Nonfiction by Christina Dillow
Forty-five minutes had passed when the compact helicopter crossed over the county line intersecting the Las Padres National Forest with the sea. Vaguely aware of my circumstances, I lay swaddled in a thick medic bag, unable to move. Beeping gauges and gurgling IV bags dangled above me in a symphony of lifesaving sounds in harmony with the vibrational hum of the floorboards. But my brain had been chemically tuned to a different channel, where timeless melodies soothed the soul. A sudden drop in altitude overtook the pharmaceutical bliss as erratic sundowner winds bullied us into a bumpy descent—shaken not stirred. The copilot hung in the open door of the hovering craft, leaping as his foot touched the rooftop pad, swinging open my side door and revealing an expansive Santa Barbara sunset adorned with a skyline of fan palm trees waving in the wind. A team of masked nurses rushed towards us as I was rolled onto a stretcher and fitted with clear plastic muzzle. On countless occasions over the last year, I had joked that my next vacation was going to be in the hospital. Apparently, the universe had been listening. Breathe … three, two, one …. A creamy pastel palette of reds and yellows faded into gray.
It was dark when I awoke to hushed female voices and the soft clinks of metal jangling like keys on a ring. Fuzzy memories of my air ambulance episode surfaced, and with considerable effort over the next hour, I came to understand I was in post-op, where a critical care nurse was training another nurse how to prepare the external ventricular drain which had been threaded through a hole drilled in my skull only a few hours before. Together the nurses braided, unbraided, and cinched lines together matching “A” to “A” and “B to B” and so forth. Later I would learn that the squeaky contraption next to me was a body-length level with elementary school sized numbers so that my nurses could measure the precise incline of my body and head, ensuring that gravity could assist in removing the blood from my brain. My eyes had adjusted to dim digital light radiating from the monitors. To my left, I could see a counter with a few drawers and cabinets. On my right, a recliner chair. Then, the room unceremoniously filled with painfully bright light as one of the nurses pulled open the heavy drape covering a sliding glass window and door. I had a front-row seat where a lone nurse sat yawning at the helm of a long U-shaped counter. The large clock mounted above my door ticked 3:30 a.m.
Four hours later, I opened my eyes to a workplace bustling with activity in total contrast to Hopper’s Nighthawks scene I had witnessed earlier. I lifted my heavy body and swung my legs over the side of the bed, sending a screeching alert to my new nurse, who was writing her name on the dry erase board. Ashley was quick on her feet to reach me, ordering me to stay in bed. Rest was the short list for the day. I was hungry and told her so. “We’ll get to that,” she assured me.
I studied her hazel eyes above her surgical mask as she listened to my lungs. Soon a steaming bowl of oatmeal arrived, accompanied by a plastic mug of black coffee. There were no dietary restrictions in place, so for lunch I ordered a spinach salad with blue cheese crumbles, bacon, pecans, and raspberry vinaigrette. Hospital food California style. An hour after breakfast, a trio of doctors peered at me from outside the glass, flipping through pages on my chart, apparently evaluating my condition. It seemed strange that they did not enter the room or ask me any questions. But strange in the days of the pandemic had become the order of the day. A male nurse who had stopped to confer with the doctors now stepped up to my bedside.
“So how much alcohol do you drink? I mean, how many drinks per day? Do you have a history of alcoholism? Who’s your primary care doctor? Have you had a stroke before?”
As I lingered in a state of fragile mortality, my heart knew it was time to rewrite the story and face his query head-on. But my ego liked the old story and was holding court, skirting the issue.
“Well,” I said, “I’m a chef. I own a restaurant. I’m from a restaurant family. We drink.”
Apparently, my body was not only dealing with the aftermath of a life-threatening subarachnoid brain hemorrhage, but it was also doing so in the throes of alcohol withdrawals and all the subsequent biochemical challenges. Something called salt-wasting and whatever difficulty it was causing inside my body was a huge concern, as was something known as vasospaslm, which could cause a fatal stroke at any time during the initial healing process. I had beat the odds the day before, but I still hovered in the limbo of a critical time period. Despite playing dodgeball with death, I continued to defend my daily drinking habit. The fact was I had spent the better part of my fifty-something years learning about and loving wine, as far back as celebrating my sweet sixteenth birthday party in a private room of an iconic dinner house toasting my family with a glass of Perrier-Jouet. I had been hooked! Wine was an integral part of my restaurant career. We lived in the once unknown wine region called Paso Robles, now world-renowned. I could easily name many appellations within our county, a number which had grown exponentially during my forty-year span in the hospitality industry, making it challenging for me to balance restaurant demands and moderate drinking habits. My thirty-six-year marriage to a career bartender added to the equation. This story is different though; it’s not about a lifelong battle with alcohol abuse (though it could be), it’s a story of universal elements coalescing in a come to Jesus moment of change.
