Michael Safdiah -

Happy the man, and happy he alone
who can call today his own
He, who secure within himself, can say,
"Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today"
-- Henry Fielding - Tom Jones

I can be wordy, I apologize.

I grew up in a major historical era. Gay historical. I was a kid in the Stonewall Bar that night (yep!). I was a clone just like everyone else until AIDS began its relentless attack on our Gay culture. I saw police brutality, was afraid of dykes, (didn't they all hate and beat up fags?) I was in a cocoon called Greenwich Village, protected from the realities of the World Outside Here. I was ignorant and unenlightened. My life had been pretty boring until I came to New York and moved into West Greenwich Village, where I now live.

I was a broke student, so I bought a bicycle to commute to grad school. The trip took me thru Chinatown, and something about the markets there awoke a passion in me. Such a variety of foods, all so beautiful, mysterious, varied, and cheap! I'd find my way to back doors of restaurants, and look inside the open doors to the kitchens, fascinated. I would see strange dried and preserved things, alien food wrapped in noisy crinkly cellophane, and would bring the shriveled treasures to the kitchens, and ask them what they were - Most of my questions were met that smiling reply,"Is Chinee stuff" I cringed, but I persevered, and eventually got some of them to realize I was serious and interested in their cuisine. Being friendly and sincere works, even when you can't speak the language, everybody in a food market has something in common. Every day while I was working on my MBA and commuting, I'd detour and stop to get my food for dinner, or learn some new way of treating some frightening new edible, or sometimes not-edible.

My favorite after-school thing to do was to feed dinners to a bunch of my friends on my shoe string budget. It was usually some inexpensive and ambitious thing, like the time I made tempura in a chafing dish, and covered all my guests in spatters of oil. The stews of inexpensive chuck, cooked for hours. I learned, without realizing it, the art of Old Country Cooking, making delicious food from inexpensive cuts. They were my Guinea Pigs, and they forgave me. One thing I do recall was that dinner at my place was always served late. nothing intentional, but by the time dinner was served, they were starving, and that assured there would be no leftovers and rave reviews. My first loves were and still are pastas and dishes that take forever to cook. My oven fried honey glazed chicken was always a sure fire way to make a man love me. At least for a while.

I've been owner-chef of The Black Sheep restaurant in Greenwich Village since 1978, I opened it with my late lover John DeGodt, (met him on Christopher Street) we wanted to provide a higher quality alternative to what was available to gays in New York at that time, which was pretty poor. In those days gay meant you had to put up with sleazy places, bad food, cute-sey service. There was no place to go with a date, hold hands or bring the folks. We changed all that. Gays deserved a place of our own, one which offered the best we could provide, and for the most part of twenty years, we managed to do it.

I just loved the restaurant business, and I always had the feeling that one day I would have to grow up and get a real job. I never felt that what I was doing was really work.

The funny thing is that we bought Mother Courage, a women's restaurant, from two wonderful ladies. So much for man-hating dykes. Turns out I've always been a feminist, I simply had no idea what the word meant.

Our cuisine was a blend of country French, and country Italian, but regional dishes from just about anywhere would appear, depending on the market. It was romance food, and I still believe in it as a cuisine. I love food, the ancient homey dishes. It's a universal form of seduction, and the men in my life have always fallen, at least, for my cooking. They say "The way to a man's heart...", they say that, but once you get there, you are on your own, baby!

In the process, I met tens of thousands of guests at my restaurant, grew up in an era of AIDS, (poz myself) lost a ton of friends, (over 100 loved ones) and watched in horror while our elected leaders looked the other way. I became a political activist, a better (I hope) more seasoned human being, and a man more aware than ever that I have so much more to learn. I used whatever resources my little restaurant could provide to assist in the fight for Gay civil Rights and against AIDS.

I also became as good a cook as I told people I was. My travels through France brought me boldly into 3-star kitchens, where I actually spent time as apprentice help. My knowledge of wines also grew as I befriended wine makers.

My food became better, and I began to teach it to my friends, lovers, guests, anyone who cared. I have a way of making it seem easy, because it is. Nothing complicated about it. I think it's a gift, but one I certainly love to share. I watch TV food shows now, and it seems I can always spot a mistake or sloppy technique on the most popular of them.

I can't omit that in '94 I had a near-death experience due to AIDS. My brain was fried by a virus, and during the year of my recovering, I realized, thanks mostly to my home on Fire Island, my family and my dog Lulu, how beautiful and precious a thing life is, and I regard this as my second chance at something I took for granted once before. Besides, as any good story-teller knows, you don't kill the hero before his tale's been told.

I am an animal lover, and believe that nature, if given half a chance, can heal the society-imposed ills we all walk around with. I urge my friends and guests to always keep pets, and to be with them as much as they can. We had a pets allowed policy at the restaurant, I have one here at my home. Fire Island is too wonderful a place to go without your dog. It's one of the most beautiful, and healing if you let it, places on this planet. Come see for yourself.

I live in the far west end of Greenwich Village, and for most of the year, reside at home on Fire Island Pines. I'm writing a book about the restaurant, now closed, and about my special experiences on Fire Island.