THE MAGNIFICENT FAREWELL OF BETTY DAY, GODMOTHER OF JORDAN DOWNS, QUEEN OF WATTS

There was the city equivalent of a state funeral here in town over the past weekend as Royalty was memorialized and laid to rest. The local television news didn’t cover it, nor did the Los Angeles Times. To their credit, PBS did try to film the memorial service, but were turned away.

Still, none of the over 1,000 people in attendance – other perhaps than myself - cared the media wasn’t out in force. These folks - from the proudest neighborhood in Los Angeles - are accustomed to being left alone and all they wanted to do was honor their Queen.

That queen was Betty Day, 82, long known as the “Godmother of Jordan Downs”, and more recently promoted by her peers Queen of Watts. The person that announced her Queen title at the memorial says much about the woman who was referred to by men who have spent 12 years at Folsom as “Ms. Day”.  It was announced by no more appropriate authority than activist Big Donny Joubert, from Nickerson Gardens, the once frequent deadly enemy of Jordan Downs. Joubert, like many, talked about Betty’s toughness, compassion and desperate pursuit to bring peace and end to the maddening gang violence in Watts.

I will say here this is an op-ed piece even if much of what follows might be more like an obituary or a news story about a dead person and not an op-ed. But my opinion - and why I am writing this - is everyone in this city and even the entire country should know about Betty Day and honor the Betty Days of the communities still out there.

Betty was born 1940 in Kilgore, Texas but came to Watts not long after. At 15 she met and married Arthur Day and they were together 65 years until his death in 2020. I met Betty, all five feet, 100 pounds of her, in 2005 when she was 65.  After more than a decade of relative peace in the Watts community between the Grape Street Crips of Jordan Downs, the Bounty Hunter Bloods from Nickerson Gardens and the PJ Crips form Imperial Courts, the killings were back.

Betty was instrumental in founding the Watts Gang Task Force, an organization consisting of gang members, community activists and police officers that met at then-15th District Council member Janice Hahn’s office. At the first 2005 meeting, when she became the first and still-only president of the task force, Betty famously yelled “Enough!”

LAPD Deputy Chief Emada Tingirides was at sergeant back then and spoke to the masses of that first Watt Gang Task Force meeting. “I saw her and thought ‘Whose is you?’ and she saw me and thought ‘Whose is you?’  Later, she took me aside and said ‘Oh, girl, you are going to learn from me.’ I did.”

Tingirides spoke fondly of being at a dining function and, at the end of it, Betty scooping up all the packets of ketchup. honey, mustard on the table and putting them into her purse.

Janice Hahn, now a L.A. County Supervisor, spoke next. Hahn didn’t have a prepared speech and spoke from her heart. I’ve seen Hahn speak for close to 20 years, but I have never seen her so relaxed, so smiling as she talked and laughed at the memories. In Hahn’s talk – an Tingirides’ - the wonder of Betty Day came shining through. She was a human whose personality was such that you realized she was special. She was on a mission of great importance, and she wanted you along for the ride, Betty had that lovely quality to make you feel important.  If I didn’t go to the gang task force meeting for a few weeks, when she saw me, she’d call out in her borderline raspy voice, “Krikorian! Where you been?”  By the way, Hahn ended by raving about Betty’s brisket and how it was the best she ever ate, and how Betty would not give up some secret ingredients. “Now I know,” Hahn said smiling. “It was those packets of honey and ketchup she took.”

Other spoke, but it all seemed opening acts for Betty Day’s son Wayne to get up and address the crowd. He did. Anyone familiar with Watts might not know him as Wayne, but everyone knows who “Honcho” is. Honcho was the leader of the Grape Street Crips, the notorious gang that ran Jordan Downs. The federal authorities referred to him as the “Godfather of Watts” and he ended up doing 11 years in federal prison for drug-related offenses. He got out in 2007, went straight and eventually worked for a law firm as a para legal.

“I want to thank everyone who came,” he said. Then he singled out a group. “I especially want to thank the LAPD for showing up.”

In the way back seats where I was, a man next to me mumbled, “Damn, Honch thanked the LAPD.”  If someone had told me 15, 20 years ago Honcho would one day thank the LAPD for showing up anywhere, I woulda laughed. That’s like Al Capone thanking Elliot Ness and the FBI for showing up. But he did. And all because of his mother.

