“Will you be Taylor’s friend?” Courtney is telling the story of how we met to the greater group last week in San Diego. I'm split screening the event in my own head, clear as day. It's 1993 and we are on the blacktop, I'm starting the first day at a new school in the 3rd grade. Josee, my mother, has disregarded all social customs of new kids and is attempting to offload me with some aggressive campaign management tactics. Bamboozled, Courtney agrees.
Years and summers and school dances and international travel and lake houses and weddings and a quiet year later, we found ourselves 3 martinis deep in a Hillstone, making up for lost time. We had both grown up, seen some shit, and now presented as better articulated versions of ourselves. Still wildly hilarious. As Court and I knew, there was more catching up to do. I booked my flight to see her in San Diego the next day.
Courtney is bubbly, with glowing, naturally tan skin and aura, and is strikingly beautiful. She is funnnnnnny; impressions, repetitions, good noises, and doesn't shy from doling out a hard time. She has a tenured and illustrious career of philanthropic work, fundraising with the Y, and a very successful influencing platform under the namesake Coco San Diego.
Meanwhile I am currently unemployed, living with my parents, "finding myself" and incredibly available for a good time (granted it falls within the cheapest flight windows Southwest has to offer). I had the greatest feelings about the trip.
I touch down in San Diego after some time away and it still makes sense to me - sun, space, craft breweries and a strong military presence. I let myself into her house via hide-a-key, crack my skull open on a mailbox (I’ll later inquire if she ever does this herself and she responds confidently with an “Ohhhhh yeah.” Oh… word??? ) and shortly after licking my wounds, Court will barrel through her front door with a new chopped hair do. It’s time to party. We walk Dante, the newest south-of-the border addition to the Schultz family, grab coffees out of an airstream in an open courtyard, and bring Dante for a haircut (“A S-paw day!" dumb). We see Liberty Station and meet up with the dinner crew for a cocktail leading to the crux of the evening/ weekend/ trip; our meal at Born and Raised.
Two weeks prior over FaceTime, Courtney dropped the possibility of a meal at the highly acclaimed Born and Raised, but would likely need to pull a few strings to get in - it's a hot ticket in town. But with the Coco crown on, many things are possible. Hearing this, my mother pops into the frame and said “Oh. You have to go - your father and I went and it was fabulous.” Josee and her agendas!
The evening arrives. Feeling rather pompous in our thigh highs and black get ups, five of us kick in the front door of B&R and saunter up the individually customized wood warped steps (nobody cares) into what appears to be the dining hall of the Titanic; riddled with easter eggs of the 90’s hip hop scene. Stacked crystal chandeliers paired with thick leopard print lounge chairs under illuminated indoor trees... on an outdoor patio. Gingham upholstery and full figured female lamps, reminiscent of my grandmother’s oil rain lamp that I assume arrived on the Mayflower (and I pray gets left to me in the will!!!!). The bathrooms - 70’s brown and lacquered gold that makes me feel that I am at both an antique car club and middle school skate rink. I look down to notice speckled sliced pebbles peppering the linoleum flooring that I last recall seeing at my elementary school. A toilet seat famously calligraphied with “Shit Happens.” I will realize that what I’m seeing, is an incredibly well articulated, and even better designed, joke.
I return to my a glass of champagne and watch the ant trails of bubbles crawling up its insides. For a moment, I am Natasha Richardson, still in love with Dennis Quad, photographed on the hull of the Queen Elizabeth II, oblivious to the fact our commemorative photo will eventually be ripped in half and gifted to our twins, unaware of each other’s existence until a fateful day at summer camp. Over a fencing match! I’m here with two gay men and a married couple.
We are escorted to our table on the first floor. Fur throws and blush tones and what I assume is wood repurposed from the Riva boats of Lake Como. I am breathless as I consider the maintenance. The hostess seating us comments to Courtney, “I just listened to the podcast! And I LOVE your hair...” Oh... my God. Sidebar - Coco was recently featured on Consortium Holdings Chef Jason McLeod’s self-proclaimed “Shitty Podcast,” and is now fielding responses on what is proving to be an impromptu promotion tour! The crew is GAGGED.
The brief taste of celebrity status makes no lasting impression on Coco, meanwhile, the rest of us take to the diva lifestyle with reckless abandon, asking anyone within earshot for recipes, to have our picture taken, and we also hit somewhat relentlessly on the wait staff.
“Caviar bumps, anyone?” A champagne toast emerges in concert with the gum drops of sturgeon dolloping fancifully onto our fists. We are baby birds… but make it fashion.
Glamour. Hip hop. Queue Martini cart. Caesar Cart. Eventually… Ice Cream Cart. Things we aren’t ordering, had no intention of ordering. “Is this real?” Uni Spaghetti arrives, likening itself to a hassle back potato (“Sweet and salty! Amirite? ….laterz!!!”- Andrew), art directed crudo, impossibly rich mushrooms, autumn chicories. Steaks. The steaks. They come plain on the plate, needing no introduction. Ice cold martinis. Twists. Olives. We don't care. Dessert. Gold flaked carrot cake. Dry ice pouring out of the ice cream cart's customized brown and gold Kitchen Aid like a scene from Hocus Pocus. The DAZZLE. The piece de resistance, commemorating Coco’s Birthday month, an off-script mezcal Mexican hot chocolate, emptied into a mismatched tea set from a flannel coated shaker. The crew is rioting.
