D.U.O
*Originally released as Serialized Fiction in The Spirit News, December 2016.
Chapter 1
January 2010
It came to me as a melody in a dream. D.U.O. Do unto others. I grew up going to church, but I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in god. I never intended to call the restaurant something biblical, or preachy, or philosophical; it hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I’d spent months jotting down names and none were good enough so when my grandfather, my father’s father, walked through the door as a young man with a full head of hair and a beard he’d never worn when he was alive, and began singing those words with me in an unforgettable string of notes, I decided on D.U.O., without any further thought. Because of my reluctance to being tied so closely to something so famously pious, I’ve since assigned multiple meanings to the acronym- my girlfriend and I are a duo; my restaurant partner and childhood friend, Jeremy Palermo, are a duo; I’m a musician and you’ve got two-part harmonies and duets and duos in music; it’s a stretch, but cooking something two-ways can technically be thought of as a duo, so there’s a culinary spin as well. D.U.O. is duplicitous; it’s whatever you want it to be. The way we’ve been killing it, I could have named the place Shit For Brains and it wouldn’t matter.
Jeremy and I took everything to the extreme. We took farm to table, fresh and local and turned it on its head, took it to a whole new level, set the rulebook on fire and threw it out the goddamn window. We sourced everything from Brewerytown. In a 3-story house at the end of a row on Cabot St., between 30th and 31st, D.U.O. fused modern technique and technology with culinary minimalism, according to longtime Philly food critic, Greg Lapan. Jeremy, formerly a public defender, is now The Forager. I worked as a therapist, specializing in CBT, stuck in a world increasingly addicted to quick fixes, biopharmaceutical treatments to issues that can only be resolved over time, through hard work, by deliberately reshaping the mind. Now I’m a self-taught, 34-year-old, Michelin-starred chef. We came from nowhere, were nothing, and through food, by doing whatever the hell we wanted, we got high-end diners seeking a remarkably sophisticated experience to fall head over heels for hyperlocal, indigenous, urban ingredients.
I knew nothing. I was a nobody. A nothing. Not anymore.
But this is a relatively newly held position, a perception only recently derived. I haven’t always felt this way, and neither have they. In the beginning, it was slow going; very slow, for months, no one showed up, and I wasn’t sure we’d even make it.
Anthony “Big Dut” Dutten was elected as the 98th Mayor of Philadelphia in November 2007. I’ve seen him nearly every Sunday since, while running. Same place, same time, every time: right at the intersection of Reservoir Drive and Mt. Pleasant in Fairmount Park. For the first 9 weeks, in passing, we exchanged hellos, waves, and fists in the air, the one week I yelled his name, another he asked me mine, the following, after seeing him on the news bash a bunch of “shitheads and morons” for shooting into a car full of children, I shouted best mayor in the world; when I saw him again on week 10, I wasn’t surprised.
On alternating Sundays, he ran without an entourage, and this week was no different.
As I approached, I watched the entire scene unravel. A lanky guy with a black ski mask jumped a fence and blindsided Dutten, tackling him to the ground. I began sprinting toward them. The guy pointed a black plastic bag, something you’d get at a corner store, at the Mayor as he slid backwards on his ass, scrambling to get away, to get out of there with his life. With about 50 yards to go, I jumped into the grass to quiet my steps. The guy was shouting incoherently, swinging the bag above his head like a madman, jabbing the mayor in the belly, holding it to Dutten’s forehead, then his own, then back to Dutten’s. “If you’re going to do this, do it.” Said Dutten. “Make it happen. Make it happen!”
I grabbed a branch lying beneath a tree, and without slowing, with both hands, wound up, and snapped it over the guy’s back, knocking him to the ground.
Dutten, a massive man, crawled to his feet, stood tall, wiped his bald head with his right hand, and momentarily took off after his attacker, who had already escaped into the woods.
The broken handle of a hammer lied in the grass as the empty bag fluttered away.