Wayne spoke of his mother’s passing. “I have no regrets about her life and that she’s gone. It wasn’t like she caught a stray. She went in the proper order.”

After the service, I didn’t go to the burial, but instead drove through Jordan Downs. It was empty. I drove by Betty’s home on Grape Street near 107th. Across the street from her house is tiny Grape Street Park. The state legislature announced at her service it would be changed to Betty Day Park.

I wrote an article about Betty in the LA Weekly 2009 “People” issue. I can’t use all the colorful language the Weekly did back then. But the lede was basically this. “Betty Day doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’d tell off Obama if he upset her. Hell, she’d cuss out Putin in a heartbeat while walking the streets of Moscow at midnight. That’s Betty Day, the godmother of the Jordan Downs.”  

That was 13 years ago. Today I say, “Thank you, Queen Betty.”

HOW MUCH YOU WEIGH, SLUGGER? WHEN YOU WEIGHED ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT POUNDS, YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL

“How much you weigh, slugger? When you weighed 168 pounds, you were beautiful. You coulda been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager, he brought you along too fast.” –

Those are the lead-in lines of Charlie Malloy (played by Rod Steiger) that prompts his younger brother Terry (Marlon Brando) to unleash one of the film world’s most revered soliloquies: the back of the taxi “I coulda been a contender” speech in “On the Waterfront”.

When I went to Kaiser last week to get a blood pressure checkup - after testing kinda high the month before, holding off on a prescription to lower it by vowing to cut down on certain foods - the nurse had me weigh-in by sitting on the examination chair.

“168 pounds”, she said.

I felt elated. My dream weight, my own fighting weight! Finally, after many years I was back in shape. Cutting down on butterscotch Budino, Nancy’s Fancy gelato, lamb shoulder chops and double orders of cacio y pepe had paid off.

Then, my absolute worst nemesis, me, went into sixth gear down the Mulsanne straight at Le Mans. That month before, when I had that highish blood pressure check, I had weighed 179 pounds. Sure, that was pretty good for me, who peaked over 200 a few years back. But to lose 11 pounds in a month?  Jeez, I thought with dread oozing, something’s very wrong with me.  I hated to think it, but to lose that much weight that fast, I might, I could, I, I, I thought of one thing. Cancer. The scourge that killed both of my parents.

How cruel a disease to come at me with “168”. It was almost admirable in its wickedness to use the number that leads to the most famous scene of my all-time favorite movie.

I needed to weigh again.  I told the nurse. She did and it was 167 pounds. Oh no, I’m going fast.

“Let’s put on you the regular scale,” she suggested, sensing my anxiety. I got up – wobbly - and walked at least 13, 14 feet to a stand-on scale. It came out in kilos. 81 of them. I quickly did that math, the 2.2 pounds per kilo.  Hmm? That’s, ugh, 162 plus 16.2. Wait, that’s 178 pounds.

Yes, 178, not 168! Immediate relief. I’m fine. That feeling was quickly followed by me thinking, “Damn. A month of cutting down at Mozza and I only lost one measly pound?”

I keep going over and over in my mind, telling myself how fortunate I am on so many fronts. My health, my family especially my sister, no bombs are falling on me, that I’m still kicking, all the funerals I’ve been to, my incredible girlfriend of 19 years, but that ‘ol nemesis of mine, me, keeps trying to throw big ugly monkey crescent wrenches onto my wonderful life.

I told my friend Caroline Blundell I was my own worst enemy and she just said “Join the club.”

You have next to no idea how many times I’ve almost had a stroke, often when I’m having an outwardly pleasant conversation with a friend or acquaintance.  Or one of those sudden heart attacks that kill you nearly as fast as a bullet to the brain. Oh, I just had a, just right now, a sudden twitch in my right neck, It went away quick, but isn’t that one of those early warning signs that the big one is coming. Or is that a shoulder pain? A neck pain seems a lot worse than a shoulder pain. 

If you don’t feel well, never go and Google a symptom. You probably know that, but it needs to be repeated. (Especially to myself.) Any possible twitch is a symptom of deadly disease.

My own twitch just now has passed, and I feel pretty good.  But, for the heck of it, I’m gonna Google “twitch in the neck”  Hold on. I just did. I shouldn’t have. That’s all I put in “Twitch in the neck” and it looks like I have an underlying spinal problem.

