Every once in a while, a person will come into your
life and succeed in changing your entire outlook, or
cause you to rediscover passions long buried. That was
the effect that Howard had on me. Howard was a mercurial
spirit who never ceased to amaze me with the depth and
breadth of his knowledge. His passion for life was
remarkable, especially when you consider the pain that
he was constantly experiencing.
Howard was one of the first people to make contact
with me on soc.motss. He was, I assumed, one of those
nameless people who "send me all kinds of supporting
email" that you always hear about. Of course, this was
completely wrong, as Howard was a regular poster for
quite some time. He shunned controversy, and this was
his ostensible reason for not posting (much) to
soc.motss. Really, I think, his mind was elsewhere:
his love of food and wine were the preeminent concern
in his life. Soc.motss was mearly a fertile recruiting
ground for similarly minded food queens.
Arne and I came along within a month or so of each
other about 4 years ago. Howard remained a rather
enigmatic person to both of us. Arne told me that Howard
made and broke several dinner engagements before finally
making it to one. I didn't know this at the time, but
when Howard finally arranged a dinner at a Japanese
restaurant in Hollywood, it became clear why he phased
in and out of net life. (this was also to be Arne's
debut singing Ethel Merman at a Karaoke bar, which
mercifully was monopolized by a wedding reception).
I met Howard's Kevin, who I thought was very charming.
Things remained somewhat distant for quite some time.
This was mostly of my doing, as I was in the midst of
a major change of life, and getting up to LA was not
generally high on my list. We did manage to get to know
each other better in those years, and had dinner on
a number of occasions. I was always impressed by the
depth of his knowledge -- I had never met such a walking
encyclopedia complete with lusty sound effects!
Howard loved San Francisco, having lived here quite
a while. Mostly he loved North Beach, having met Kevin
at Rossi's Market, and having many good memories
associated with it (not to mention strapping Italian
boys, which he loved so much). After I moved, Howard
came to house sit for friend. Howard, well, Hurricane
Howard, was there for nearly a month. We ate and ate
and ate and ATE. La Folie was probably the most
memorable; Roland Passot's magic is just too fabulous
for words, and Howard couldn't get enough of his
marvelous foie gras in a huckleberry reduction. Or was
it the squab stuffed with quail that he liked so much?
I still remember Howard coming over to my house for
the first time. Howard had bought a Muni FastPass and
was determined to milk every penny out the thing. I
explained to him that my house is on the side of a cliff,
and told him the least exhaustive way to get here. When
Howard arrived, he was practically a ghost. "Did you
go the way I told you, Howard?", I asked. "No! That
was two blocks out of the way!", Howard replied in his
normal stubborn demeanor. Typical Howard.
I threw a party in Howard's honor, which was the first
of many parties that my poor recycling bin has witnessed
in the last year. Howard and I shopped all over the
place, and we put on a feast worthy of Luisa Tetrazzini,
whose great nephew I had met in New York earlier that
year. We shopped for wine all over the bay area, and
I still remember him transfixed by the selection of
old Sauternes at the Wine House here in the city. Howard,
in his humility relegated himself to my unassuming sous
chef (yeah, right) as he watched the horror and indignity
of Ireland beating Italy in World Cup Soccer. My long
lost love of food and wine was coming back to me in
full force, and having Howard around was high octane
fuel for that smoldering fire.
Howard and I spent hours on the net and on the phone
talking about everything, but mostly about this dish,
or that wine, all the while giving me an education on
various wines. At the Las Vegas motss.con, there was
the perfect moment when Howard and I traipsed over to
the Mirage to take a look at the white tigers. While
looking on with the million and seven other tourists,
we simultaneously wondered aloud what wine one would
serve with tiger.
I enjoyed Howard's unsnobbish and eclectic love of
wine. I think some of Howard's best moments were his
delight in finding some bargain basement wine at Trader
Joe's that he could drink with impunity. His own
mortality was always there in front of him ("this wine
will outlast me!"), but he still couldn't resist buying
for the future. This was, to me, the essence of Howard's
tenacity in life. Enjoy the present, that's all we're
guaranteed with; don't give up the future, since we
may yet live to reap its benefits.
I had always wanted to make a trip to Europe. Since
I was officially bumming around, I figured that this
was the proper time to do it. I had never really been
all that excited about Paris, but Howard raved about
Paris, and Richard Johnson (practically an ex-patriot)
was going to be there at the same time. I was amazed
at the beauty of Paris, and even more amazed at food
and wine culture. I kept thinking how much Howard would
have loved to be back in Paris for Richard and my dozen
or so Lite Lunchs (tm).
Quite accidentally, I arrived from the Metro at St.
Sulpice and found an ACT-UP demonstration marching from
Montparnasse to Odeon as part of the World AIDS
Conference. I decided to join the procession, but unlike
most of the rancor around me, I could barely even speak,
let alone take part in the chants, hoots and jeers.
I just knew that my trip there was likely to be Howard's
last connection with the city that he loved so much.
It was all I could do to contain my grief and start
bawling in the street. At one of the clubs were bulletin
board-like sheets of paper where people wrote what they
liked, usually about loved ones departed. Practically
shaking, and about ready to burst into tears again,
I wrote an inscription to Howard vowing to be his eyes
and pallet. The Eiffel Tower that week, in the City
of Light, had a red ribbon done in lights. Paris grieved
with me.
Upon my return, Howard enthusiastically decided that
we must go to Barcelona. It was his favorite city in
all of Europe, and besides he thought that he could
just fit through the openings in La Sacreda Familia
to have a romantic end. I had a lot of foreboding about
this trip, but Howard was very upbeat. I finally
relented, in part because I was intent on taking my
Aric to Europe too. Howard became seriously ill in
January, which was to be his final battle. We hoped
against all odds that Howard would be able to make it,
but the reality of the situation finally became evident
weeks before the trip. Howard insisted that Ken and
Arne make the trip, even though we were extremely worried
about him.
We tasted the oily squid that Howard pined so much
for again. Arne and I timidly viewed out the portals
of La Sacreda Familia where Howard imagined his end.
We had one of the most fantastic dining experiences in
Perpignon, at a restaurant that Howard insisted we try.
Aric and I even managed to visit one of Howard's favorite
wineries in the Rhone: Domaine du Vieux Telegraphe.
The missing element was, of course, Howard. I could
easily visualize him eating in his signature way:
messily, lustily and greedily. Such was Howard's spirit.
His love of life, and the good things to be experienced,
was tremendous. It was truly an inspiration, and a note
to everybody that life is too short to put off happiness.
Howard's spirit, I know, will live on through the
people that he touched, and hopefully in the people
that we touch in return. I miss him already, and the
loss is tremendous, but I think his memory should be
toward the celebration of life. Howard's spirit will
live on through the never ending cycle of vine to grape
to bottle, and the toasts to our friends and our love
of life. This, I am sure, is how Howard would want it.
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