Remembering
Robert
Reynolds


By
Jessica
Poundstone
 
 


1.
At
a
dinner
party
at
the
home
of
our
friend,
the
writer
Martha
Gies
in
May
2008,
my
husband
Ben
 and
I
listened
as
Martha’s
friend,
the
poet
David
Abel,
described
a
book
he
loved
called,
“An
Excuse
To
 Be
Together.”
It
was
one
of
the
most
fantastic
book
titles
I’d
ever
heard.
David
said
the
book
was
a
 collection
of
essays
and
recipes
by
a
chef
named
Robert
Reynolds,
who
had
formerly
run
a
restaurant
 in
San
Francisco,
and
who
now
lived
in
Portland.
He
also
said
that
the
book
was
hard
to
find,
as
it
was
 self‐published
in
a
small
print
run.

 2.
One
month
later,
I
wandered
into
a
store
that
sold
French
linens,
killing
time
before
a
hair
 appointment.
On
a
table
in
the
back,
among
other
miscellaneous
items
on
clearance,
was
a
slightly
 bedraggled
copy
of
the
book,
signed
by
Robert
‐
a
large,
jaunty
“R”
in
black
marker
on
the
title
page.
 Not
much
bigger
than
the
palm
of
my
hand,
the
slim
book
had
a
textured,
caramel
brown
cover
with


the
title
embossed
in
small
silvery
white
font
at
the
upper
left
corner,
and
a
line
drawing
of
a
map
of
 the
Northwest
corner
of
France
on
the
back.
I
bought
it.

 Twenty
minutes
later,
browsing
through
a
copy
of
Portland
Monthly
magazine
at
the
hairdressers,
the
 page
opened
to
a
stunning
picture
of
Robert
and
his
standard
grey
poodle,
Thomas,
in
their
 meticulously
appointed
southeast
Portland
workspace,
The
Chef’s
Studio.
Robert
stands
facing
the
 camera
in
his
chef’s
coat
with
a
peach
demitasse
cup
in
one
hand,
the
saucer
in
the
other,
while
 Thomas
sits
in
profile
looking
loyally
up
at
his
master.
A
stainless
steel
island
is
in
front
of
Robert,
an
 orange
and
yellow
Le
Crueset
pot
is
on
the
bottom
shelf,
and
behind
him
is
a
huge
powder
blue
oven.


 A.
Copyright
notice
for
“An
Excuse
to
Be
Together”:
“Copyright
2006
Robert
Reynolds.
All
 rights
reserved.
No
part
of
this
book
may
be
reproduced,
copied,
or
distributed
without
prior
 written
consent
from
the
author.
But
feel
free
to
pass
on
any
recipe
at
will.

 3.
Three
years
later,
having
moved
from
northeast
to
southeast
Portland,
I
frequently
saw
a
man
in
his
 sixties
walking
his
standard
grey
poodle.
One
day,
passing
him
on
the
sidewalk,
I
got
up
the
courage
to
 speak.
“Are
you
Robert
Reynolds?”
“Why,
yes,”
he
said
kindly,
expectantly,
smiling.
As
it
turned
out,
he
 lived
one
block
away
from
my
house.

 B.
“What
would
you
say
to
a
novice
in
the
kitchen
to
help
them
get
over
their
fear
of
 cooking?”
 “Be
guided
by
love
of
the
engagement,
rather
than
the
fear
of
making
a
mistake.
When
things
 are
perfect,
in
a
way,
nothing
has
been
learned.”
 4.
Ben
and
I
would
say
hello
to
Robert,
or
wave
when
we
passed
on
the
sidewalk
or
in
our
cars.
My
 children
‐
goofy,
extroverted
Henry,
three,
and
the
more
reserved
Sophie,
six,
loved
Thomas,
and
 Robert
loved
the
children
for
that.
Anytime
Henry
spotted
the
two
of
them,
he
would
yell
“Thomas!”
at
 the
top
of
his
lungs,
and
try
his
best
to
run
to
pet
him.
Robert’s
sliver
Airstream
trailer
was
always
 parked
in
front
of
his
cozy,
European‐style
duplex.
On
the
back
of
it
was
a
yellow
and
red
bumper
 sticker
letting
you
know
that
that
if
you
messed
with
his
Airstream,
your
ass
would
be
kicked.