Of all my worries - my heart, my brain, my liver - I always figured my spinal situation was good. Something I didn’t have to be concerned with. Now look. I might have an underlying spinal problem.

But I don’t know. I feel pretty good. Even with this possible spinal issue. In fact, I feel so good that I wonder if something is wrong with me.

Yeah, I worry. I mostly keep it to myself, though.  I mean there are many people out there who know me and actually think I’m cool. They see me as a journalist who covers the street gangs in the projects in Watts.  Who covered the war in 2020 in Artsakh, ,Armenia.  Who has a wonderful famous chef as a girlfriend. Who drives around in (her) 450 horsepower Porsche like he’s Steve McQueen. Who women on the Mozza Corner turn to when they have a flat tire. Zeus forbid they should read this. In a way, I’m hoping my editors Susan or Karen rejects this piece.

I told my sister the opening to this story, the italics of “How much you weigh, slugger?” and her only question was “Who’s Billy Conn?”.  I told her he was a light heavyweight (up to 175 pounds) boxing champion in 1939-1941 who moved up and was beating heavyweight champ Joe Louis until the 13th round when he was knocked out after he got cocky and went toe to toe with the Brown Bomber

Actually, ya know, back in the day, way back, my cousin Alec told me I coulda been a good boxer. Yeah, I thought, I coulda been another Billy Conn.

Charlie - How much do you weigh, slugger When you weighed 168 pounds.....you were beautiful. You could have been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager. he brought you along too fast.

Terry - It wasn't him, Charley. It was you. Remember that night in the Garden? You came down to my dressing room and said, "Kid, this ain't your night. We're going for the price on Wilson. You remember that? "This ain't your night." My night! I could have taken Wilson apart! So what happens, he gets the title shot outdoors in the ball park and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville! You was my brother, Charley. You should have looked out for me a little bit. You should've taken care of me a little so I wouldn't have to take dives for short-end money.

Charlie - I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.

Terry - You don't understand, I could have had class! I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. Instead of a bum...which is what I am. Let's face it. It was you, Charley!

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE PEASANT ZUPPA" NAMED BEST SOUP OF THE YEAR FOR 2022

Yes, mister and misses know-it-all,. I realize there are over 360 days left in the year 2022 and, as they say, “anything can happen.”

But, the truth is “anything” can’t happen.

Sunday, on the second day of the year, Nancy Silverton made a soup so delicious that many of the world’s greatest restaurant chef and the world’s revered home cooks formally announced they could not make a soup takes that good even if they tried for the next 363 days. As a result, the the ISF, the International Soup Federation based in Geneva. formally proclaimed Silverton’s Panicale Peasant Zuppa as “Soup of The Year, 2022”.

The soup was of humble origins. The base or starting broth aka bouillon de demarrage was he liquid of long cooked beans from a New Year’s Eve meal. (It should be noted that several prominent chefs including Mauro Colagreco, Andreas Caminada, Alain Ducasse and Ruth Reichl lodged formal complaints with the ISF claiming the Panicale Peasant soup could not be named Soup of the Year 2022 because it was started in 2021. The compliant was tossed out with the following admonition “Thinking like that would lead to other complaints such as you could not win the Nobel Peace Prize for one year because you had done some good stuff the previous year,” said Dr. Hans Christian “Pea Soup” Anderson, ISF’s Director of Operations.

So the soup. It was made with cabbage, Rovejo dried pea native to Umbria. unnamed seasonings. a cardboard box of vegetable broth. potatoes and other things. The write Michael Krikorian was the only human to have it for dinner. Later, however, Nancy gave a small container of Panicale Peasant Soup it her sister Gail and brother-in-law Joel. She wanted to give them more, but Krikorian would not allow this to happen, even though he likes Joel and Gail.

. .

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE FRITTATA" TAKES EARLY LEAD IN BEST DISH OF 2022 COMPETITION

As soon at the gate fell for the start of the Best Dish World Championship 2022, American chef Nancy Silverton stomped on the gas and took a commanding lead with an egg dish that had the few fortunate diners thanking their lucky constellations and the competition wondering how the hell where they going to catch up.

Silverton, cooking in her pajamas, and using two eggs, made her revered Panicale Frittata which, today, had artichokes, ham and swiss cheese.

