MADD RONNIE'S FINAL STEPS TO SIXTIES IN PEACE

 A few weeks ago I cell phoned Big Cat, a legendary member of the Rollin’ 60s Crips, who the LAPD described in a 2003 injunction against his Crenshaw/Hyde Park-based street gang as “a shot caller…… who instills fear in the neighborhood.”  I could see that, back in the day. Big Cat, who legally goes by Kevin Doucette, happens to be an old friend of mine who I met about 28 years ago while covering Watts and South Central for the Times and who has helped me out in dark times. In 1998, I wrote an article about him at a meeting led by his brother Mustafa, aka Li’l Cat, and Malik Spellman trying to quell gang violence in Inglewood.

Anyway, he answered my phone call, I asked how he was doing and he said, “I’m heartbroken.”

Heartbroken? Big bad Big Cat heartbroken? Heartbroken is for some 13-year-old Emma whose crush went to see “Barbie” with a 14-year-old. 

But Big Cat heartbroken?  What the hell happened?  He told me.

“They killed Madd Ronnie,” Kevin Doucette said in his trademark gravelly voice. Wow, I thought, Madd Ronnie got killed. Big Cat continued.  “They shot Madd. Some 16, 17-year-old kid jumped out the car and started blasting. I got shot in the thigh. Again. But Madd is dead.  Believe that? Madd Ronnie is dead.”

Madd Ronnie, aka Grant Lyons, born 11/27/63 was killed 8/19/23, exactly 100 days shy of his 60th birthday, something he was – in his “theatrical fashion” – making a big deal about. “60 for 60!” he would say. “A 60 turning 60!”    I guess being in the Rollin 60s and making it to 60 years of age is quite an accomplishment.

Madd and Big Cat and several others were hanging out that summer evening around 6:30 p.m. in front of a house on Keniston Avenue and 58th Place, a few blocks west of West Blvd, a couple south of Slauson, a block from Momma Kris Child Care Center. Nearby liquor surveillance video captures a car driving by and, shortly after driving by again, and parking. The young shooter exits the car and almost immediately begins firing. The first four bullets hit two parked white cars.

 “I thought it was firecrackers.” said Big Cat who was with others sitting on milk crates and shooting the breeze.  Madd Ronnie was standing, his back to the shots. Suddenly, he lurches forward, his back arches. Grant Lyles takes three or four stutter-steps, his last, and he starts to fall.

“I got up to break his fall, but I got shot in the leg,” Big Cat said. “I‘m trying to pull him closer to a car so it can shield us and I held him. Madd Ronnie took his last breath. I had held another homie long time ago and I know the last breath. His lungs make this gargled fast whoosh sound. There’s the whoosh and air and blood come out of his mouth. His last breath. I laid him down.”

Personally. I had never met Madd Ronnie aka Grant Lyons, but I’d heard of him for ages. I guess it was something about his street name that intrigued me. What was he so mad about that it became key to his streetname? 

Even in the 2003 gang injunction prepared largely in part by an officer Jeffrey Martin #32877, a major portion of the two-page report on Grant Lyons talks about his anger and mentions him often yelling at officers and calling them “bitches”, giving them the middle finger. The report says Lyons would yell at them “I’m Madd Ronnie!” and “This is my hood!” as his middle finger reverse-saluted them.

Some of his fellow 60s told me he would cuss out police more than anyone they knew. If calling an LAPD officer a “bitch” was the equivalent of a Major League Baseball home run then Grant “Mad Ronnie” Lyons would have been Barry Bonds.

But the “mad” face, the scowl, was often just an act, his homies said. “Most the time, he was putting on that face and he wasn’t mad about anything,” said a friend.

I’ve covered more than my share of killings, but even I got to wondering why a large swath of our city was in deep mourning over the death of Madd Ronnie. At his funeral last Monday, the several hundred gathered were silent as two white horses pulled a white carriage carrying Madd Ronnie’s casket.  The outpouring of love and ache on Facebook was impressive, too.

After talking a several people who knew him, I figured it out. Madd Ronnie simply loved where he lived. He loved his neighborhood.

“Ronnie promoted the neighborhood,” said his friend of 47 years Tim Chaney, a information system analyst. “Ronnie had been living in Hyde Park/Crenshaw area for 55 years and he truly loved the neighborhood.”

