Act Your Age... Dancing to the Music of the 70s, 80s, and 90s

First appeared on Retirement News Weekly, Issue 31

I hate dancing.

Correction: I hate dancing without a partner.

Certainly one can find joy in dancing with someone you love. And surely one can appreciate dancing with someone you’ve just met. But for a man, dancing alone is akin to giving a speech in English to thirty drunken strangers when all you can speak is Mandarin. Despite this, I still go “dancing” and it’s a testament to just how much I enjoy the company of my friends and how eager I am to get out of my apartment on a Saturday night. This week, like many before, I was invited to attend Retro Night at the Paragon Theatre. This local club plays music from the past four decades once a month. Of course, I was going to go with only slight trepidation.

Wearing a Ghostbusters T-shirt and a hoodie, the closest thing I have to retro clothing, I headed to the Paragon around 11. The frigid air cut through my thin sweater as I climbed in the cab with the troop of girls coming with me. The line at the club’s entrance was short and after having our IDs checked at the door, we entered the main lobby. Once in the bar, I got a beer as the girl’s rushed to the dance floor. I in no way encourage indulging in social lubrication, but when it comes to dancing having a beer in hand doesn’t hurt. I could see the girls on the floor having a ball. After another swig, I headed to the dance floor.

When I’m uncomfortable in a situation I begin to study my surroundings like a scientist. Thus, on the dance floor with dozens of my peers grinding and jumping to retro music, I sought direction through observation. I searched the crowd looking for any man who seemed to know what he was doing in hopes that I could mimic his actions. What I’ve come to realize is that while women seem to dance with purpose and joy, men dance like they’ve just soiled themselves and hope no ones looking. One arm up, one arm down, awkwardly looking around... or maybe that’s just me.

Through these observations, I’ve narrowed down what men do on the dance floor to five moves. They include:

#1) The Sway, when a man stands on the dance floor, usually holding a beer or drink, and sways side to side.

#2) The Cool Guy Nod, when a man leans against a table, bar, or post and just nods his head to music.

#3) The DJ, when a man pumps his fist in the air or air plays an imaginary turntable.

#4) The Grind, when a man finds a woman, stands behind her, puts his hands on her hips, and wiggles… in a way that doesn’t look incredible silly. This one often gets more graphic, but that’s the tame version.

And #5) Wild Abandonment, when a man just wants to dance and with wild abandon throws himself into his moves.

Without fail, there’s at least one of these on every dance floor. I spotted him early on that night. He kind of looked like a young Patrick Swayze in a flowery t-shirt with three too many buttons undone. With little inhibition and a lot of hip thrusting, he danced alone while people watched with dropped jaws. The occasional girl tried to engage him for the sake of humor, mockery, or an interesting story.

Personally, I tend to go with the sway. Far from cool, but as I feel awkward already, it tends to bring the least amount of attention my way. I find myself incredibly conscious of the degree of my sway. Am I swaying too much? Do I look like the hand on a grandfather clock? Maybe I’m not swaying enough. What if I look like I’m just standing there? The easiest thing a guy can do with a group of girls he knows is prevent unwanted guys from joining in. It gives you something to do. So in between my sways, I’d spot the girl’s trying to thwart unwanted advances and stand between them and the violator.

As the night progressed, the dance floor got more and more crowded so that my degree of sway became less of an issue. I could barely move. Being a giant, my concern shifted to a fear that I’d crush someone if I moved too quickly. Streamers flew through the air and beach balls bounced through the crowd. People tried to slip past me as they made their way to the bathroom or another group of friends. I was left wondering if I was wet with my own sweat or the writhing bodies surrounding me. One of the guys who’d met us at the bar saw my discomfort and pulled me aside.

“You just need to point and stare intensely in random directions,” he said with only a hint of mockery in his voice. “That’s the best dance move.” He proceeded to demonstrate and the stranger beside him joined in.

We eventually made our way to the outskirts of the dance floor and people started to sit down: a little tired and a little bored. One of the girl’s we’d come out with was a salsa dancer and I took her hand and asked for tips. She proceeded to show me some moves: a lot of hip wiggling and special steps. I failed horribly, but when asked to dip her, I was all aces. I think I’m an excellent dipper.