“That mother… He’s done. I’ll rip him apart.”
Chapter 2
I didn’t know it at the time, it took a while to figure out, for him to confide in me, but immediately following the attack, Dutten snapped, ‘became someone else’ as he said, initiating and perpetuating one of the most, if not THE most notorious crime sprees the city has ever known… And outside of his inner circle, nobody knows he’s behind it but me. I’ve questioned how much they even know, but he keeps me guessing, always deflecting, says it doesn’t matter who else knows. He’s probably right. For a guy with no criminal record, no prior documentation of mental illness, no history of violence, and what he describes as ‘a fairly typical upbringing for a guy my age’, Dutten is a monster; his enthusiasm for violence is boundless. I don’t know how he hasn’t been caught. I’ve been saying for years that it’s just a matter of time.
As Mayor, he is meticulous, a perfectionist, he out works, out talks, and outdoes everyone; he’s obsessively prepared, deliberate in every action and reaction, demanding but fair, he is well-liked; with a sky high approval rating not for what he says but for what he does; the city of Philadelphia has never been in a better position. He’s brilliant. He seems to know not only what everyone wants, but also what everyone needs and how to get it done. He doesn’t take shit from anyone, is a man of the people, is connected to union leaders, activists, lobbyists, politicos, business men and women, celebrities and other heavy-hitters, and he is one with the common man, the lesser-knowns and nobodies. It’s a complicated, interconnected circuit of decisions, relationships, behaviors and actions, none of which could be attributed to just one person but hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people pulling in a similar direction, but under Dutten’s watch, the economy is surging, environmental conditions have improved dramatically, education- perhaps the most challenging, critical area of all to get right- has at worst been stabilized and at best caused us to radically rethink our view of intelligence; and even factoring in his ‘sporadic violent outbursts’ as he refers to it, violent crime is way down.
When compared to his professional behavior, Dutten’s approach to revenge is diametrically opposed. He is a madman. He is singular. He does not think. He does not feel. He does not premeditate. He simply explodes. As a result, I have diagnosed him with Intermittent Explosive Disorder, categorized in the DSM-V under the umbrella, “Disruptive, Impulse Control, and Conduct” disorders. Dutten originally disagreed with my clinical diagnosis, saying he doesn’t meet the criteria, that his actions do not cause impairment in occupational or interpersonal functioning. “Look at me. Look at this city. Does any of this seem impaired to you, huh?” He pointed to his head with the index and middle fingers on his right hand then out the front window of D.U.O. with his left. Yes, it does. I said. I told him if he wants to stay out of prison, if he wants to live, he should listen to everything I say.
Chapter 3
Over the course of 8 days following the attack, Dutten was responsible for taking out 30-some people, indiscriminately pummeling all kinds of unsavory characters, “pieces of garbage, scumbags that at one time or another had it out for me in someway, some shape or form, many of em’ still do, guys who want me gone, who fought dirty against me, against us, our movement” he said. “We can’t keep taking 5 steps forward and 4 steps back, you know? We have to move forward continuously. We have to change history. It doesn’t work if we go backwards. We’re running out of time.” I agreed with the sentiment, in this case our ideals aligned, but he was full of shit; he either wouldn’t admit it or truly didn’t get it yet, so he dragged a couple homeless guys all over the park in front of the Free Library and tossed them over the embankment onto 676; he unhinged the jaws of a few longtime defense attorneys; caved in the right orbital and broke the hands of union boss Dave Doherty; put a 4-pack of soda lobbyists through the front window of a popular Center City steakhouse; pummeled real estate mogul Ari Flatbush inside a descending elevator in a parking garage in Rittenhouse; cracked the ribs of award-winning chef, Devin Sprago; and from behind, kicked a 67 year old City Hall custodian in the ass, bouncing him bouncing down a flight of stairs. He said there was a good reason for everything he did. I didn’t believe him. I told him his reasoning was flawed, that he was not well, and that even though his disorder was eliciting his maladaptive behavior, what he was doing was fundamentally wrong. It was illegal. I knew that simply telling him this wouldn’t be enough to change him, that he would have to discover this for himself, but the nature of his actions were so extreme I really didn’t know what else to do. The situation was far more complex than any I had ever experienced, far more than I’d expected, and I was doing all I could to keep it from becoming personal.