He made this part of Los Angeles seem like a small town where everyone knows each other and looks after each other. It was not unusal for Madd Ronnie to pull up to a friend’s house and the two of them take a walk. And others would join in and, before you knew it, 15, 20 people were in on that walk, stopping in neighborhood clothing shop or a liquor store or a mom-and-pop market. It was not some dangerous ‘hood. It was his ‘hood. He knew and greeted people’s kids, parents and grandparents.

When I suggested that he was loved because he protected the weak from rival gangs, Tim Chaney said “On a pie chart. I would say that was maybe 20% of why he was loved. The main thing was that he promoted the ‘hood. Madd Ronnie loved the ‘hood. This was his home. And he loved it and the people here. That was the biggest difference between Madd and many other people from here. To so many others, it was like a purgatory. A place to make some money and move on. To Ronnie, all of it was a place he loved.”

At the court hearing for the 2003 injunction against the Rollin’ 60s by then city attorney Rockard J. Delgadillo – which made it illegal for two or more to congregate – Madd Ronnie was one of the few who showed up in court to protested to the judge. “Where are my rights to be in my own neighborhood? Why can’t I talk to people in my own neighborhood?”

Chaney tells of one time when the two of them were at a fruit stand near Magic Mountain and Ronnie bought a bag of grapefruits. They came back to the ‘hood. “Ronnie saw an old man sitting alone on a porch and just gave him the bag and they started talking. It was Small Town, USA right there.”

The first thing Big Cat told me about him, after talking about his scowl, was how he was a fist fighter.  “He was devastating. He was fearless. What he detested more than anything was the guys who would go to the gun. Who would not fight and just start shooting. He detested those guys.” 

And that’s who killed him.

That his life was ended in a manner he had long detested, well, maybe it was meant to be. It could prolong his legacy in the Hyde Park neighborhood and maybe beyond if that word is spread and it just becomes common knowledge that shooting someone is simply not cool. It is cowardly,

In the April, 5, 1998 Times article I mentioned up top, part of it included this from Big Cat.

“The killing’s been going on since before you were born. We’ve got to try and show homies how to live, not die.”

Doucette said older gang members need to be at the next meeting.

“A lot of the older guys are no longer actually banging, but they’re like politicians now ordering the young foot soldiers to do the killing,” Doucette said. “We need to get them to the table.”

A quarter century later, even with the tremendous efforts of many, the city of Los Angeles still has many open seats at that table.

MICHELIN NAMES MARTINA BARTOLOZZI #1 CULINARY TRAVEL ADVISOR IN ITALY

BY JIMMY DOLAN  8/12/2023

For those of you planning a trip to Italy - if it’s your first time or 20th  - you might want to give Martina Bartolozzi a heads up.

She can make your trip not only fascinating but make it taste better. Simple as that. Today, the Florence native was named the best “Culinary Travel Advisor” in all of Italy by the Michelin Guide. 

Bartolozzi, whose Instagram account, “Momento Martina” has over 11 million followers, has, according to Michelin, the “unique talent to make one’s culinary adventure memorable, exciting and utterly delicious.”

Martina, whose mother Kim is the long-time wife of the renowned butcher of Chianti, the legend Dario Cecchini, said she was honored to win the prestigious award.

“It’s a thrill and I will be inspired even more to make people’s culinary dreams come true,” Martina said.

A rival, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said “It’s not fair. Martina knows too many people.”

CLEAMON "BIG EVIL" JOHNSON COULD PAROLE IN “A FEW MONTHS” AFTER TAKING A DEAL

A former gang leader once described by an FBI agent and several LAPD homicide detectives as one of the deadliest men in Los Angeles could be paroled in a few months after he pled “no contest” to a murder and was sentenced to 25 years to life in prison.

Thing is Cleamon Johnson, much better - and fearfully - known on the streets as “Big Evil” has already done more than 28 years behind bars for this killing so he could be eligible for parole soon. All added up, including “good time”, Johnson was credited with 13,388 days in custody, more than 36 and a half years. As part of the deal with the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, four other murder charges and one attempted murder charge were dropped.

Cleamon has for years said “Cleamon Johnson can get parole. Big Evil can’t.” He told me about four or five years ago that “I’m Cleamon Johnson. I am not Big Evil anymore.”

His lead attorney, Robert M. Sanger, who took on Johnson’s case while he was on Death Row in San Quentin more than 18 years ago, said his client was a changed man. “He was a very nice child with two loving parents and he’s a very nice man now. It was those years in in that neighborhood that made him who he was.”