 C.
At
the
start
of
an
all‐day
cooking
class:
“It’s
a
party.
What
the
hell.

Here
we
go.”

 5.
One
day,
while
playing
with
Sophie
and
Henry
at
the
field
of
Sophie’s
school,
Buckman
Elementary,
 which
is
two
blocks
from
our
house,
Sophie
and
Henry
and
I
ran
into
our
friends
and
neighbors
Steve
 and
Lyndsey.
They
frequently
came
to
run
their
two
small
dogs
Stanley,
white,
moppish
and
ill‐ tempered,
and
Olive,
black,
moppish
and
mild‐mannered.
Steve,
the
hip,
bespectacled
assistant
pastor
 at
our
church,
and
Lyndsey,
his
wife,
an
eccentric
comedienne,
nanny,
and
athlete
specializing
in
yoga
 and
biking,
lived
in
an
apartment
at
the
west
end
of
the
field.



 As
we
were
talking,
a
man
in
a
black
coat
and
a
driving
cap
arrived
with
a
medium‐sized,
fawn‐colored,
 energetic
and
fluffy
dog.
Steve
and
Lyndsey
introduced
us.
Kip,
whom
they
had
met
while
their
dogs
 played
together,
lived
in
a
large,
white,
old‐Portland
house
at
the
east
end
of
the
field
with
his
wife
 Colleen,
their
two
elementary‐aged
children
Eliza
and
Eliot,
and
their
dog
Sukie.
Kip,
a
musician,
 worked
for
a
local
architecture
firm
as
a
business
developer;
Colleen
was
about
to
start
grad
school.

 As
we
chatted,
Kip
mentioned
that
he
had
spent
a
fair
amount
of
time
as
a
student
in
France,
where
he
 had
also
learned
to
cook.
Thinking
of
Robert,
who
spent
a
great
deal
of
time
cooking
and
teaching
in
 2


France,
I
asked
if
any
of
them
had
met
him.

Kip,
having
lived
in
the
neighborhood
for
more
than
ten
 years,
knew
who
he
was,
and
Steve
and
Lyndsey
had
seen
him
with
Thomas
on
the
field
occasionally.
 But
none
of
them
knew
him
very
well.


 I
suggested
that
we
should
have
a
neighbor
dinner
and
invite
Robert.
They
agreed
that
would
be
 lovely,
if
Robert
was
game.

Kip
and
my
husband
Ben
had
both
spent
extended
periods
of
time
in
 France,
where
they
deepened
their
love
of
food
and
the
rituals
of
the
table,
and
we
were
all
neighbors.
 I
felt
these
connections
were
excuse
enough
to
find
Robert’s
e‐mail
address
and
issue
an
invitation.


 D.
“‘Risotto
is
not
rice,’
I
said.
‘Riso
is
rice.’
And
if
your
mother
or
grandmother
made
it,
you
 would
often
be
admonished
to
save
a
grain
or
two
for
the
angels.
The
idea
being
that
the
dish
 is
so
wonderful
that
you
want
to
eat
every
last
grain.
But,
to
show
your
gratitude,
you
make
 an
offering.
Sometimes
it
is
hard;
you
debate,
and
you
leave
that
last
grain
or
you
eat
it.
 ‘They
do
not
speak
this
way
of
Special
K,
for
instance,’
I
told
her.”
 6.
The
date
was
set
via
an
e‐mail
exchange:
October
25th
at
Kip
and
Colleen’s
house.
We
were
all
to
 bring
different
elements
of
the
meal
‐
vegetables,
appetizers,
aperitifs,
etc.
Robert
e‐mailed
early
on
to
 volunteer
to
bring
the
main
course.


 
 On
the
day
of
the
dinner,
we
all
assembled
at
Kip
and
Colleen’s
‐
everyone
except
Robert.

Colleen
said
 he
had
stopped
by
earlier
in
the
day
to
explain
that
he
had
double
booked
himself,
apologize,
and
drop
 off
our
main
course,
chicken
and
dumplings,
as
well
as
a
dessert,
a
pink
layer
cake
with
pink
frosting.
 We
went
on
with
our
meal,
sad
not
to
have
Robert
there
in
person,
but
enchanted
by
his
gesture.
The
 chicken
and
the
pink
cake
were
both
perfect,
exquisite.