The perceived random acts of violence were all over the news and no one knew what to make of it. People started freaking out, but Dutten, our Mayor, was there to assure us that everything would be all right, not to worry.
D.U.O. benefited because it was Dutten’s home base throughout the spree; he dined with us every night we were open- Thursday, Friday, and Saturday- and media coverage portrayed me as having saved his life, and suddenly, we were on the map. It was all we needed and we never looked back.
Everything is done in-house. We do gastronomical variations of greens, fruits, roots, trees, shoots, fungi, beans, nuts, seeds, herbs, flowers, birds, and various rodents- raccoons, squirrels, snakes, possums, and whatever else we could get our hands on. Sounds too out there to work, I know, but it works to perfection. If I’ve learned anything since starting this, it’s that anything, absolutely anything, goes.
The clientele is as eclectic as the food is diverse. They come from all over the city, from all walks of life, and they make the place move.
As always, on Thursday morning, Jeremy rushed in carrying a wooden crate overflowing with freshly harvested ingredients and dumped it out on the stainless steel kitchen counter.
An hour and a half later, after thoroughly dissecting the collection, I said, OK, here we go, we’ll do a 6 course tasting tonight. What do you think of this?
Rainbow Trout and Cabbage
Mushroom Paste, Onion, and Lavendar
Steamed Turtle and Egg Yolk Sauce
Raw Ants with Ginger and Coconut
Rosebay and Leek
Dried Boneset Flower Ice Cream
“ Goddamnit!” He said, smiling. “Hell yeah! Let’s go.”
I put on the debut album of The Remains, cranked the volume, and we went to work.
Chapter 4
It got immeasurably worse. The beatings were nothing compared to what would come. Dutten began erasing anyone and everyone who posed a threat, removing every fiber of their being. At first I only knew that it was happening and that he was solely responsible; unsure of how he did it, where he put the bodies, how he determined who had to go, how he remained free from incrimination; how he was able to lead a double life, appear so with it while inside he was someone else entirely, what the hell would happen next? Though I’d dealt with extremely violent clients in the past, it was never anything like this. It was never so ruthless, so vicious, so widespread and far-reaching, an issue of public health. I was never so enmeshed. Dutten trusted me because I saved his life. For my own psychological and ethical well-being, I was obligated to act. I had two choices: I could go to the police and turn him in, tell them everything I knew, wear a wire, work with them on a confession, which would be enough to put him away forever; out of my life, off the streets OR I could help him. I could help him change. I could work with him; become something better, someone new. Make him whole again. Fix this.
I didn’t see any of it coming. Of all the possible outcomes, mass annihilation and hysteria wasn’t something I’d projected. After I saved him, I thought about it a lot, whether or not I should sever ties immediately, right then and there, or see what happened, how it all played out. Before I could decide, he befriended me. He made the choice before I did. I hesitated. Maybe that was my mistake, maybe not. Either way, I am not morally, ethically, or legally compromised. I am not his accomplice. I have done nothing wrong; have nothing to do with his actions. How could I have predicted his complete mental breakdown and insane, incomprehensible future behaviors? It defies rational thought. I never envisioned a scenario where he would detach emotionally and evaporate morally, and kill. Or erase as he says. I’ve now considered every perspective, every potential response, every plausible consequence, and I feel no responsibility for him, have taken no ownership, nor will I. This is not on me. Yet still I must choose: I can either turn on him or help him. Where is the greater good, with Dutten imprisoned or dead, or rehabilitated and reformed?