It had only been a month since the entire world was turned upside-down in a state of panic caused by a coronavirus, or as the Gen-Xers had dubbed it across Instagram, “The Rona.” As unbelievable as it was, strict social distancing mandates had been ordered. Suddenly, every public place had premeasured cautionary stickers on the floor indicating where to stand to follow the new six feet edict. It seemed that everyone was suspicious of one another. There was the possibility one could be infectious, and it still wasn’t clear how the virus spread. Surgical masks in all styles and colors became a fashion statement, with debates holding forth over whether they helped or hindered. Our governor had ordered everyone to isolate at home, which meant the full closure of all nonessential businesses—my restaurant included. Not liquor stores though. So even the government agreed that imbibing was acceptable. My well-being was usually balanced by inspirational reading and introspective practices, however, when the lockdowns were enforced, a volcano of anger and resentment erupted from deep within me. I held stubbornly to my convictions, which added to my anxiety. I considered myself a peacekeeper. I needed balance which I found by putting my thumb on the scale. Relief was readily at hand with a bottle of wine opened early in the day. Many people I knew in the hospitality industry were finding ways to turn a devastating situation into an opportunity for increased family time or were busy homeschooling, working-out with weights, walking, or learning how to make sourdough bread. Not me. I spent my days isolated in my empty restaurant, worrying about how to surf the wave of online ordering and curbside delivery. It was certainly no way to make a living without full production, but I had laid off my entire staff. I remember reposting a clever meme circulating on Facebook: When the pandemic ends which will you be? A hunk, a drunk, a monk, or a chunk. Monk resonated but drunk galloped into the lead. I’m from a restaurant family. We drink. And though people around me were settling into this new sense of time and space, I was in a downward spiral amplified by terrifying scenes of human suffering and relentless ticker tape death toll counts blaring on the television. I decided to unplug it, though heaving it through a window crossed my mind. Newscasters were the new experts on everything. Civilization was in peril.
We roared up Highway One, passing a picturesque stretch of shoreline flanked by a desolate pier on one side and a famous castle a thousand feet up on the other. A few miles further, the rocky coastline yielded to a restless sea, a crescendo of waves crashing mere yards from our car, a gold Cadillac El Dorado. For my stepdad, Ron, bigger was always better. I lowered the window, enjoying the salty brume on my face. The last fugitive beams of sunlight broke through, spotlighting a single fishing boat chugging north a hundred yards or more from the beach. Serenaded by a raucous band of seagulls, the bow of the boat dunked and dipped like an out-of-step dance partner.
I envisioned a small crew huddled on deck, hands cupped over lit cigarettes, poles secured, slack lines wound tight—a strenuous day behind them. Where were they going? Did they sleep on the boat overnight? How could they possibly sleep in such turbulence? My mind was filled with so many unanswered questions.
For the last year, I’d been navigating through my own turbulent adolescence, in search of an elusive freedom hampered by the duality of a divorced family, complicated by an upwardly mobile stepdad who seemed to have no empathy for kids. Ron never considered the trauma induced by frequently moving to yet another new address, each house improved on the outside, but emptier on the inside—a fitting metaphor of our life.
During middle school, our newest house in the valley had an elegant blue and green marble entry with a gaudy crystal chandelier hanging in the center, leading to an empty formal living room on the left and a comfortable family room just beyond. We couldn’t afford to furnish the living room, so I claimed it as my personal theater, setting up a cheap turntable in the corner, albums fanned out on the floor around it. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody was not endowed with the popular disco dance beat I so loved, but it had a unique style with poetic lyrics that felt good to sing. And sing I did, a passion inspired by my paternal grandparents who played piano and sang operetta professionally for years. Renowned in our hometown of Whittier, they were hired to sing a duet at a fundraiser for Nixon as he climbed the political ladder. Moving from town to town eventually took us further from our grandparents and the emotional support we had counted on since our dad had remarried and moved to Seattle. Music was the thread binding me. Hopefully, this short road trip would help settle my confusion. The end of a challenging year, concluding with a new habit of smoking Virginia Slims, easily acquired at gas station vending machines for fifty cents a pack.
