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LINDNER’S BIRD

 The original plan for a Lindner Thanksgiving this year was for me to drive down to Monroe and spend it with Lisa. But she has a pretty full house coming, so I decided to stay home and roast a small turkey here instead. She understood (besides, I shipped her 2 gallons of my homemade party mix for her and her guests to nosh on).

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So on the menu at Chez Bignōz today, I’m making:

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A small (12 pound) turkey with truffled cornbread stuffing. (Real, actual black truffles! I had to turn the city inside-out to find them).

 

Pro tip for roasting turkey: In place of butter, a few strips of bacon draped over the bird will “self-baste” as it roasts. Just be sure to pin them in place with toothpicks, lest they slide off and turn to pork & turkey glop.

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I’ll literally be using all four burners, the oven and the broiler at the same time. (Bonus! The house stays warm without having to turn on the heat).

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Mashed spuds.

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Two kinds of gravy: one plain, the other with black garlic and giblets.

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Cranberry-lemon-honey compote.

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Roasted Brussels sprouts in a Dejon-maple syrup glaze.

 

(2 lbs halved sprouts, 1T olive oil, 2T Dijon, 1/2 cup maple syrup. Toss together, spread on a cookie sheet and roast for 30 mins at 350°.)

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No dessert planned. Wellllllll… does a double Martini qualify as a dessert to you? 🍸 🍸 It does to me. 😎

THE BUS BY LINDNER

 Bear with me, this might get convoluted.

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I was watching “The Man in the High Castle” on my iPad last night. In the opening scene of this particular episode, this ordinary looking school bus pulls up and disgorges its cargo of kids. But there’s a very unusual logo on the nose of the bus: a Nazi eagle and swastika. I’ve blocked out the swastika, because the last time I (also innocently) posted that symbol, Facebook accused me of “spreading images of hate” and sentenced me to a week in the cooler. Whatevs.

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If you’ve never seen this series, the premise is imaginative. Imperial Japan and Nazi Germany were victorious in WWII, and they now occupy the United States; Germany, everything East of the Rocky Mountains. Japan, everything to the West. The story is set in the 1960s, with Hitler now a feeble old man in his late 70s, ruling his extended Reich from Berlin.

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But about that bus…

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It was built by Gillig Bros buses in Hayward, California. How do I know? Because the Gilligs were our neighbors back in the ‘50s and ‘60s, and were very close friends of my parents. My brother and I hung out with their two kids. (I’ll post an image of the same model bus at the top of this thread, sans swastika).

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Mr. Gillig, “Chet,” fought in Europe during the war. When the war ended, like so many American G.I.s, he picked up an M.G. TD in England and had it shipped back to the states. He then assumed his hierarchical role in the family school bus business. He’d give us rugrats rides in the M.G. on Saturday mornings.

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Mr. Gillig was a very nice man, but there was always an intensity about him. A Clint Eastwood type of intensity. I never saw him angry, but if you asked him about his role in the war, his face would get red and he’d cut you off. And he liked to drink.

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One night, my parents hosted a dinner party. The Gilligs were there, and another neighbor, who served in the Pacific theater, asked Chet about his time in Europe. Chet clammed up at first, his face turning bright red, asked him nicely to not press him on that. So the other guy obliged him. But after dinner, when many of the other guests had gone home, out came the booze. Mr. Gillig, now well lubricated, told his tale.

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Remember the scene in “Saving Private Ryan” where a Nazi soldier and an American soldier struggle over a hunting knife, and the Nazi ends up plunging it into the other guy’s heart? It was pretty much like that. I don’t recall the details, not even if it was with a knife or a gun, but Mr. Gillig surprised a Nazi in the act of relieving himself, and a face-to-face struggle ensued between them. Chet won, the Nazi lost. And apparently, that memory haunted him for decades thereafter.

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More so than anyone I’ve ever known, including an old girlfriend’s father who survived Auschwitz, Mr. Gillig DESPISED the Nazis with a white-hot rage. So much so, that he’d clench his teeth and his neck muscles would tighten up if you even asked him about those days. And keep in mind, this was nearly 20 years later.