“That neighborhood” was just north of Watts in Green Meadows, and was the domain of the 89 Family Bloods, a gang of about 50 members who were surrounded on three sides by three large Crip gangs - Kitchen Crips, East Coast Crips and Avalon Gardens Crips - who had more than a thousand members, During “those years’, the 1980s and 90s, it was among the most dangerous neighborhoods in America.

Johnson was sentenced to death on Sept. 30, 1997 for ordering the killings of Peyton Beroit - the murder he pled to Wednesday - and Donald Ray Loggins who were at a car wash on Aug. 5, 1991 near his home on 88th Street west of Central Avenue. Johnson, and the man who allegedly did the killing, Michael “Fat Rat” Allen, were sent to Death Row at San Quentin.

About 13 years later, the California Superme Court overturned the decision because they ruled the judge in the case, Charles Horan, had wrongly dimissed a juror who was leaning toward acquittal.

Johnson was let out of San Quentin, but not freed, He was sent to Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail in January 2012 to face a retrial. While he was there, he was charged with three more murder cases and one attempted murder, all from the early 1990s. His co-defendant Allen died in custody last year of a heart disease, He was 49.

In court Wednesday, several times Judge Curtis B. Rappe and Deputy District Attorney Amy Murphy asked Johnson if he understood what was going on. He answered the same every time, “Yes, I do.”

There’s a whole, whole, whole lot more to this man’s story and I’ll get to it.

NANCY, DAN RICHER, CHRIS BIANCO & FRANCO PEPE UNITE TO MAKE ONE PIZZA

BY JIMMY DOLAN

With late night talk show hosts from countless galaxies making Earth the butt of their evening jokes, four renowned human chefs held a news conference Monday to announce they will team up to make a special pizza with the proceeds going toward helping this planet get its act together.

The four chefs - Nancy Silverton, Chris Bianco, Dan Richer and Franco Pepe - will each have their own slice of this 4-slice pizza, named the United Slices of Earth.  

“Imagine Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso and Vinny Van Gogh painting on a single canvas,” said Anthony Bourdain from an undisclosed location. “Each of them will have a slice, a corner of this pizza. ”

 The goal of the pizza is to end war, hunger, disease and have the rest of the Universe look up to us, something that hasn’t happened since the recording/video of “We Are The World” was released.

 The family of Edward Hooper filed a formal complaint with the United Nations for not being included in this mythical painting.

 As the Tribune went to press, no pizzaiola had objected to not being included in this real pizza.

NANCY WITH JDAN RICHER OF RAZZA IN JERSEY CITY

Nancy with franco pepe of pepe in grani in Caiazzo

Nancy with Bronz boy Chris bianco of pizzeria bianco in phoenix and los angeles

JOINT SENATE/HOUSE INVESTIGATION OF MISSING SINGLE SOCKS REVEALS STUNNING RESULTS

A joint U.S. Senate and House of Representative three-year investigation concluded Monday with the extraordinary findings that Black Americans and White Americans lose single socks after a washing/drying session at nearly identical rates.

 The joint committee, chaired by Joe Manchin (D-South Virgina,) found out that for every 100 washing and drying episodes, White Americans lost a single sock 34.72% of the time, while Blacks lost a single sock 34.74% of them time.

 “I know many Americans were initially outraged that senators and congressional representatives took three years to get these findings, but with these fascinating results, I am almost pretty sure they will understand the time and millions of dollars spent were well worth it,” said Manchin, a professional bitch.

 Others said the findings were extremely “telling”.

 “Although it was closer than I thought, 34.72% to 34.74%, it is clearly a win for White Americans,” said Marjorie Taylor Greene, a relatively well-known fecal matter. “Maybe the darks should organize their clothes better, or at least look harder in the dryer for a missing sock.  Hey, I just realized that darks probably don’t separate dark and white clothing. That sure says something.”

 When pressed by Bob Woodward what that actually “says”, she refused to answer.

 After releasing the findings both the senate and the house announced they would be on summer vacation and would resume meetings in early October to discuss the Russian invasion of Ukraine and, more importantly to figure out a way to lower the price of gasoline by six cents per gallon without resulting in block-long lines at gas stations across the United States of America. Congressional  analysts has stated a  drop of 6 pennies for a gallon would mean that American drivers could save 96 cents – nearly one dollar - on a single 16 gallon fill-up.

 “To some, that may not seem like a lot,” said fecal matter Taylor-Greene. “But if you fill up 400 million times, that would really add up.”