 
 In
an
e‐mail
sent
to
the
group
afterwards,
Robert
apologized
again.
He
had
been
a
gathering
to
 remember
a
friend
who
had
died,
something
he
did
each
year.
“I
loved
making
the
main
just
the
same
 and
thought
of
the
pleasure
it
gave
me
to
know
you
were
together,
eating
well,
being
graciously
 hosted.
That
mattered
most.”

 
 Much
later,
I
later
realized
he
was
likely
gathering
with
others
to
remember
his
teacher,
friend
and
 beloved
mentor
Josephine
Araldo,
a
culinary
legend
who
died
in
October
of
1989.

 
 E.
“Check
out
the
classes
section.
You
will
also
find
a
series
by
Marietta
Sisca
on
Italian
home
 cooking.
Or,
Kristen
D.
Murray
offering
a
series
on
pastry.
Your
life
won’t
be
the
same.”
 7.
The
second
neighbor
dinner
date
was
set
for
November
29,
2011
at
our
house,
the
top
left
unit
in
a
 1910
craftsman
style
fourplex.
Pork
loin
by
Ben,
a
fresh
green
salad
by
Kip
and
Colleen,
butternut
soup
 from
Steve
and
Lyndsey.
And
by
Robert,
chicken
liver
mousse
on
baguette,
and
a
beautiful
vanilla
pot
 de
crème.
 Robert
knew
how
to
inhabit
a
dinner
party.
He
was
all
charming
stories
and
witty
one‐liners.
I
 remember
opining
about
my
disdain
for
the
trend
of
light
roasted
coffee,

that
the
French
and
the
 Italians
knew
what
they
were
doing,
and
that
anything
other
than
a
dark
roast
was
a
waste
of
space.
 Robert’s
reply:
“I
think
you
and
I
were
meant
to
be
together.”


 F.
“We
cook
for
you,
you
talk
with
us.
We
serve,
you
eat
and
drink.
Seems
like
an
agreeable
 way
to
spend
an
evening.”
 3


8.
The
third
and,
as
it
turned
out,
final
neighbor
dinner
was
planned
for
March
2012.

I
later
ran
into
 Robert
and
Thomas
on
the
sidewalk
one
afternoon.
We
kissed
hello,
and
I
asked
him
what
he
kind
of
 food
we
should
have
at
our
dinner.
With
a
sly
grin,
he
said,
“I
think
we
should
do
Indian.”

 
 I
suggested
this
to
the
group
via
e‐mail.
All
were
enthusiastic,
but
none
had
tackled
Indian
food
before,
 and
they
wanted
further
direction.
In
response,
Robert
sent
out
a
dozen
different
recipes
to
the
group
 to
choose
from,
saying
“If
it's
all
Greek,
give
me
a
call.
I'm
glad
to
sort
it
out.
This
will
be
fun.”

 
 On
the
night
of
the
dinner,
which
was
back
at
Kip
and
Colleen’s
again,
Ben
spooned
batter
for
roti
‐
 small
cornmeal‐based
tortillas
‐
into
a
small
frying
pan
on
the
gas
stove.
We
all
gathered
around
both
 sides
of
the
open
kitchen
island
to
watch
him.
As
Ben
finished
cooking
each
roti,
one
at
a
time,
he
slid
 it
from
the
pan
to
Robert
who
would
cradle
it
in
his
palm
add
a
scoop
of
filling,
and
hand
it
out
to
one
 of
us.
Ben
made
the
food,
and
Robert
gifted
it
to
us.

 
 Robert
brought
squat
little
bottles
of
Session
beer
and
chicken
&
apple
chutney.
There
was
magic
and
 heat
and
fenugreek
leaves,
and
joy.
It
was
hard
to
leave.
It
was
pouring
down
rain,
and
we
were
 soaked
to
the
skin
by
the
time
we
walked
the
two
and
a
half
blocks
home.