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So I find it incredibly ironic that the producers of this series chose a Gillig Bros bus; with the proud Gillig logo replaced with a swastika of all things! If Mr. Gillig were alive today to see this image… I wouldn’t want to be around to witness the aftermath.

MR LINDNER IS TURNING 103 YEARS

Absolute amazing! 103 and lives in the home he built back in the 1950’s. I’m very proud to know this family. On to 104! 

LINDNER BEAT THEIR ODDS

 Every October 17th, except for the few times it’s slipped past me, I reflect on this date. It was October 17th, 2002—twenty years ago today, that I got the call. The call I’d been expecting. “Mr. Lindner, the pathology report confirms it. You do have cancer.”

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Well, shit. 😠

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I tried to not let that episode define me, but for a time, I was unsuccessful in that endeavor. From late October 2002 through the fall of 2003, was a pretty bumpy ride. And some of those bumps left sizable craters in my psyche.

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I was 50 years old at the time of that diagnosis. Lisa had just gone off to college. I remember my chemo oncologist telling me my odds for survival over time. It’s been so many years now, I’ve forgotten the exact mileposts, but it was something like this:

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The likelihood for me seeing my 55th birthday was 90%. That’s not so bad! 😄

 

For making it to my 60th birthday was 60%. 🤨

 

For making it to 65 was 25%. 😦

 

And for making it to my 70th birthday: 5%. 😟

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Not because of the potential for a cancer recurrence mind you, but because the treatments invariably damage some important body parts. And they did. But hey, here I am, 70 years old, still pulling espresso shots, cooking weird shit, spinning vintage vinyl, brewing homemade hooch and telling bad jokes.

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So my advice to everyone should you one day get that call: Do NOT let it define you. It might feel like the end is near while you’re going through it, but unless your illness is terminal, the end is waaaaay over the horizon. The Sun will rise again.

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I’m not gonna dishonor my 2️⃣0️⃣th anniversary by whining about what was sacrificed. I’m gonna celebrate it by being grateful for this quirky life. Oh, and maybe a snort of homemade hooch later tonight. 🥃 🤩

ON THE LOT WITH LINDNER

I was thumbing through this car blog last night, and happened upon this article that asks their readers to share their worst car dealership stories. No, I didn’t contribute. But if I had, no one would have believed any of it. I briefly worked at a Ford dealership here in Portland between the summers of 1972 and 1973, and boy-howdy, was it ever an education.

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Reading the comments at the bottom of this article… well, they’re mostly pretty quaint. Probably the closest of them in this blog to my experience, was posted by Sam Bowles at the top. The rest are just business as usual in the world of car dealers. If I had commented, I could have told them about…

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The time my own sales manager told me to lie to his boss about missing a meeting. My manager forgot to tell me about the meeting, and he didn’t want his boss to know it. “Just tell him you forgot.” So that’s what I did. Then the big boss fined me $50.00 for being a no-show. A fine that my manager would have gotten had I told the truth.

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Or the sadistic, perverted, sales executive who shot a doe during hunting season, cut out its genitals, mounted them on a plaque, and forced whoever had the worst sales record for the month to hang it over their desk for the following month.

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Or the time there was a massive ice storm in January 1973, and two salesmen were standing on “the point” to greet any customers. They were both huddled under one umbrella, half-frozen, sleet coming in sideways, when the owner pulled up in his Maserati Ghibli. He walked inside, paged their sales manager, and told him to fire them. The manager asked him what they did wrong. He said “When I pull into the dealership that has my name flying ten feet above the rest, I expect my employees to acknowledge me.” They we’re both canned that morning.

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Or the dealership policy—yes, it was an actual POLICY, for one team leader to pressure his salesmen (there were no saleswomen) to beat the shit out of other salesmen who consistently got to the customer before you did. They even had a little boxing ring marked off in chalk behind the detail shop.