THE MAGNIFICENT FAREWELL OF BETTY DAY, GODMOTHER OF JORDAN DOWNS, QUEEN OF WATTS

There was the city equivalent of a state funeral here in town over the past weekend as Royalty was memorialized and laid to rest. The local television news didn’t cover it, nor did the Los Angeles Times. To their credit, PBS did try to film the memorial service, but were turned away.

Still, none of the over 1,000 people in attendance – other perhaps than myself - cared the media wasn’t out in force. These folks - from the proudest neighborhood in Los Angeles - are accustomed to being left alone and all they wanted to do was honor their Queen.

That queen was Betty Day, 82, long known as the “Godmother of Jordan Downs”, and more recently promoted by her peers Queen of Watts. The person that announced her Queen title at the memorial says much about the woman who was referred to by men who have spent 12 years at Folsom as “Ms. Day”.  It was announced by no more appropriate authority than activist Big Donny Joubert, from Nickerson Gardens, the once frequent deadly enemy of Jordan Downs. Joubert, like many, talked about Betty’s toughness, compassion and desperate pursuit to bring peace and end to the maddening gang violence in Watts.

I will say here this is an op-ed piece even if much of what follows might be more like an obituary or a news story about a dead person and not an op-ed. But my opinion - and why I am writing this - is everyone in this city and even the entire country should know about Betty Day and honor the Betty Days of the communities still out there.

Betty was born 1940 in Kilgore, Texas but came to Watts not long after. At 15 she met and married Arthur Day and they were together 65 years until his death in 2020. I met Betty, all five feet, 100 pounds of her, in 2005 when she was 65.  After more than a decade of relative peace in the Watts community between the Grape Street Crips of Jordan Downs, the Bounty Hunter Bloods from Nickerson Gardens and the PJ Crips form Imperial Courts, the killings were back.

Betty was instrumental in founding the Watts Gang Task Force, an organization consisting of gang members, community activists and police officers that met at then-15th District Council member Janice Hahn’s office. At the first 2005 meeting, when she became the first and still-only president of the task force, Betty famously yelled “Enough!”

LAPD Deputy Chief Emada Tingirides was at sergeant back then and spoke to the masses of that first Watt Gang Task Force meeting. “I saw her and thought ‘Whose is you?’ and she saw me and thought ‘Whose is you?’  Later, she took me aside and said ‘Oh, girl, you are going to learn from me.’ I did.”

Tingirides spoke fondly of being at a dining function and, at the end of it, Betty scooping up all the packets of ketchup. honey, mustard on the table and putting them into her purse.

Janice Hahn, now a L.A. County Supervisor, spoke next. Hahn didn’t have a prepared speech and spoke from her heart. I’ve seen Hahn speak for close to 20 years, but I have never seen her so relaxed, so smiling as she talked and laughed at the memories. In Hahn’s talk – an Tingirides’ - the wonder of Betty Day came shining through. She was a human whose personality was such that you realized she was special. She was on a mission of great importance, and she wanted you along for the ride, Betty had that lovely quality to make you feel important.  If I didn’t go to the gang task force meeting for a few weeks, when she saw me, she’d call out in her borderline raspy voice, “Krikorian! Where you been?”  By the way, Hahn ended by raving about Betty’s brisket and how it was the best she ever ate, and how Betty would not give up some secret ingredients. “Now I know,” Hahn said smiling. “It was those packets of honey and ketchup she took.”

Other spoke, but it all seemed opening acts for Betty Day’s son Wayne to get up and address the crowd. He did. Anyone familiar with Watts might not know him as Wayne, but everyone knows who “Honcho” is. Honcho was the leader of the Grape Street Crips, the notorious gang that ran Jordan Downs. The federal authorities referred to him as the “Godfather of Watts” and he ended up doing 11 years in federal prison for drug-related offenses. He got out in 2007, went straight and eventually worked for a law firm as a para legal.

“I want to thank everyone who came,” he said. Then he singled out a group. “I especially want to thank the LAPD for showing up.”

In the way back seats where I was, a man next to me mumbled, “Damn, Honch thanked the LAPD.”  If someone had told me 15, 20 years ago Honcho would one day thank the LAPD for showing up anywhere, I woulda laughed. That’s like Al Capone thanking Elliot Ness and the FBI for showing up. But he did. And all because of his mother.

Wayne spoke of his mother’s passing. “I have no regrets about her life and that she’s gone. It wasn’t like she caught a stray. She went in the proper order.”