 
 G.
“Thomas
likes
coming
and
going
through
the
Airstream’s
open
door.
It’s
like
a
big
 doghouse.
It’s
just
large
enough
to
grasp
quickly
where
everything
is,
dog
dish,
water,
 sleeping
spot.
He
was
less
excited
by
it
at
the
start.
He
doesn’t
like
the
pickup
truck
as
much
 as
he
liked
the
Element
I
had
before.
The
Element
was
really
dog
friendly.
The
pickup
truck
 might
be
friendly
if
he
got
to
ride
in
the
back
bed
like
a
farm
dog.
But
I’m
not
a
farmer
or
a
 cowboy.
I
don’t
have
a
gun
rack
across
the
back
window.
I
have
thought
of
installing
a
gun
 rack
and
then
setting
a
whisk
large
enough
to
span
the
window.”
 9.
Here,
my
friend
Martha
makes
another
appearance.
She
invited
me
and
Ben
for
dinner
with
Ninh
 Filip,
a
Vietnamese
photographer
friend.
At
some
point,
I
mentioned
Robert’s
name.
“You
know
 Robert?”
she
asked.
“I
have
always
wanted
to
meet
him.”
She
reached
down
into
a
cupboard
and
 pulled
out
a
book,
“From
a
Breton
Kitchen,”
which
Robert
co‐authored
with
Josephine
Araldo.
“This
 book
is
brilliant,”
she
said.
She
described
the
structure
of
the
book:
the
first
third
contains
recipes
from
 Brittany
that
Josephine
grew
up
with.
The
middle
section
contains
the
classical
butter
and
cream‐rich
 recipes
used
at
Cordon
Bleu
where
Josephine
studied.
The
third
section
contains
recipes
‐
for
the
very
 same
vegetables
‐
that
Josephine
and
Robert
created
and
used
at
Le
Trou
in
San
Francisco.
Robert
 studied
under
Josephine
in
California
until
she
was
well
into
her
80s,
and
was
one
of
her
last
students.

 
 Martha
opened
the
book
and
searched
for
something.
“Read
this,”
she
said,
handing
me
the
book
and
 pointing
to
a
spot
on
the
page.
I
read
aloud
a
passage
describing
how
Robert,
during
Josephine’s
last
 days
in
a
hospital,
was
unable
to
bear
the
thought
of
her
having
to
eat
institutional
food.
So,
racing
 across
town
on
a
motorbike
in
his
chef’s
uniform,
he
took
her
what
turned
out
to
be
her
last
meal.

“I
 love
that
man
for
his
gift
to
Josephine,”
said
Martha
again.

“Do
you
think
I
could
meet
him?”
 
 H.
“We
dropped
everything
and
prepared
the
food
for
Josephine:
a
pot
of
café
filtre
excellent,
 fresh,
hot
coffee
in
a
jelly
jar;
a
small
pot
of
cream,
a
tin
of
cane
sugar;
a
mason
jar
of
soup;
 two
crepes
wrapped
carefully;
a
jelly
jar
of
sorbet
made
from
strawberries
and
red
wine,
 carefully
wrapped
in
newspaper
to
keep
it
chilled….She
had
a
ravenous
appetite
and
ate

 4


everything
with
great
relish.
She
said
as
she
finished
the
soup,
‘Your
food
is
always
the
best,
 Robeirt.’”

 10.
I
e‐mailed
Robert
on
July
1
to
suggest
a
dinner
with
Martha.
I
didn’t
hear
back.
I
didn’t
see
him
 around
the
neighborhood.
 
 11.
In
early
July,
Colleen
invited
Ben
and
me
to
Kip’s
birthday
party
at
their
house.
Shortly
after
we
 arrived,
Kip
pulled
us
aside.
He
told
us
that
Robert
had
been
diagnosed
with
brain
cancer,
and
had
 been
given
only
a
few
months
to
live.
Kip
and
Colleen
had
attended
a
fundraiser
for
Robert
whose
plan
 was
to
travel
to
Europe
with
a
small
group
of
friends,
and
live
out
his
last
days
in
France.

He
was
 hoping
Robert
would
be
able
to
make
it
to
the
party
that
evening,
but
wasn’t
sure
he
would.

 
 I.
“Geography
shapes
our
initial
view
of
the
world.
My
own
horizon
was
framed
by
growing
 up
in
New
England;
for
James
Beard,
it
was
Oregon.
His
attachment
to
this
place,
to
its
 people,
and
the
foods
that
come
from
here
were
all
of
a
piece.
 
 The
lessons
to
be
drawn
from
a
love
of
place
are
all
very
simple,
and
the
message
is
clear.