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Or how the other salesmen would gather around to cheer and jeer as the fisticuffs flew. Salesmen were expected to come in to watch, even if it was their day off.

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Or the way they treated the only two black employees at the dealership; one who worked in the detail shop, the other steam-cleaned engines. On Christmas Eve 1972, every employee received a gift box of a turkey, a bag of fruits and nuts and a bottle of champagne, all paid for by some mystery associate of the owner (I never did find out who). Everyone got a gift box except those two black men.

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Or when they hired the teenage daughter of one of the secretaries to wash the salesmen’s cars, whose mere presence transformed the sales team into a pack of salivating satyrs. Both she and her mother quit on the same day a couple of months later.

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Or the fact that the owner of the dealership preferred to hire his salesmen fresh out of the state penitentiary. Was he just big-hearted and wanted to give them a break? Nope. He said “Ex-cons are hungrier than the rest of you pu$$ies. They make better salesmen.”

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As for actual sales practices, that Ford dealership was a typical “hard sell” shop. Lies, deception, hidden microphones monitoring private husband and wife conversations, shady financing, the whole shebang. It wasn’t until maybe five years later that I learned that not ALL dealerships operated like that. I wouldn’t call any dealership straight-up honest, but they do seem to vary in degree of dishonesty and corruption.

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If just being ripped off by a dealer for what turned out to be a lemon is your only complaint, consider yourself very, very fortunate.

 

THE REFERRAL

 About a month ago, I was at a local restaurant supply store picking up odds ‘n ends when I noticed a coffee catering truck in the parking lot. It was the exact same make and model as my original Javamobile, a Utilimaster Aeromate. So I strolled over for a closer look. Turns out the proprietors, a husband and wife team, were in the truck at the time putting stuff away.

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I introduced myself, told them I’m in the same business, and am intimately familiar with that vehicle. I showed them pics on my phone of my former Javamobile, the new Javamobile, and told them of the fate of the old one. They were a gracious couple. I gave them my card, they gave me theirs, and I told them that I still get calls to cater major events, but I’m no longer doing them. That I only serve at one place, the Beaverton Farmer’s Market. I got the impression they were just starting out in the business, something I can relate to when I think back a few decades; not a lot of contacts yet, struggling to land gigs, etc.

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For the past 20+ years at Christmas, I’ve served a local chain nursery here in Portland. It used to be held at four locations; Southeast Portland, Cedar Hills, Lake Oswego and Vancouver (WA) over a couple of weekends, but they’ve since eliminated the Southeast store. It’s called “Reindeer Magic.” They bring in a Santa Claus, live carolers, even live reindeer for the kiddies to pet. I’d crank out eggnog lattes for the adults and hot chocolate for the urchins until I’d drop.

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Anyway, since Covid entered our lives, Reindeer Magic has been suspended. So the last time I did their event was Christmas 2019. But I got the call yesterday… a call I’ve kinda’ been dreading. “Reindeer Magic is a go for this Christmas Bruce, are you free to join us this holiday season?”

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I took a deep breath and told her; “I’m so sorry Holly, I’m retired now.”

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“Really? Isn’t that your truck I see out in Beaverton on Saturdays?”

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(D’oh! 😖)

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“Yes, it is, but that’s ALL I do now, because they provide me with shore power. I no longer do any events that require running off the generator” (which hasn’t been started in three years).

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“Well, we have a generator now too, so maybe you could use ours?

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“No, I can’t Holly. I just can’t. When I semi-retired three years ago, I figured out how much I could earn in a year without cutting into my Social Security, and I’m right on the cusp as it is. So I don’t want to screw that up.”

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“Okay. I understand. But we’ll miss you.”

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“I’ll miss you guys too. HOWEVER, all is not lost. If you can’t find an available replacement, please consider giving this husband and wife team a call.” I rattled off their cellphone number and email address.

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“Thanks, I will. So you vouch for them?”

