Wedged between the doors of his unmarked Crown Victoria, radar snout to his forehead, the trooper looks like a comical alligator in what appears, in blurry vision, to be grey and green. He's stalking me in the weeds along Route 2 just outside of Colchester.
But I have Brandywine, Beeefsteak and Roma tomatoes in my truck, so I'm driving carefully and well within the requirements required of me this humid, sultry Tuesday. The snack delivery to Sysco went easily, so I'm ahead of schedule.
I'll stop at the Spa and Inn at Norwich, then make a couple of deliveries at Foxwoods. After that, it's an hour at the farm, meet up with Deb, and it's off to The Ocean House in Watch Hill, Rhode Island.
In Watch Hill, Corvettes have been supplanted by Ferrari's, but my crusty box truck feels right at home among the other trucks and vans at the $140 million Inn's service entrance. The hotel is magnificent, and several hundred yards out and down in the distance, cloth cabanas flutter in the rarified August air. I suspect that the Inn's multi-star service extends to the breakers rolling up on the beach.
Eventually, we find Forager, Pam Stone's office at the end of a long hallway. The layout feels busy, complex, and very professional. We can tell that Pam is busy, and in spite of the
fact that she offers us a tour of the upstairs, we know that it would be impolite to accept her offer.
Pam joins us at the tailgate of my truck and decides that we should bring in the Brandywines, Beefsteaks and Roma Tomatoes. "Do you have Mystic Chips?" she asks
"Right here," I answer, grabbing a bag from a case I luckily have in the truck.
"Great," she adds. Debbie laughs because she knows I pulled that one out of my hat.
Inside the kitchen, the Inn's Executive Chef joins us. There must be fifteen or twenty food professionals at various stations, stirring, mixing, decorating and simmering. Chef grabs a Roma, and in a blur, the fruit is sliced in two. He inspects it, sprinkles kosher salt on it, and eats it.
"Beautiful, he declares, comparing the Roma to the same cultiver from another farm they deal with. I smile, still contending in my mind that my tomatoes need no salt, but I know many love salt on tomatoes, so what do I know?
Chef looks at the collection of Brandywines, decides he doesn't want them. I grab a "split," taking a risk, and offer it to the tall, bespectacled chef. "Please try this. I dare you." He takes it, smiling and wields his razor-sharp knife. In seconds, six sections of the tomato lay before us. He sprinkles salt, offers a slice to Pam, and declares, "These are wonderful!"
By the end of the meeting, they have taken most of our tomatoes, and Pam asks me to call for an end-of-the-week order. I feel certain that they'll use the Mystic Chips, but I have learned never to count on an order until it is is hand.
On the way out of Watch Hill, we grab an iced coffee at The Cooked Goose. Chef Andrew Nathan is there to greet us. It's fun to reacquaint with an old customer and friend. On the way out Andrew places a small order for cherry tomatoes and green beans.
We stop at the farm to grab Debbie's car, pick tomatoes and beans for a half hour. It feels a little sad at the farm. Plants are thinning out, and the sun is setting earlier and earlier. At the same time, I feel energized, knowing that this experience is opening new opportunities, and each day, a strategy for the future becomes more and more apparent.
Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved
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