportoire of Renaissance madrigals and carols. As time passed, key members dropped out for one reason or another, and SPE shifted her penetrating musical gaze to meet other needs. The madrigal group got smaller and smaller and in the end it quietly stopped performing.


The simple joy of singing is known to most everyone, even if we only sing to ourselves in the shower or when we're driving. Singing with other people intensifies the joy. For me, singing with a small group of other women in close harmony is one of the most profound physical experiences life offers: nestled in the arms of the other voices, my own is sweetened and made finer until it even seems to be akin to something, well, holy.

So for a time, Judy and I sang madrigals informally, and occasionally even rented costumes and worked it as a gig. We did this in three-part harmony with our old friend Tracy, a remarkable soprano who can't read music but whose voice could embarrass angels into silence. (This amazing friend and her voice are topics for a future tale, dears; stay tuned.) We even did a four-part setting for awhile with another friend, Teresa, a mezzo with whom we loved to sing. One Christmas, the four of us snuck into the Cathedral and recorded a small tape, and gave copies as holiday gifts. But Teresa and Tracy both moved away, so once again, the madrigal group rooted at the Cathedral slipped off unnoticed. Back into hibernation it went.


Time passed. And once again, the power of St. Augustine to bring about intersections of creative people and art exercised its gentle influence. This time the intersection brought about the crossing of Judy's path, and mine, with that of Lis Williamson. Regionally well-known and locally famous for her work with a variety of bluegrass and folk bands, Lis was a marvelous talent and Judy and I had admired her for years. The truth is that I'd been awed by Lis for years from a distance, and up close, I found an even more magnetic and humble beauty than could be seen fron a distance. Judy and I talked it over and we asked the question, and to our amazement Lis said she'd love to try singing with us. The MadriGalz were conceived in the living room of a house on Rohde Avenue. Not too many months later, the project came alive in several spaces, the most notable of which continues to be the deep end of the pool, at Cafe Alcazar.

The Madz had a busy season this year. We were delighted to carol at Creekside Dinery, one or two private holiday parties and, for the first time, Cowboy's Restaurant. We missed Cafe Alcazar this year; perhaps with some luck the Cafe will be back on its feet soon. And we finished the holidays on New Year's Eve, singing Blue Moon with Lis as she debuted her solo CD, Deep, and welcomed the New Year on a real, true, honest-to-goodness blue moon. In fact we sang a loose version of that very song, accompanied by a genuine band...there were our much-loved Lon Williamson, Gabe Valla, Jason Thomas and Rocky Tabyanan, playing with US. Imagine. What a year.


So we hibernate, think about our song list, and maybe even manage a rehearsal or two, and we watch for the days to grow longer, spring to lighten us, summer to warm us and ripen our gardens, and the fall equinox to remind us that the light retreats again. Until then, I have lots of stories to tell you. They should keep us busy until The MadriGalz step out and stretch, warm up our voices, and sing, "Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green..."...