If I work with Dutten, if I help him, he poses no threat to me, or anyone I care about. I’m not even worried about that, never have been. I just don’t see it going that way. He’s on his own hyper-focused, delusional plane. He has terroristic tunnel vision. If I help him, this can stop. If I don’t, if I turn him in, will it ever end? No matter what, lives are lost; nobody gets to come back from this, we don’t get to turn back the clock. There is really only one option here, and it’s clear as day.
Chapter 5
As soon as the butter and oil began to shimmer, I dropped in a handful of slivered onions. The technique has changed, the ingredients have improved, but the experience is the same as it’s always been. I took a sip of my beer, pulled the pierogis from the boiling water just as they began to float, and one-by-one placed them gently on a tray. I’ve found it takes a minimum of 45 minutes to properly caramelize onions. I’ve researched and experimented with various methods over the years, widely accepted shortcuts, none of which resulted in better flavor or texture than the right balance of fat with the precise cut with the perfect temperature with a good pan and a modicum of patience. Set everything up for success and get out of the way. It’s well worth the effort and the wait.
Dutten showed up just as I placed the first batch of 5 potato filled pouches into the screaming pan.
A minute and a half per side. I said. Any more and they’re too crispy, any less and they’re chewy. 3 minutes altogether and they’re as good as it gets.
“How are you?” He said. “Good to see you.”
Doing well. Have a seat. It’ll be ready soon.
It had been 4 years since Dutten erased anyone, 7 since I started cognitive behavioral therapy. CBT is based on the cognitive model- the way that an individual perceives a situation is more closely connected to his reaction to the situation than the situation itself. In reconstituting Dutten, I borrowed from several psychotherapeutic modalities: positive psychology, compassion focused therapy, Gestalt, mindfulness, acceptance and commitment therapy, motivational interviewing, dialectical behavior therapy, interpersonal psychotherapy, solution focused therapy, and psychodynamic psychotherapy. No pharmaceuticals. I have found no scientific evidence that drugs cure unhelpful cognition, mood, functioning, or behavior. In my experience, we have absolutely no clue exactly what these drugs are doing to people. We like to think we know, and the overabundant prescription of drugs for the purpose of mental health remediation would indicate otherwise, but there is no telling, no definitive way to scientifically, reliably identify what effect this is having on a person’s physical and mental state. Dutten and I met several times per week, at my office, in the dining room of D.U.O., and worked tirelessly to turn things around. No shortcuts. This work takes time. And on this night, we would not work; we would celebrate how far we’d come.
“Comfort food at its finest.” He said, pointing to the spread. “Not what you’re used to serving here.”
Not at all. But still so damn good.
We talked a lot about how far he’d come, how far we’d both come. He said I saved his life more than once, and that he would always owe me, that he would always consider me a friend.
You don’t owe me anything. Think of me however you’d like, I’m just happy I could help. This wasn’t easy. And, obviously, I couldn’t have done it alone.
He laughed and finished his beer.
I stood up to get him another.
“Sit. Eat. I’ll get it.”
As I stared out across the dining room, smiling, Dutten walked into the kitchen, opened and closed the refrigerator, and mumbled something about wine.
Sure. Take whatever’s there. Doesn’t matter.
I got up and walked to the front of the house, and looked out the window at the pinkish orange sunset stretching over the city. You see this sky, and this supermoon? I said.
…
It’s humongous. You see this thing? It’s the only time we’ll see the moon this close for 30-some more years.
…
Yo. Dutten.
…
I turned around and he wasn’t there, not at the table, and not in the kitchen.
The basement door was cracked so I went down.
Dutten stood with is head down, facing the wall, looking into his hands.
Everything OK?
…
Dutten. I put my hand on his shoulder. You all right?
He turned around slowly, gripping in his right hand a broken-off hammerhead.
“What the hell is this?”