It’s rare to have excellent food, its rare to have lovely, personal, warm service, and it’s rare to have glamour and humor in a completely symbiotic relationship. And I’m sure you are thinking - yes, but, none possible without Ms. Coco, to which I say yes, you’re correct, and that I don’t care. The framework of Consortium Holdings, paired with the magic, created by way of who Coco is, is the deadly combo that makes evenings like this possible. She's the South Park Parade Princess, for heaven's sake. We wrap up with an onset of thank you’s to those who have at worst, survived the collateral damage, and at best, tolerated us. We carry the general disbelief of tonights transpirings with us, and ride onward into the night.
I don’t recall exact details of what followed dinner besides a Tony-worthy convenience store surveillance performance and a MESSY living room game reminiscent of Scattergories. But we couldn't stop talking about the dinner. What does it mean to create something like that? How do you do it? What drives that bus? And with that, Coco and I embarked on an accidental 2-day, Wonka-esque Consortium Holding Food and Beverage Tour.
*****
“….so what does Consortium mean?” I ask Courtney in our matching pocket t's over a third Negroni at noon on Saturday. We are enjoying our newly scored merch at J & Tony’s Discount Cured Meats And Negroni Warehouse - the 4th leg of the tour.
A Consortium is an association of different business companies - Courtney knew this, I confirmed via wikipedia because.. I'm an ass? We will end up hitting 8 of the 16 uniquely different Consortium Holdings bars and restaurants by the weekend's end.
What brought us here was a very organic series of events, including Courtney cross referencing enough Consortium Holdings restaurants to warrant taking me to as many of them as possible. We start at Morning Glory, a breakfast spot with pink under and overtones, golden swan detailing and retro beats blasting. A server with blue hair that moonlights as a beer blogging influencer acknowledges Courtney. It’s like THAT. Ken Fulk-esque Leo’s Oyster Bar aesthetic but with humor. On our way out we walk down a flight of stairs to the entrance lined with people - the wait time can hit 3 hours. Next, Ironside, upscale seafood with a 20 Thousand Leagues wink and a nod. Mermaids, a wall of hundreds of identical screaming taxidermied piranha skulls, an oversized tentacle lamp summoning you to the restroom. Wooden paneling and geometric shapes. Brass type concrete inlays signaling the “BAR”… “lest we forget.” Then Craft and Commerce, the taxidermy museum tiki bar with a seasonal menu and speak easy. Think Trick Dog meets Paxton Gate. Will I stop with the San Francisco metaphors? Never. We are now current.
We are greeted at J & Tony’s by some very, very special company. Courtney stomps the damn yard in, arms wide open, and delivers the sincerest of bear hugs. I know exactly who this has got to be. It's Chef Jason McLeod. The “J” in J & Tony’s. The podcast master. The man behind it all. Chef.
Immediately, I get it. We chop it up, learn about sharks, talk about the podcast, and I get a peaceful, easy feeling. We rave about last night. He gives us some maroon pocket t’s Ironside hoodies. Courtney asks if he’ll take a picture of us before he leaves us and ….he does it...???
Court and I talk a lot over our Negronis, as J & Tony’s faces stare at us from the deli flags bobbing in our drinks. We talk about the common threads. Beauty, intention, detail, education, humor. There's a million little things; like our bartender shifting his grip to pour the liquor to present the label facing outward, or him expertly shaving perfect fists of inclusion-less ice. The performance of the hand-carved parmesan, unveiled from its cheese cloth and broken out into personal bites sized portions, straight from the wheel. We talk about what we taste; textures and mouthfeel and sandwich layering theory. We talk about education. How the staff is informed. How trust, and brand, is built on that kind of knowing.
We talk about the humor. Shit Happens. The bedazzled Ronald McDonald. The bidet toilets. The meditation room. The backs of their heads on the backs of their menus and the backs of their deli flags. Not a peep was made for the entirety of our Muffuletta sandwich, and the side of the prosciutto that no one else in California has, and more diamonds of hand carved parmesan. For the remainder of the meal we don't talk about much else. Not ourselves, not other people, the news. It’s refreshing to be lifted out of that. We decide to throw our hat in the ring and present the idea for an Aviation Gin Peloton Martini, WHICH J AND TONY’S SHOULD ABSOLUTELY SERVE (although sadly contains no Campari :(((( - but won't. I share this part to illustrate that good creative gets people thinking differently. Art is meant to start conversation. And these restaurants do that, over and over again, - exquisitely.
I also appreciate that Jason seems to be in on the joke. I can't imagine you start a negroni bar after someone claims that you can't, without you knowing how to make one, without having a healthy sense of humor. I recognize this could be a factor of me projecting my own hopes that he is having an absolute blast with bringing these projects to life, but I realllyyyy can't imagine he's not. And to see this sort of thing brings me incredible hope that what I'm looking for in a career and in a life isn't a pipe dream.
We will visit a few more of Jason's places as the weekend trails on - both of the Swine and Soda's and Polite Provisions, to catch up with a good friend in town from 29 Palms and reminisce on some good times over beer. Sunday, Courtney and I will get completely derailed and end up on a Bird-ing pub crawl in Hillcrest and things will get ABSOLUTELY out of pocket. All in all, a magnificent time, with tremendous food and good thinking. I can't say how much I appreciate Courtney, and Coco, for the time spent showing me around, and talking through all of this with me.
Here's to the next 8 of the tour.
PS: Courtney - I'M A 4!!!!!!!