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“No, I can’t vouch for them personally, I just happened to meet them. But they seem like nice people, they’re just starting out, and they would probably love it if you gave them a chance.” She told me she would do so.

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And that’s where I left it. I hope she calls them, I hope they take the gig, I hope their customers love them, and I hope everyone lives happily ever after.  🎄

WHATS FOR BREAKFAST AT LINDNER’S?

 I have a light breakfast six days a week. Maybe some toast, or a half of a grapefruit, or a little yogurt. Sometimes nothing at all (other than my ubiquitous double ristretto, which is essential to jump-starting my atrophying brain).

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But Sundays are different. It’s the one day of the week when I wake up famished. Why? Because I work my ass off on Saturdays, I’m too busy to eat anything until I get home, at which time I’m too pooped to open the refrigerator door, let alone cook, I nod off in my recliner, then around midnight I stumble off to my bedroom and hit the sack in a caloric deficit.

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So today I splurged. I made a traditional American breakfast, and damned if it wasn’t reeeeally satisfying. Cholesterol be damned!

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My Sunday morning routine: 🚽, 🚿, 💈, take 💊, get dressed, cook up enough to feed Patton’s Third army, go out to the Javamobile and get a few ounces of Stumptown’s magic beans, fire up the Pavoni, make a double ristretto, schlep it all into the back room and tune in Radio New Zealand 🇳🇿 for some news and music of the non-batshit kind.

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The rest of the world can go to hell now as far as I’m concerned. Me happy. 😋

LINDNER’S SAUCES

 When you’re grocery shopping, do you ever get to the condiments aisle and go; “Oh, I think I’m out of mustard!” So you grab one and bring it home only to discover… no, you’re not out of mustard after all. 🙄 And don’t even get me started on hot sauces.

LINDNER’S PONY ESPRESSO LIVES ON!!!!

LINDNER’S PONY ESPRESSO

 This is a throwback Thursday of a different kind. I thought I’d post a retrospective on the Javamobile(s).

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That squared-off armored car looking thing was the original Javamobile. It served me well from 1994 until its immolation in 2017. That burned out hulk is what remained of it after the fire department left.

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That miniature version made up of Legos was a gift from two young girls whose parents I’ve been serving since… well, since before the younger one was born. She’s in her teens now. The two girls worked on it together for a year! There’s even a mini espresso machine and a mini-me inside. It occupies a special roost high above all the other memorabilia inside Javamobile II, under a lucite case.

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The last two pictures are of course, of the “Phoenix.” The beautiful, majestic bird that rose from the ashes of its predecessor (note the Phoenix logo I designed high above the windshield). That picture was taken at the Stumptown roasters the week before I went back in business, just four months after the fire.

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Funny side story: My very first gig with Javamobile I, was at a publishing outfit called RFD Publishers, about 20 miles south of Portland in Wilsonville. They published ad inserts for major newspapers, etc. My friend Rick (of Cynthia Woldridge fame) worked there doing maintenance, and one of their contractors hired me to assemble computer desks at night. It was perfect timing, because I had just left my job at Fred Meyer, and the truck wouldn’t be ready for another six months. So that served as a stopgap.

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The next gig I did was a neighborhood block party in Portland’s Parkrose district. The guy who booked me told me “Make sure you bring booze, too.” I said “No, that’s illegal! I can’t risk it.” Funny thing…

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Turns out he worked for OLCC: the Oregon Liquor Control Commission. He told me that they allow one-time 24 hour permits to serve liquor at private events! As I recall, the license cost $50.00. That was in late 1994, so it’s probably several hundred now.

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So for my second EVER gig, I served hot chocolates and Italian sodas to the Munchkins of Parkrose,  and I made Grand Marnier spiked frappes and iced Irish Cream lattes (with real Bailey’s) for the adults. I brought some Southern Comfort too. They emptied all three bottles.

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When that party wrapped up at dusk, all the adults were uh… happy. But I think their kids were bewildered. How does just drinking coffee make you slur your words and put your hand on your neighbor’s wife’s tush? (That actually happened).