After the service, I didn’t go to the burial, but instead drove through Jordan Downs. It was empty. I drove by Betty’s home on Grape Street near 107th. Across the street from her house is tiny Grape Street Park. The state legislature announced at her service it would be changed to Betty Day Park.

I wrote an article about Betty in the LA Weekly 2009 “People” issue. I can’t use all the colorful language the Weekly did back then. But the lede was basically this. “Betty Day doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’d tell off Obama if he upset her. Hell, she’d cuss out Putin in a heartbeat while walking the streets of Moscow at midnight. That’s Betty Day, the godmother of the Jordan Downs.”  

That was 13 years ago. Today I say, “Thank you, Queen Betty.”

HOW MUCH YOU WEIGH, SLUGGER? WHEN YOU WEIGHED ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT POUNDS, YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL

“How much you weigh, slugger? When you weighed 168 pounds, you were beautiful. You coulda been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager, he brought you along too fast.” –

Those are the lead-in lines of Charlie Malloy (played by Rod Steiger) that prompts his younger brother Terry (Marlon Brando) to unleash one of the film world’s most revered soliloquies: the back of the taxi “I coulda been a contender” speech in “On the Waterfront”.

When I went to Kaiser last week to get a blood pressure checkup - after testing kinda high the month before, holding off on a prescription to lower it by vowing to cut down on certain foods - the nurse had me weigh-in by sitting on the examination chair.

“168 pounds”, she said.

I felt elated. My dream weight, my own fighting weight! Finally, after many years I was back in shape. Cutting down on butterscotch Budino, Nancy’s Fancy gelato, lamb shoulder chops and double orders of cacio y pepe had paid off.

Then, my absolute worst nemesis, me, went into sixth gear down the Mulsanne straight at Le Mans. That month before, when I had that highish blood pressure check, I had weighed 179 pounds. Sure, that was pretty good for me, who peaked over 200 a few years back. But to lose 11 pounds in a month?  Jeez, I thought with dread oozing, something’s very wrong with me.  I hated to think it, but to lose that much weight that fast, I might, I could, I, I, I thought of one thing. Cancer. The scourge that killed both of my parents.

How cruel a disease to come at me with “168”. It was almost admirable in its wickedness to use the number that leads to the most famous scene of my all-time favorite movie.

I needed to weigh again.  I told the nurse. She did and it was 167 pounds. Oh no, I’m going fast.

“Let’s put on you the regular scale,” she suggested, sensing my anxiety. I got up – wobbly - and walked at least 13, 14 feet to a stand-on scale. It came out in kilos. 81 of them. I quickly did that math, the 2.2 pounds per kilo.  Hmm? That’s, ugh, 162 plus 16.2. Wait, that’s 178 pounds.

Yes, 178, not 168! Immediate relief. I’m fine. That feeling was quickly followed by me thinking, “Damn. A month of cutting down at Mozza and I only lost one measly pound?”

I keep going over and over in my mind, telling myself how fortunate I am on so many fronts. My health, my family especially my sister, no bombs are falling on me, that I’m still kicking, all the funerals I’ve been to, my incredible girlfriend of 19 years, but that ‘ol nemesis of mine, me, keeps trying to throw big ugly monkey crescent wrenches onto my wonderful life.

I told my friend Caroline Blundell I was my own worst enemy and she just said “Join the club.”

You have next to no idea how many times I’ve almost had a stroke, often when I’m having an outwardly pleasant conversation with a friend or acquaintance.  Or one of those sudden heart attacks that kill you nearly as fast as a bullet to the brain. Oh, I just had a, just right now, a sudden twitch in my right neck, It went away quick, but isn’t that one of those early warning signs that the big one is coming. Or is that a shoulder pain? A neck pain seems a lot worse than a shoulder pain. 

If you don’t feel well, never go and Google a symptom. You probably know that, but it needs to be repeated. (Especially to myself.) Any possible twitch is a symptom of deadly disease.

My own twitch just now has passed, and I feel pretty good.  But, for the heck of it, I’m gonna Google “twitch in the neck”  Hold on. I just did. I shouldn’t have. That’s all I put in “Twitch in the neck” and it looks like I have an underlying spinal problem.

Of all my worries - my heart, my brain, my liver - I always figured my spinal situation was good. Something I didn’t have to be concerned with. Now look. I might have an underlying spinal problem.

But I don’t know. I feel pretty good. Even with this possible spinal issue. In fact, I feel so good that I wonder if something is wrong with me.

