Itinerantdaughter's Blog

I, ____, heretofore referred to as CORRESPONDENT, have agreed to enter into a written correspondent with Itinerant Daughter, heretofore known as ID.  Upon signing this contract, CORRESPONDENT agrees to the following stipulations:

1. CORRESPONDENT will feel emotionally invested in the quality of the prose
2. CORRESPONDENT will feel at least a twinge of guilt when not responding to a note (email or letter) in a timely manner
3. Despite point number two, CORRESPONDENT will not be under any obligation to respond to any piece of communication in a timely manner, provided that:

3A. CORRESPONDENT agrees not to communicate displeasure with ID via silence or     refusal to engage to written correspondence.  CORRESPONDENT can only opt out of relationship and written engagement via a clear message (medium is the choice of CORRESPONDENT) indicating such.

In turn, ID agrees:

1. To never assume that CORRESPONDENT’s delay in response is indicative of anything other than CORRESPONDENT’s very busy life.
2. To never guilt CORRESPONDENT into sending response
3. To also only communicate termination of correspondence via clear written message (although knowing ID, this will not happen, as she has never met an epistolary relationship she couldn’t carry on.)

Signed and dated:

_______________                   _________________

CORRESPONDENT                        ID

Again, only tried once, but it was enough of a burn that I didn’t take it further.  But I’m definitely amused at myself upon re-read.  One of our dining companions from then (this was written a few years ago) was worried it would be too snarky about the group––sorry, JW!

Reviews of Restaurants Run by Cults

We’re pleased to present our first episode in “Mouthwashed!,” a series of reviews of cult-run restaurants. This week, the Spiritually Adventurous Eater visits the Yellow Deli in Rutland, Vermont, run by a group known as the Twelve Tribes.

“Would you guys like a table?”
“Yes, for four.”
“That’s so nice!”

As the Spiritually Adventurous Eater, I am accustomed to establishments

with creepily friendly staff members, but the Yellow Deli in Rutland, Vermont, manages to exceed even my expectations. The host, a middle-aged bespectacled man with a ponytail, is so enthusiastic about our arrival I momentarily worry he might throw out his back. But instead he snaps up a couple of menus (“We serve the fruit of the spirit!”) and leads our party of four (future-Jew, Jew, recovering Catholic and atheist) through a maze of woven textiles and repurposed tree branches to our booth, shaded from the low light of the main room by a faux-roof like a hobbit hovel. As you’ll probably have noticed by now, the most bizarre and fascinating thing about this place is the décor. The only way I can think to sum it up is this: if the set designer of Willow had a love child with sixties activist group Another Mother for Peace, it would look like the inside of the Yellow Deli. No wait, another way: if Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre ate a plate of Margaret and Walter Keane paintings and then took a shit in a twee forest, it would look like the inside of the Yellow Deli. Wait, sorry, just one more: if David the Gnome was on acid at a Phil Lesh and Friends concert, his hallucinations would look like the inside of the Yellow Deli.

All this is somewhat unnerving to me, as a person with a natural threshold for kitsch, but I am comforted to see little unfamiliar about the menu. The Yellow Deli––one of eleven in the United States, Canada and Australia––features typical American cafe fare like sandwiches, salads, chili and a small selection of breakfast items. There are a few nods to hippie Vermont in the form of maté blends, “green drink,” and the fact that one sandwich is named the “Deli Rose,” but other than that, an unassuming patron would be hard-pressed to recognize how seriously the proprietors take their peace-and-love ethos. Hard-pressed, that is, unless they were to take a quick jaunt to the bathroom, wherein they could partake of a variety of free “literature” while they waited to use the facilities. The newspapers and pamphlets available outline––however vaguely––the beliefs of the Twelve Tribes, known in some areas as the “Yashuas,” who run the chain of Yellow Delis in addition to a handful of coffee shops, hostels, tanneries and organic food markets throughout the United States and the world. The Twelve Tribes began somewhat organically (no pun intended) in Chattanooga, Tennessee in the early seventies, one of a few individual attempts within the “Jesus Movement” to blend hippie culture with Protestant ideals. The group has a long history in the food industry; its original members gathered at a coffee shop called The Lighthouse, run out of the home of longtime church leaders Gene and Marsha Spriggs, before founding the first Yellow Deli. Though they have recently branched out into real estate development and construction, the Delis have all but financially sustained the Twelve Tribes, who consider all possessions and earnings communal, for almost forty years.

On my walk back to the table, I pass by the counter, and watch as uncharacteristically mean-looking women, dressed in palazzo pants and dowdy Amish-esque tops, slap together cold cuts and bread for sandwiches. Our happy waiter is at our table when I return, ready to take our order, a giant red flower on the end of his pen shaking as he hastens to write down our requests. No beer on tap, of course––Twelve Tribers don’t drink alcohol, and they follow certain Levitical dietary laws, like eschewing pork and shellfish––but you can get a frosty mug of root beer if you’ve a hankering. We order sandwiches and veggie burgers, which a young smiling woman brings over to us within fifteen minutes. The presentation is crunchy-snack-bar––sandwiches in woven baskets, accompanied by the requisite piles of Lays chips and a pickle.

“Oh yes, table ‘iron,’ this is yours,” she says. “Where are you guys from?”

“Brooklyn,” I respond.

“We have a farmer’s market there, in Brooklyn. We sell green drink.” She seems to think that I might know it, but I explain to her that Brooklyn is quite large, and there are many, many farmer’s markets there.

“But I’ll look out for you guys… ?” I offer, and at this she seems calmed. Only after she’s gone do I realize there are tomatoes on my sandwich even though the menu had said there weren’t, but when I meekly get the host’s attention and he answers, “With all my heart?” I decide to just dump the slabs on my boyfriend’s plate. One member of our party insists his sandwich is “succulent,” though mine has much more in common with a packaged lunch you’d buy at an airport terminal than a prime rib. When I order banana bread for dessert and realize it’s almost certainly microwaved, I realize the crux of my disappointment: I had expected these happy little cult members were waking up early to bake bread––recipe calls for a dash of cardamom, a handful of walnuts and a pinch of love––but in fact, most of their fare tastes like it comes right off the shelf at the nearby Shaw’s. A follow-up call to the Twelve Tribes’s toll-free hotline confirms that while they do cook with goods from their farm when possible, more often than not, they buy commercial. All in all, I feel duped, just as I had when, at eight or nine, I realized that in fact David Bowie was not, in fact, king of the goblins.

Our check comes out. It’s yellow, of course, and embellished with little smiley faces and a big thought bubble emblazoned with the words, “We are here for you!” But the fruit of the spirit? Ain’t that tasty.

Grades:

Décor:                         8 out of 10
Cuisine                       4 out of 10

Service:                       6 out of 10
Proselytizing:             2 out of 10 (they didn’t try nearly hared enough to win us over, in my view)

Future columns will be the same form, reviewing the following:

The Merry Wives Café, in Hildale, Utah

The Scientology Celebrity Centre Sunday brunch, in Los Angeles, California

Golden Era in San Francisco, California

Der Dutchman Café in Holmes County, Ohio