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LONG LIVE THE IRORI

Last weekend went with friends to a restored old mill out in the countryside amid small mountains on the other side of the Lake and, after about a half-hour spent gathering beautiful garden rocks from the whitewater river below, had charcoal-grilled (in irori right at our knees) fresh brown trout and mountain vegetables in an experience and with a flavor and ambience that one couldn't get in any city in the world; i.e., trout served by the person who just caught it, fresh from the mountain stream it is served beside, is real; trout served by someone whose employer bought it wholesale from a fish merchant who got it from a dealer who shipped it frozen after paying bottom price to whoever caught it some days ago and served on the 44th floor is not real. On our way out I spotted the big old carved wooden sign that had been on the front of the place, no longer used since the new carved sign is up, so I asked if I could have it, and they were glad to have me take it. It will make a nice table. Real, too.