It was, in its original meaning, delicious.

With Silverton safely in the lead for best dish of the year 2022, others contenders scrambled ( not eggs) to think how they could close the gap. Massimo Bottura said he needed to be alone. Rene Redzepi took a walk in the woods. Thomas Kellar considered retirement. Fredy Girardet considered offers to come out of retirement.

After Michael Krikorian told her how good the dish was and she had just made the best dish of 2022, Silverton shrugged and said “It’s just eggs.” Yeah, and that stuff on the “Mona Lisa” is just paint.

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F.D.R.- NANCY SILVERTON'S STUNNING LABOR DAY CREATION, FRITOS DIPPED RUDY (BUTTER)

For the last two hours, Nancy Silverton and I have pondered where in carnation we could eat out tonight, Labor day, 2021.

Everywhere we tried was closed. Even Mozza is closed today. You name it, we tried. Connie and Ted’s. Alimento. Carousel. Jitlada. A bunch of other places.

And if you know the refrigerator at the Van Ness home, you know other than some condiments and Captn Eli root beer, it’s barren. I mean there is some Rudy, aka Rodolphe Le Meunier Buerre de Barrate French butter,

And on the counter there are a three-day old bag of Fritos, Original, or course.

So I’m figuring I’ll lose several ounces tonight when I hear Nancy say “Umm. That’s delicious. Try this.”

I go into the kitchen and she’s holding out a single Frito with a gob of Rudy on it. I take and eat.

Do you know the opening lines of “Cheek to Cheek"?

Nancy says “Crunchy, salty and creamy in one bite. What more could you ask for?”

Nancy has created another masterpiece. Today in the Times of London there is an article about Nancy’s Chopped. And today in Krikorian Writes there is this article about Nancy’s brilliant Fritos dipped with Rudy butter, aka F. D. R.

As I go type this, as always, Nancy is trying to improve the dish. “Next time, get Scoops.”

“Heaven, I’m in Heaven. And the cares that come around me though the week, seem to vanish, like a gambler’s lucky streak, when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek. “

.

27 DAYS ALONE ON VACATION, NANCY AND MICHAEL DOING GREAT 99.7% OF THE TIME, EXPERTS SAY “THAT’S NOT HEALTHY”

“Let’s Get Lost quote.

Getting away from it all is one of life’s grand pleasure. Even if you are alone. And when a couple gets away, especially a couple often surrounded by others, it is the ultimate.

Still, that can turn volatile as fast as Hamilton and Verstappen on Copse Corner at Silverstone. A mumbled reply, a misplaced key, an accusation, a glance, a spill. Little things that go big.

That has not happened for Nancy Silverton and Michael Krikorian who have been living together - and alone - for the last 27 days. It has been wonderful and in Krikorian’s words “Our best vacation ever.” Nancy agrees.

The couple’s vacation has been tracked via the international “How’s My Vacation?’ website and - other than some very minor disagreements - their vacation has been nearly flawless. Silverton Krikorian has scored an unheard of 99. 75"% GAG (Getting Along Great) rating. the highest of any couple from the Western Hemisphere since the website debuted in 1989.

A conflict resolution analyst from the United Nations said there have been several key factors in the couple’s astounding GAG rating Even Krikorian’s driving has played a role in the two getting along so well.

“He is speeding as usual. but, and this is key. he’s not accelerating in the corners and yelling out “Fangio!” or “Senna!” or “Hamilton!” like in previous years,” said Edward Felson, assistant director of of the UN’s “Can’t We All Get Along” Division. “That makes a difference because that would drive Silverton bonkers.”

As an example. Belson referred to 2017 Panicale when Krikorian bought up Aryton Senna. Juan Fangio and Lewis Hamilton more than 140 times in a 37 day period. So far after 25 days. he has only mentioned Fangio four time. Senna three and Hamilton three. This has pleased Nancy no little.

As for Silverton, another observer from the United Nations said Krikorian is reaping the benefits of being the only person with her.

“Nancy is a giver and she has no one else to look after. and feed so all of her focus is on Krikorian. the lucky motherfucker. “ said Walter Payton. of the Sweetness Institute “If you listen to the tape, everyday she is asking Michael ‘What can I make you to eat? What do you want?”