 When
we
say,
“Life
is
the
berries,”
we
know
of
what
we
speak.
Our
berries
are
still
 magnificent.
Beard’s
sense
of
belonging
had
its
source
in
the
berries,
the
salmon,
oysters,
 crab,
and
the
myriad
forms
of
our
local
bounty.
His
travels
around
the
world
taught
him
that
 these
things
are
not
found
in
the
same
way
anywhere
else.
Food
functions
as
a
daily
 reminder
of
how
good
life
can
be.”

 
 12.
Robert
arrived
at
Kip’s
party
with
Thomas
about
twenty
minutes
later.
He
seemed
a
bit
 disappointed
that
Kip
had
told
us
the
news.
Perhaps
he
was
hoping
for
an
evening
free
of
the
 heaviness
of
people
knowing.

 
 It
was
a
perfect,
glorious
summer
afternoon.
Ben
and
Robert
and
I
sat
in
a
small
circle
of
chairs
 together,
with
mounds
of
lavender
blooming
beside
us.

Other
guests
were
knotted
in
their
own
 conversations
around
us.
Ben
and
I
drink
wine,
ate
finger
food,
and
talked
with
Robert
for
the
entire
 hour
he
spent
there
‐
he
didn’t
know
anyone
else
at
the
gathering,
and
neither
did
we.
It
was
the
first
 time
I’d
been
with
a
dying
person
at
a
party.
I
tried
to
stop
myself
from
using
an
overabundance
of
 small
talk
to
cover
my
shock
and
sadness.
My
impulse
is
usually
to
keep
conversations
going
by
asking
 questions.
But
every
question
I
asked
felt
uncomfortably
like
an
attempt
to
get
something
from
him
‐
 to
coax
out
or
manufacture
my
very
own
special
memory
of
Robert.

His
energy
was
lower
than
usual,
 and
he
looked
run
down.

I
couldn’t
imagine
how
anything
anyone
was
saying
could
have
mattered
in
 much
to
him.
But
what
did
matter
most
to
him
now?


 
 J.
“Each
session
in
the
kitchen
studio
involves
a
new
challenge
to
stretch
ideas
and
 thinking….Slowly
and
steadily
as
their
knowledge
stretches,
they
get
each
thing,
one
piece
at
 a
time
and
then
eventually
bunches
of
ideas,
fall
into
place,
and
self
possession
appears.
 What
they
don’t
realize
at
this
point
is
that
the
‘getting
it’
will
continue
to
occur
for
years.”

 
 13.
Thomas
was
lying
under
a
nearby
table,
asleep.
Robert
got
up
to
go
inside
for
a
drink
and
Thomas
 immediately
got
up
and
followed
him.
Of
course
Thomas
knew.

 
 
 5


14.
I
told
Robert
we
would
do
anything
for
him.
“We
will
clean
your
house.
I
will
clean
your
toilet.”
 “You
may
have
to
get
in
line,”
he
quipped
with
a
smile.
“Good,”
I
said.
“I
don’t
like
cleaning
toilets
 anyway.”
I
hugged
him
a
bit
longer
than
usual,
and
kissed
his
cheek
as
he
prepared
to
leave.
“I’m
sure
 I’ll
see
you
around
the
neighborhood,”
he
said
as
he
and
Thomas
turned
to
go.
“I’ll
be
around.”

It
was
 the
last
time
we
saw
him.
 
 K.
“Americans
have
an
image
of
food
that
mostly
comes
from
restaurant
experience.
 However,
food
is
meant
to
nourish
body
and
spirit,
in
variety,
style,
technique
and
 presentation.
It
forms
part
of
the
fabric
of
life
centered
around
the
table.”

 
 
 15.
The
next
day,
I
told
the
kids
that
Robert
was
dying.

 
 “But
what
will
happen
to
Thomas?”
asked
Sophie.

 
 16.
On
August
27,
2012,
Steve
e‐mailed,
“Our
friend
Robert
has
passed.”
He
included
a
link
to
an
 Oregonian
article,
which
read
“Reynolds,
who
was
70
years
old,
passed
peacefully
surrounded
at
home
 by
friends
and
family
and
a
very
nice
Armagnac.”

