A Classic Mother's Day Ritual In My Family: Spenger's in Berkeley; Memories Galore and The Bread, The Bread!

 Today like a lot of you I'll be celebrating Mother's Day with my great mom, my rock, my heroic woman.


We had a ritual on this day--a visit to an institution: Spenger's, in Berkeley. The greatest restaurant in the world until, naturally, new owners a few years back renovated and restored the old place--essentially yuppified it and totally wrecked the joint.


Those twelve of you that don't know Spenger's should understand it wasn't merely a seafood place--that would do it a mother of all injustices.


It had a vibe, a presence --Mother's Day, Father's Day, hell, any day for that matter, Spenger's was the place to hang out and eat. The prices were ridiculously reasonable and the loaf of sourdough bread alone was worth the price of admission. I grabbed 3 or 4 loafs and gave the union waiter a couple of bucks and he nailed me some and placed them in a bag with enough butter to last through a month. Gosh, how good that bread was but bread was just the start--assuming of course you managed to get in.


At Spenger's, the wait, on a good night, was 45 minutes. On Sunday, at least two hours. My late brother, Michael would have none of that. It eventually came to my family's notice that Mike had to have slipped the hostess a 10-spot because we always seemed to get a table right away. Da-dum!


Mind you sitting in this place was only the beginning. Every room had a name. The waiters wore classic white aprons --real old school. And everything tasted great. You like sand dabs? You got great sand dabs. Me being a traditionalist  always went for the old stand-by: the CAPTAIN'S PLATE! Nirvana. Abalone, (the real stuff then), shrimp, regular deep-fried stuff that was enhanced with globs of tartar sauce and fries. I was in heaven. Mom always ordered the filet of sole. No mater what. Mel, my dad, had a thing for salmon. My sisters, I had no clue what they ordered because I was too busy on the Captain's Plate and my brother was nailing the swordfish and clam chowder, white, by the way, always, along with the bread. That was just the start mind you between the people-watching and our own table of screamers and yellers, mind you we're talkin' Jewish family here. Fortunately, the noise inside diffused our own Lieberman noise and that's a good thing. We hadn't made it through dessert before my mom and sisters were screaming and yelling at one another. Fortunately coffee saved the day. And if I was good, a second Mickey Rooney from the bar was on its way. If you're a young kid at Spengers, a Mickey Rooney was your kiddy vodka. It tasted just right and the compelling cherry on top was the topper.


Spenger's brings back pleasant memories. Family. Friends. Sunday evenings. It all seemed too good to be true. The joint was always jumpin' and the old-fashioned foodie virtues were one of a kind. Damn, some of the wildest memories. My late Uncle Al, Aunt Claire and Duddy. My brother's friend, Alan and the rest of the clan. It was Berkeley old-school but really more a Bay Area institution and it did a helluva business--breakfast mind you was a classic. And the crowds were decent enough that you didn't have to wait--again we had a luxury in that department with Mike, my brother but you get my drift.


Today, we will saunter over to my sister's place and celebrate with Mom on this day with a little BBQ in the backyard. I wish I could go back in time and get a table for 8 in the, I think they called it the "Teak Room?"--something like that. Even Herb Caen was a regular at Spenger's--the old place, not the rubbery fake one that stands today but times, yes, they-a-changin'.


I hope all of you have a great day. Say hi to mom for me and enjoy.


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A Herb Caen Story and why the Mighty Chronicle Columnist was Great

Peter Hartlaub, the pop culture writer for the Chronicle is doing a feature on what it meant to be mentioned in the Herb Caen column in the same paper.

I told Hartlaub that a Caen mention was the equivalent of a young comic getting a shot on the Johnny Carson show. And depending on the length of the mention, a shot at the couch. A Carson thumbs-up might have included the ultimate: Johnny asking you to come over and chat a little on the Tonight Show panel.

Caen cache, particularly on the local SF PR/social scene was not only big, but great for business. A restaurant plug was magic, (just ask the folks who ran Tadich); an endorsement of a politician was political nirvana, (call John Garamendi and Willie Brown).

And yes, I had the pleasure of making Herb's column a few times. It carried significant weight. It was like instantaneous wow and legitimacy. It sure helped too to get that good seat at the Venetian Room when seeing a show.

Here's a story involving me that made Caen's radar. I was interviewing George Benson after a performance of his at the Oakland Paramount in 1988. At the same time, BB King was in the middle run of a two-week stint at the Fairmont. I knew the PR lady at the Venetian Room and suggested how great it would be to get Benson to show up and jam with Mr. King during a late show. A surprise. Of course, that was predicated on Benson agreeing to perform after his Oakland gig. I asked Benson. He said he'd be thrilled. So after the interview, we all made a trip across the bridge over to the Fairmont and Benson sat in the packed room. Word was relayed to BB that Benson was in the room. After a brief nod, Benson went up on stage near the end of the cocktail show and he and BB King jammed together for twenty or so minutes. The crowd went wild. Lucille, (King's guitar mate name), was enthralled.

A few days later, Caen noted the event. And he made sure to mention that I was involved in the Benson-King impromptu show. Was I juiced? Dang right! A story and event that I'll never forget, and oh, by the way, the show was a killer. You should have been there.

The greatest thing about Caen was his ability to write a massive thousand words or so six days a week. Sure, he had helpers, but he still had to knock out a piece. Day after day. And yes, his love affair with Willie was occasionally boorish but still entertaining. And yes, Caen never had to lift his wallet out while dining in a nice restaurant, but hell, everybody was in on it and nobody seemed to care. If Caen said you were good, the ensuing throng more than made up for Caen's comp. It was part of the program.

I had a chance to meet Mr. Caen at Tadich one day; shortly before he died in 1997. He was charming, overly-friendly, and made a point of mentioning how "persistent" I was at calling in to his assistant, Carole Vernier. I told Caen it was because you "always complain you need items!" So there! Laughter. And a handshake from the captain of vitamin V and shreaded wheat. Now that was cool.

Still miss you, Mr. Caen. There is, to this day, nobody like you.



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