And the music they have been listening to. the Piazza Mozza playlist made by both of them has been the ideal sound track. Nancy is even liking Bruce Springsteen tunes such -“Moonlight Motel. “The Wrestler” and “The Land of Hope and Dreams”.

Still, with that astoudning 99. 75 rating. some are concerned ithey are getting along too well.

“It’s not normal to get along that good,” said Dr. Robert Schneidemeider, of the University of Vienna “To take use of an old standards, ‘Something’s Gotta Give.”

That might be the key. Or maybe Someone’s gotta give.

SEEING THE POETRY OF GILLES VILLENEUVE’S BROKEN FERRARI

“That’s the poetry of everyday life. You have to be ready to see things as others don’t even imagine. Make visible the invisible.” – Massimo Bottura, 2014 

 Walking to a lunch reservation at Massimo Bottura’s Osteria Francescana, Nancy Silverton stepped into a Modena second-hand vintage shop  and came out of telling me of the many Ferrari models inside  I went in and after consulting with the owner, purchased an F40 for my small collection in Panicale, Umbria and a Formula One, a model,  the owner said, of the four-time World Champion Alain Prost, who is half French half Armenian and famous for his duels with Ayrton Senna.

Of course, I had to buy that. I got it with the intention of giving it as a gift to Massimo Bottura to add to his collection of model Ferraris he has on display in his restaurant’s wine cellar that double as  private dining room.  On our walk is to  his restaurant – named #1 in 2016 and 2018 by the World’s 50 Best Restaurants organization and, for the record, not illegible currently because he had already won  - the plastic bag I was carrying with the the models inside slipped out of my hand and fell to the cobblestone street. I didn’t think anything of it as the shop owner had wrapped the models in layers of newspaper.

We went to Osteria and Nancy and I were sat in the wine cellar, reserved for friends of the house.  We were immediately poured two goblets of 2011 Ca’ del Bosco Annamaria Clementi Franciacorta sparkling wine. In preparation of Massimo’s greeting, I unwrapped the F1 Ferrari and to my sheer disappointment saw it was broken. When the bag fell, it had severely damaged the F1 car. One front and one rear wheel and tire were busted off, another was loose. Brakes were busted.  Damnit. God damnit. I could not give Bottura a broken model.   

Nancy and I tried in vain to put the tires back on but it was too intricate and key pieces were broken. I put it away. I didn’t know what I would do with it. Maybe it was destined for trash.

Within moments, Nancy came to the Ferrari’s rescue. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll give you the chance to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Think about what you can say to Massimo about the Ferrari.”

I couldn’t think of anything.

“Come on,” Nancy said. “You’re the writer.  You gonna feel stupid when I tell you. Your gonna wish you came up with this.”

I scanned my mind, but came up empty. “Nancy, what?”                                                                                                                   

She had a sly smile, She knew she had a winner and then she just said it. “Oops, I dropped the Ferrari.”

O. M. G. Straight out brilliant.  She had just saved the Ferrari from garbage bin. She had seen the poetry where I couldn’t envision. She had made the invisible quite visible.   

Massimo’s most famous dessert is called “Oops, I dropped the lemon tart.” which was accidently born when a Osteria Francescana sous chef, Taka Kondo, well, he dropped a lemon tart. Bottura told a food publication this.  "Taka was ready to kill himself because he's Japanese and his culture doesn't make mistakes, or they make mistakes but they're not allowed to. So, I saved Taka's life saying 'Taka, it's amazing’.”

Bottura and staff went on to painstakingly recreate Kondo’s fallen tart and “Oops, I dropped the Lemon Tart” became a classic.”

So when Nancy said “Oops, I dropped the Ferrari” I knew that was the magical line to say to Massimo. Though he came to our table three times that lunch – one of the best meals of my life – none was the appropriate time to drop the magical line. That night we went to Massimo and his wife Lara’s small heavenly countryside hotel called Casa Maria Luigia. Nancy was too full to eat but I indulged in his classics; 48-month culatello, tortellini Parmigianino, psychedelic beef, even the “Oops, I dropped the Lemon Tart.” I told the Ferrari story to our server Domenico and the chef Jessica Rosval who was just named by Guide dell L’Expresso as the best female chef in Italy which she was particularly proud of because she’s from Canada. From Montreal’s West Island.