 
 In
another
article,
in
the
online
magazine
Eater,
a
chef
friend
of
Robert’s,
Mike
Thelin,
wrote,
“Today
 the
Portland
food
community
lost
its
lion.
Most
are
lucky
to
influence
one
or
two
people
during
a
 lifetime.
Robert
Reynolds
inspired
hundreds
—
if
not
thousands.
To
those
who
knew
him,
our
lives
are
 forever
better
thanks
his
wit,
wisdom,
warmth,
generosity,
and
a
point
of
view
that
sought
truth
in
 ingredient
—
and
just
about
everything
else.”
 
 17.
That
evening,
the
children
and
I
cut
pink
roses
and
daisies
from
our
yard,
and
took
them
to
Robert’s
 house
to
put
on
his
front
porch.
It
didn’t
occur
to
me
that
there
would
be
anyone
there.
But
when
we
 arrived,
several
people
were
stepping
out
his
front
door.
Sophie
had
taken
the
bundle
of
blowers
up
 the
few
stairs
to
the
porch
and
put
it
down.
One
rose
was
still
in
her
hand,
and
she
began
pulling
petals
 off,
and
scattering
them
around
the
porch
and
down
the
stairs.

“Oh,
isn’t
that
lovely,”
said
one
of
the
 women,
pausing
to
watch.
“We
were
just
inside
remembering
Robert.”
Through
my
streaming
tears,
I
 choked
out
the
only
thing
that
came
to
mind,
“We
were
his
neighbors.”
 
 L.
“Among
my
objectives
is
to
give
these
cooks
a
standard
of
excellence
against
which
they
 can
judge
when
they
find
themselves
alone
in
the
kitchen.
It
seems
to
me
that
the
 psychological
component
of
cooking
demands
self‐possession.
So
the
subject,
the
learning
 situations,
and
the
environment
must
conspire
to
engender
the
feeling
that
‘I
know
this.’”
 

 18.
You
don’t
just
mourn
someone’s
absence
when
you
mourn
their
death.
You
also
mourn
all
of
the
 things
that
won’t
happen
in
the
future.
I’d
looked
forward
to
knowing
Robert
for
a
long
time.
I’d
looked
 forward
to
every
sidewalk
encounter,
every
conversation,
every
glorious
meal.
What
I
will
always
have

 
 
 
 6



 are
my
memories
of
Robert,
and
of
the
meals
we
shared
with
neighbors
and
friends.
And
we
all,
of
 course,
have
his
recipes,
and
his
instructions
for
creating
them.
 M.
“In
your
opinion,
what
are
the
most
important
elements
when
creating
a
recipe
from
 scratch?”
 
 
 
 Have
good
ingredients
 Keep
it
simple
 Understand
the
steps
to
the
dish
 Pay
attention
to
the
details
 Proceed
slowly
 Enjoy
the
engagement
 And
remember,
you're
feeding
others
‐
when
you
feed
people,
you
nurture
them.

 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Jessica
Poundstone
is
a
writer
living
in
the
Buckman
neighborhood
of
Portland,
Oregon
with
her
 husband
Ben,
and
her
kids
Sophie
and
Henry.
Reach

her
at
jpoundstone‐at‐gmail‐dot‐com.
 
 
 
 ____________________________________________________________________________________
 
 Sources



A.
From
“An
Excuse
To
Be
Together,”
by
Robert
Reynolds.

 B.
Reluctant
Gourmet
web
site,
interview
with
Robert:
http://www.reluctantgourmet.com/chef_robert_reynolds.htm
 C.
Blake
Van
Roekel’s
blog:
http://chefstudioschool.wordpress.com
 D.
Robert’s
blog,
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/07/travels‐with‐thomas‐foraging‐farming/
 E.
Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/09/cooks‐dream/
 F.
Robert’s
blog:h
ttp://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/11/open‐house‐november‐6th/
 G.

Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/07/nothing‐to‐be‐afraid‐of
 H.
“From
a
Breton
Garden:
The
Vegetable
Cookery
of
Josephine
Araldo,”
page
338
 I.
Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/04/the‐final‐exam‐with‐recipe/
 J.

Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/02/when‐knowledge‐is‐good‐it‐serves‐you‐2/
 K.
Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/08/1289/
 L.
Robert’s
blog:
http://www.thechefstudio.com/2011/08/1289/
 M.
Reluctant
Gourmet
web
site,
interview
with
Robert:
http://www.reluctantgourmet.com/chef_robert_reynolds.htm)



 7