Familiar ocean smells tugged at my memory, taking me back another half a dozen years before my mom began accepting invitations to martini hour at our neighbor’s house. Before the yelling began. We had been a happy family boating to Catalina Island with our dad, George, whose smile was wide and welcoming. He was confident and carefree at the helm of a twenty-six-foot sailboat he had masterfully built by hand in his family’s yard. It was during that arduous two-year project, while he was still in high school, that he had met our mother-to-be, Joan, at a beach party in Alamitos Bay. They belonged to rival high schools three miles apart, making it convenient to date over the next year. They eventually eloped to Vegas, curtailing my dad’s dream of sailing the world. Soon, a baby was on the way. Three more would follow in nearly as many years. My dad was a dreamer, an artist, and a craftsman who did not belong in an office job, though he kept trying. He longed for sun and the sea. My mom was raising four kids and coming of age in the women’s movement when she took a job as a hostess in a swanky steakhouse where Ron was the kitchen manager. He must have had whatever it was she longed for.
Ron piloted his gold El Dorado like a speedboat, traversing craggy bluffs and blind curves with reckless abandon, causing my stomach to loop and tumble, finally finding equilibrium as the curves opened to a long straightaway bound for infinity. Ron never missed an opportunity to make up for lost time; he was gaining on the red dot ahead of us, quickly arriving at the tailgate of an old Ford truck. Infamously impatient, he craned his head to see around the rusty relic burdened with bales of hay. His foot pumped like a drum staccato back and forth from gas pedal to brake, finally landing heavily on the gas, launching us like a missile into the opposite lane. Uncharacteristically cool, my mother turned to check on her two teenagers in the spacious back seat. My brother, Don, two years my senior, was surprisingly silent. Hunkered down just high enough to read the speedometer over the straight line of the front seat—eighty miles per hour and climbing! My mom knew all too well that my stepdad loved living on the edge. He delighted in scaring people by doing crazy things on a whim—or a wager. Once, we had been driving through downtown Los Angeles on the way to Chinatown for dinner. We passed through an area known as Skid Row, where we had left my oldest brother, Steve, at the Greyhound bus terminal heading to Seattle to live with our dad. Ron was particularly giddy on that night, as he and Steve butted heads constantly. It was then he proclaimed he was tired of all us kids, and he abruptly turned into a commercial loading zone where he announced that Don and I should get out of the car. Since we all thought we were smarter than the grown-ups, he was sure we could find our own way home. His belly laugh was maniacal as he sputtered and coughed and assured my mom he was only joking. Eventually, I learned to see through my stepdad’s follies, most of which were never that funny, though a few might have been normal as parental gags go. But on that day in December—traveling a nearly deserted coastal highway at harrowing speeds—this family was ninety miles from normal.
Christmas Eve in Big Sur was magical. We savored dinner before a magnificent circular fireplace in a restaurant built hundreds of feet above the sea. Afterwards, Don and I shared a slice of chocolate layer cake while my mom and Ron sipped hot toddies from the bar. Half an hour later, the four of us ambled down a steep concrete stairway illuminated by ambient lantern light. A wedge of parking lot barely big enough for the ten cars that filled it lay at the bottom. A few minutes’ drive up the road, a rustic log cabin lodge sat camouflaged amidst the redwood forest flanked by a roaring river. Inside, Ron and my mom played rounds of backgammon in front of a toasty fire. They were arguing about her infamous loss a few weeks earlier, one we would all like to forget. As punishment for that loss, she elected to roll a martini olive around the neighborhood with her nose in lieu of eating a whole fiery habanero pepper out of the jar. Now, as Ron was recounting the moment, chiding her about being a sore loser, she abruptly flipped the board, sending brown and white pieces flying across the room. Thankfully, those losses were balanced with the occasional win. The most memorable resulted in ten-speed bikes for us all. Don and I sat outside and watched smoke dance around a campfire, enjoying the rich perfume of the ancient evergreens.