I asked Domenico for a plate and he added he would bring a plate and cloche, the plate topper He did and I put the Ferrari, broken pieces and all in there and topped it with the cloche.

Massimo came by and I told him the story – I got you a Formula One Ferrari. Alain Prost’s model. Bag slipped out of my hand. We looked at it. Couldn’t give to you. Then Nancy had the line.

As I lifted the cloche, I said the “Oops, I dropped the Ferrari.”  He gasped, walked away about five steps and came back and said “Amazing. Amazing. Amazing. Amazing. (Yes, four “amazings” from Massimo Bottura.)

I gave Nancy all the credit and he hugged her. He looked back at the Ferrari and immediately said ”Not Prost. Gilles Villeneuve. Number 27. That was Villeneuve’s car.”

That made it all the more special to me and others. Gilles Villeneuve was one of the fastest drivers in Formula One history. He died in a horrible airborne crash in 1982 during qualifying for the Belgium Grand Prix at Zolder. F1 legend Nikki Lauda said this of him;. "He was the craziest devil I ever came across in Formula 1.   The fact that, for all this, he was a sensitive and lovable character rather than an out-and-out hell-raiser made him such a unique human being". (Out of respect to Gilles, I need to say his son, Jacques, became the first Canadian to win the Formula One World Championship in 1997.)

When chef Jessica joined in the table again I told her it wasn’t Prost’s car it was Gilles Villeneuve’s. She almost cried. Villeneuve was a Canadian as well.

Massimo took the broken Ferrari away “I am going to frame this.”

Gilles Villeneuve is still remembered at Grand Prix races, especially those in Italy. At the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari, the site of the San Marino Grand Prix, a corner is named after him and a Canadian flag is painted on the third slot on the starting grid, from which he started his last race. There is also a bronze bust of him at the entrance to the Ferrari test track at Fiorano in Maranello. At Zolder the corner where Villeneuve died has been turned into a chicane and named after him.

And soon, at one of the world’s greatest restaurants or its family hotel, one of the world’s greatest Formula One drivers, now invisible, will be made visible.

HOWARD WEITZMAN HIRED TO DEFEND BRUTUS IN RETRIAL OF JULIUS CAESAR STABBING

Famed Los Angeles attorney Howard Weitzman will defend Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus in the highly anticipated retrial of the infamous Julius Caesar stabbing assassination on March 15, 44 B.C. in Rome.

Brutus Albinus, much better known as simply Brutus, was convicted of murder in the first degree in a highly publicized trial in 45 B.C. and sentenced to LWOP, life without the possibility of parole. Since the fall of the Roman Empire in 476 A.D., , Brutus has sought a retrial  

Weitzman, who left Los Angeles on April 7th to join the prestigious firm of Hammurabi, Cicero, Darrow and Kardashian located on the westside of Mount Olympus, held a press conference Monday on the steps of the Really High Court to make the announcement he had taken the case. The unusual maneuver was more like an opening statement than a presser.

“The evidence will show that my client did not kill Julius Caesar and was, in fact, rushing to protect him from an unruly mob,” Weitzman said with a slight smirk. “Mr. Caesar was Folsom shanked 23 times. Look at my client. He couldn’t shank a spencer prime roast from Vincente Foods let alone fully grown adult with more attitude than anyone since Alexander.”

Weitzman laid much of the blame for Brutus’s centuries-long assumption of guilt conviction on William Shakespeare who famously wrote about Caesar’s killing, undoubtedly the most famous assassination in history.

“Shakes did more damage to my client’s reputation than all the forensic evidence in Rome, “ said Weitzman, who, as is his style, was juggling doing the press conference with making lunch reservations, this time at Escoffier’s new bistro. “When Shakespeare wrote that Caesar said ‘Et tu, Brutus’, that’s all the public heard. Hold on. Do you have the roast Bresse chicken stuffed with Perigord truffles today? Yes, where was I? Oh, yeah.  Brutus loved big Julie.  The trial will show that.”

Weitzman contended that since security footage of the Caesar assassination is “spotty at best” and several eyewitnesses to the brutal attack who were not allowed to testify in the original trial, will testify in the retrial and “put enough reasonable doubt to free my client.”

“Look, Brutus has been held without bail in a holding cell since 44 B.C, that’s, what, 2,065 years. I would normally argue for ‘time served’, but he is adamant about clearing his name.”