Yeah, I worry. I mostly keep it to myself, though.  I mean there are many people out there who know me and actually think I’m cool. They see me as a journalist who covers the street gangs in the projects in Watts.  Who covered the war in 2020 in Artsakh, ,Armenia.  Who has a wonderful famous chef as a girlfriend. Who drives around in (her) 450 horsepower Porsche like he’s Steve McQueen. Who women on the Mozza Corner turn to when they have a flat tire. Zeus forbid they should read this. In a way, I’m hoping my editors Susan or Karen rejects this piece.

I told my sister the opening to this story, the italics of “How much you weigh, slugger?” and her only question was “Who’s Billy Conn?”.  I told her he was a light heavyweight (up to 175 pounds) boxing champion in 1939-1941 who moved up and was beating heavyweight champ Joe Louis until the 13th round when he was knocked out after he got cocky and went toe to toe with the Brown Bomber

Actually, ya know, back in the day, way back, my cousin Alec told me I coulda been a good boxer. Yeah, I thought, I coulda been another Billy Conn.

Charlie - How much do you weigh, slugger When you weighed 168 pounds.....you were beautiful. You could have been another Billy Conn. That skunk we got you for a manager. he brought you along too fast.

Terry - It wasn't him, Charley. It was you. Remember that night in the Garden? You came down to my dressing room and said, "Kid, this ain't your night. We're going for the price on Wilson. You remember that? "This ain't your night." My night! I could have taken Wilson apart! So what happens, he gets the title shot outdoors in the ball park and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville! You was my brother, Charley. You should have looked out for me a little bit. You should've taken care of me a little so I wouldn't have to take dives for short-end money.

Charlie - I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.

Terry - You don't understand, I could have had class! I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody. Instead of a bum...which is what I am. Let's face it. It was you, Charley!

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE PEASANT ZUPPA" NAMED BEST SOUP OF THE YEAR FOR 2022

Yes, mister and misses know-it-all,. I realize there are over 360 days left in the year 2022 and, as they say, “anything can happen.”

But, the truth is “anything” can’t happen.

Sunday, on the second day of the year, Nancy Silverton made a soup so delicious that many of the world’s greatest restaurant chef and the world’s revered home cooks formally announced they could not make a soup takes that good even if they tried for the next 363 days. As a result, the the ISF, the International Soup Federation based in Geneva. formally proclaimed Silverton’s Panicale Peasant Zuppa as “Soup of The Year, 2022”.

The soup was of humble origins. The base or starting broth aka bouillon de demarrage was he liquid of long cooked beans from a New Year’s Eve meal. (It should be noted that several prominent chefs including Mauro Colagreco, Andreas Caminada, Alain Ducasse and Ruth Reichl lodged formal complaints with the ISF claiming the Panicale Peasant soup could not be named Soup of the Year 2022 because it was started in 2021. The compliant was tossed out with the following admonition “Thinking like that would lead to other complaints such as you could not win the Nobel Peace Prize for one year because you had done some good stuff the previous year,” said Dr. Hans Christian “Pea Soup” Anderson, ISF’s Director of Operations.

So the soup. It was made with cabbage, Rovejo dried pea native to Umbria. unnamed seasonings. a cardboard box of vegetable broth. potatoes and other things. The write Michael Krikorian was the only human to have it for dinner. Later, however, Nancy gave a small container of Panicale Peasant Soup it her sister Gail and brother-in-law Joel. She wanted to give them more, but Krikorian would not allow this to happen, even though he likes Joel and Gail.

. .

NANCY SILVERTON'S "PANICALE FRITTATA" TAKES EARLY LEAD IN BEST DISH OF 2022 COMPETITION

As soon at the gate fell for the start of the Best Dish World Championship 2022, American chef Nancy Silverton stomped on the gas and took a commanding lead with an egg dish that had the few fortunate diners thanking their lucky constellations and the competition wondering how the hell where they going to catch up.

Silverton, cooking in her pajamas, and using two eggs, made her revered Panicale Frittata which, today, had artichokes, ham and swiss cheese.

It was, in its original meaning, delicious.

With Silverton safely in the lead for best dish of the year 2022, others contenders scrambled ( not eggs) to think how they could close the gap. Massimo Bottura said he needed to be alone. Rene Redzepi took a walk in the woods. Thomas Kellar considered retirement. Fredy Girardet considered offers to come out of retirement.

After Michael Krikorian told her how good the dish was and she had just made the best dish of 2022, Silverton shrugged and said “It’s just eggs.” Yeah, and that stuff on the “Mona Lisa” is just paint.

.