This was the first of many road trips to Big Sur in my lifetime, but none was more significant. On the way home, seventy miles south of Big Sur, Ron decided to veer off the highway into a touristy small town. He drove slowly along a main street marked “business route.” It was unusual for Ron to slow down—he was always in hurry, but not that day. Having escaped the grueling ten-hour shifts he spent as regional manager for a restaurant group called Far West Services, he was now in the process of opening his third new upscale steakhouse. He had a knack for success in an industry filled with failure. But unbeknownst to us kids, there had been talk about escaping Los Angeles for good. Our older sister, Lyn, had moved into her own apartment off Reseda Boulevard and was heading to college that fall, while our older brother—“the mad scientist”—intended to join the Air Force to pay for his schooling; he had just passed his GED, aged sixteen.
Ron parallel parked in front of a big window, barely clearing the crosswalk. It was his lucky day as he read “Restaurant for Sale.” Double jackpot: a bar next door. Without hesitation, like a dowsing wand bending towards water, he headed that way. The historic saloon was the town gathering place and bustled with characters, a melting pot of cultures—cowboy boots jingling with spurs, long flowing skirts in a myriad of bright colors, and greasy blue collars that hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks. A few out-of-place tourists were scattered amongst the crowd, and a thick vinyl banquette and glossy dark tables lined the south wall where a collection of empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles proliferated. Camozzi’s Saloon could have been a museum, walls and ceilings layered with items dating back a hundred years. Leather hats, marriage certificates, family photos, lassos, business licenses all enshrined in reminiscence of someone special or of times past. Patrons perched on barstools watching the bartender perform at the antique bar. Others ate popcorn while awaiting their turn at the slightly pitched snooker table in the back by the stage. Moe Bandy blared from the jukebox in the corner.
East Village was the older part of town, downtown to the locals, where you would find a liquor store, two small grocery stores, a post office, and a Bank of America which looked like it belonged on the set of Gunsmoke. Around the corner was ‘Round the Corner Cafe, second only to the saloon for storytelling and conviviality.
Mom handed us each a ten-dollar bill as we left her at the saloon door. Ron was already steps ahead of her inside, where he hoped to get the scoop on the Italian place next door. We took note of the timeline we were given and decided to explore the two square blocks comprising the town business district, then headed towards an empty dirt lot hoping to find access to a creek that appeared to run behind the town. My brother stopped in front of a dilapidated building crowned with a faded sign: Ralph’s T.V. & Gun Shop. Intrigued, we stepped in, a ribbon of bells announcing our entry, but there was no sign of life. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelves of all shapes and sizes lined dingy walls, and shorter shelves created a sort of maze through the middle of the large space. Looming above and crammed onto shelves were boxes of every age and size, some labeled Sony or Magnavox, others Panasonic and RCA. There were games like Monopoly and Clue in dusty piles lost alongside necessities like toasters and light bulbs. And there were guns. Thankfully locked in a glass case behind the counter. As we made our way towards the back of the store, a man wearing a rubber pig snout jumped out at us: “Boo!” He asked if he could help us find anything and chuckled as he introduced himself as the proprietor, Ralph. He was dressed neatly in a white short-sleeved, collared shirt tucked into tan polyester pants. His slicked-back charcoal hair formed a peak over his bushy gray eyebrows, which rustled as he removed the snout. Don thanked Ralph, and grabbed my arm. “We were just looking, he said, and we bolted out the back door, landing on a couple of milk crates discarded above the creek behind the grocery store. Catching our breath, we watched a sturdy farmer climb out of his truck, nodding a friendly smile our way. His gigantic hands easily lifted an overflowing metal barrel over his head, spilling rotten produce onto a tarp in the bed of his truck. He seemed happy to answer a few questions my brother asked as he tied the corners like a knapsack before driving away.
Back in the car, we resumed the three-hour drive back to the city. Don recounted meeting a farmer who had been collecting food scraps to feed his four-hundred-pound hogs. I was about to tell my mom about creepy Ralph when she spoke the biggest news of the day: over cocktails at Camozzi’s, they had bought the restaurant. We moved four months later.