Weitzman even leaned further into what will likely be a key element of his defense when he spoke of incriminating evidence against Brutus in the first trial.

“They claimed a bloody toga was my client’s,” Weitzman said. “I will prove in court it was not. Brutus was way too fat to wear that toga. If the toga doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”

Sources close to the investigations told this reporter that Weitzman was being paid in rare bottles of wine including a 47 B.C. Chateau Cheval Blanc, a 217 B.C. Panicale rosso H, Barca Cuvee and a 2009 A.D. L’Evangile.

 A reporter in the crowd asked Weitzman how he was getting along in his new home.

“They call this place heaven, but I was already in Heaven on Earth with my Margaret by side,” said Howard, his voice uncharacteristically cracking. “I saw some footage yesterday of Margaret with tears in her eyes. I want you to get word to her.  Relish those tears. Those tears are from me. I have them for you. There are two tears. The ones that tear your heart and the one that fall from your eyes.  Some people never have tears of any kind. Those poor souls. We are blessed and we have tears.”

Then Weitzman appeared to have a revelation of sorts. “Tears and tears,” he said softly, seemingly to himself.  “Hmm. Tears and tears. ‘Tears and tears. At Hammurabi, Cicero, Darrow, Kardashian and Weitzman we get rid of them both.’ That could be our logo. I’m gonna run this by Hammurabi. Can you text up here?”

NANCY SILVERTON TAKES A SHOWER

BY JIMMY DOLAN., Mozza Tribune Staff Writer

Last fall, when Mozza chef Nancy Silverton, her director of operations Kate Greenberg and a journalist went to the Four Seasons Cabo Del Sol resort in Baja, Mexico, they were awash in luxury. From their huge showers, to the small wading pool adjoining their rooms to the warm, awaiting Sea of Cortez, they lived the good life as clean as could be.

The trio’s next trip together was the polar opposite. In fact, you could call it the polar bear opposite. It was on March 8th to Alaska to be a curious part of the famous Iditarod sled dog race. Nancy had been lured to the Winterlake Lodge, a luxury resort with Kirsten Dixon and her daughter Mandy Dixon, a Thomas Keller trained chef, in a town where the closest post office and market was an hour away by helicopter. She was to take park in what was billed as an “Ice Cream Social”, a gathering featuring her renowned Nancy’s Fancy gelati served in the main lodge.

The Winterlake is at the Finger Lake stop on the Iditarod, a nearly 1,000 mile dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome that always brings to my mind the wonderful 1903 Jack London novel “The Call of the Wild” about a dog named Buck from Santa Clara Valley, California who is dognapped, shipped to Alaska and forced to compete in a (fictionally) extremely brutal sled dog race.

Normally the Lodge would host this upscale event and have the dog sled drivers, their crews and those rich enough to stay at Winterlake. But, because of Covid, the lodge would only allow Nancy, Kate and Michael and the other six guests into the dining area.

The three of us stayed in rooms about 600 feet from the main lodge. And one of stunning features of the rooms is they had no running water. None. They turn off the water in the rooms this year because, I guess, they know they will burst. To shower, we would have to walk the 600 feet to a dining area, past the yoga room, past the main lobby, past the bar, past the music room and into a bathroom that had a shower.

In the five days they were there, Nancy, Kate and Michael took a grand total of two showers. That’s not two showers each, that’s two showers total for the three people.  Nancy Silverton took no showers at Winterlake. None.

Now, if you know Nancy like this Tribune reporter does, you know she is one of the most carefully-cleaned, well-groomed and brilliantly dressed people on Earth. So, for her to go five days without a shower is unheard of.

Still, she somehow managed to look as fresh as the icicles hanging from the eves of the lodge every morning.  She would almost brag to her entourage, “I’m not gonna take a shower today.”  The trek to the shower was a turn off more than the temptation of hot water.

But, when she got home, Nancy Silverton took a shower.  Still, to this reporter, she didn’t look any more beautiful than she did at our experience in the Call of the Wild.  

EDITOR’S NOTE This story is the sequel to Nancy Silverton Has A Cold http://www.krikorianwrites.com/blog/2015/10/17/nancy-silverton-has-a-cold

Which was a take on one of the classics of new journalsim, April 1966 Esquire article by Gay Talese called “Frank Sinatra Has A Cold”