The working-class people of Cambria lived hospitality—and partying! The population sign along Highway One may have read fifteen hundred, but in the summer season that number multiplied as hundreds of second homes filled with families escaping the heat of the Central Valley and hordes of tourists descended upon Hearst San Simeon State Monument fifteen minutes north. We were fortunate to buy The Caffe Porta Via at the beginning of an economic recovery and subsequent building boom, affording my parents the purchase of our rented building and an extensive remodel which would double the restaurant space. Locals watched as an impressive transformation took place. In a two-year period, Ron and my mom had turned a casual pizza parlor with sawdust on the floor into a contemporary Italian dinner house accented with hand-thrown ceramic tableware and linens made by a local seamstress. But it was the warm hospitality and five-star food my mom was dishing up from her tiny kitchen that was making memories. Customers looked forward to stopping at the open Dutch door in front of the stove and toasting my mom, who could usually be found with a glass of champagne in her hand. Conspicuously missing was Ron, but those same customers knew where to find him—he had a well-worn path from the kitchen door through the alley to the bar next door. Every half hour or so, he’d pop back into the restaurant in between snooker games to chat with the regulars.
Six years into a successful restaurant venture, Ron’s drinking and gambling habits had taken a toll on every aspect of their life together, and alcohol had never been my mom’s friend, triggering rage and leaving her sick in bed the next day. She courageously decided to find freedom from the chaos and filed for divorce, taking sole ownership of the restaurant with the help of my sister and her husband. Together, they gave it a heroic effort, but they couldn’t find a way to climb out of debilitating debt. She struggled emotionally as she shut down the restaurant, forfeiting the property to the landlord who held the note. I don’t think my mom ever completely recovered from the losses and traumas she experienced in her early life, though as fate would have it, that misfortune led to a chance meeting with the man she would marry and share the rest of her life with.
By the time I was twenty, I had held eight different restaurant jobs, always seeking something more. Hospitality became my focus and connecting with people my gift. I found it natural to talk with customers and built a strong following, leading to a handful of lifelong friendships. At this same time in my life, I was an aspiring photographer, having pledged never to follow my mom’s career path. I enjoyed learning about f-stops and apertures and loved the solitude of a darkroom, practicing Ansel Adams’ Zone System techniques from a textbook. Occasionally, friends called me to shoot a wedding or a senior portrait package, but I found myself sick with worry until the results of my efforts were in hand, which could take days in the era of film; there were never any guarantees how the photos would turn out once they were processed. The comfort of food and hospitality always won me back.
On my twenty-third birthday, I opened my first restaurant in the town of Harmony, a venture friends and family urged me not take. With my mom’s recipes in hand, I had negotiated a good lease, and since I did not know how to cook, I began my search for a business partner. A week later, while working a host shift at a local restaurant, a friend handed me a note written on a cocktail napkin delivered from Camozzi’s: “Am interested, call me. Buttercup.” I had never met Kathy, which was surprising in a small town, but serendipity was at play, as she was a cook at a popular lunch spot looking to open her own place. She had a great following, adding to the potential for success. Many of my mom’s customers were excited for a chance to enjoy her food again, and within two months the Harmony Pasta Factory was born: “Where good friends and fresh pasta make for tasteful conversation.” On the weekends, it was standing room only. Our success led to years of festivities enjoyed by locals and tourists alike—a creative artist enclave fueled by food, music, art … and lots of wine!
Over the years, my story continued to weave a pattern much like my mom’s. At times, it was difficult to tell them apart, yet different in so many ways, like looking at fragments of a broken mirror, each a reflection of success and loss. It was during my three-week recovery in the hospital that I began to pick up those pieces. I took a selfie video in my hospital bed, reminding my future self to never forget the pain I was enduring physically and to remember the damage my daily drinking habit had caused in my life. I was facing some hard truths about my own destructive patterns and the choices I had made, most of which had been hashed out ad nauseam in the pages of my journals spanning forty years—a lifetime of seeking answers to a millennium of questions. But there is nothing like a near-death experience to give quick answers. Because of the pandemic, I had been isolated, with no visitors, a rare opportunity to spend time with myself, to go within, and to understand the answers, which had always been there. After ten days of suffering and sleepless nights, my inner voice was loud and could not be ignored: Chris! Let go! In an instant, I got it. It was time to surrender and face my story, to embrace it. And with childlike wonder, I handed it all over to a higher power—“God” or “Source” or “Universe” or “Soul”—all names with the same life-altering resonance. Sometimes I call it “Flow” because it reminds me to be more like a twig floating on a river. A river of time. A river of memories. I’m from a restaurant family.
Christina Dillow has enjoyed writing, photography, and culinary arts since her high school days in Cambria, California. She has exhibited her photographs locally over the years but is most passionate about running restaurants. Her most recent restaurant, Fig, closed in 2020 after an eleven-year run. She’s been happily married to artist Dennis Dillow since 1984. They live in Atascadero, California.