“If I were to dance with a girl, could I rely entirely on dipping?” I asked her.

“Probably not,” she replied and laughed. Oh well.

We stayed out until around 1:30 and then took a cab home. A night well spent. The music that played during the night ranged from Duran Duran to Air Supply to Def Leppard. But it didn’t matter that the music was at its peak popularity before most of us were born. Dancing to these ageless songs connected us to a different time in the same way that in 15 to 20 years we’ll be finding Snoop Dogg and Eminem in the oldies section of an online store. So dance! Dance for exercise! Dance for fun! Or just dance to reconnect to a different time and place!

“The Watermelon Never Tasted So Sweet”: A Profile of Greg Willis

As published on Retirement News Weekly/Niagara on July 16, 2010.

I arrive on Chef Greg Willis’ street just in time for our 3:00 interview, but in a sudden fit of panic realize that the house number I remember him telling me over the phone doesn’t exist. I tentatively begin to walk down the street hoping to see the man. Instead I spot a brown 1969 Mercedes Benz in front of a large white house with pink awnings. I approach the front door and knock.

Chef Willis answers in a black apron. He peers over dark square-framed glasses suspiciously, before offering his hand wet from just finishing dishes. Chef Willis later tells me that he gets great pleasure from doing his own dishes. He points me to the back of his house and I sit down at his patio table. After a moment back in his kitchen, he returns with two cokes with lime and sets one in front of me. “I only have six cokes a year,” he tells me, “but today seems like the kind of day to have one.”

This non-coke drinker is the current owner of Kitchen Made, a home-based operation that sees Chef Willis prepare two weeks worth of meals and ingredients in a customer’s own kitchen. He also teaches cooking classes through the business, is Chef-in-Residence at the Real Canadian Super Store, and helps raise his two children, Alana and Spencer.

I ask him to tell me about his own parents. He was born to Geoffrey, an Englishman, and Carol, a Thorold-local, in 1958. He describes the two as neither being “food aficionados,” but fondly remembers them regularly bringing him to fancy restaurants in Toronto and Buffalo. He credits these family trips, as well as seeing the various foods of his culturally diverse friends’ families, with first peaking his interest in the culture of food and food preparation.

He frequently refers to his food as architecture and his father, who worked his whole life as a General Motors’ bricklayer, is likely the reason. Willis even worked with his father at GM for a couple of years, before leaving the family career path. He enrolled at George Brown for two years to be a chef and then Humber College for an additional year to be a sommelier. He remembers his first great wine fondly; a Piesporter Goldtrophen Riesling Auslese 1976.

After receiving the credentials to follow his passion into a profession, he sought out experiences that would prepare him for his dream job running his own restaurant and wine bar. He worked at the Parkway, Port Mansion, and the Holiday Inn. He traveled to Toronto and Fort Erie for different jobs. He recalls working under a couple of German and Swiss chefs whom he respects to this day.

“You get on the line at six o’clock at night to start cooking when all your preps done,” he describes after I ask about his experience working at the restaurants. “All of a sudden, it’s nine o’clock… you’ve done 150 covers, you don’t know how you did it because you’re on a second level of consciousness. It’s the closest thing to a war zone imaginable. Controlled chaos. Directed stress. And a lot of people feed on that. I know I do.”

With the right education and experience in hand, Chef Willis followed his dreams and opened the Cellar Bench in May 1991. It was one of the first of its kind in St. Catharines, catering to regional and seasonal cuisine. And it was a good time to get into the business. Niagara was just taking off as a wine destination. Later, when wineries wanted to open their own restaurants, they’d come to the Cellar Bench as market research.

“I wanted to incorporate all of the five fine arts into my restaurant,” he explains to me before taking a sip from his glass. “Good service as the dance. Music in the background. Poetry on the hand-written and hand-bound menus. Architecture on the plates. Paintings on the wall that changed all of the time. I wanted to bring the world to St. Catharines. Or at least, use it as a vehicle, as a conduit, a melting pot for culture. It seemed to work for a few years.”

While it took time to master his gasless kitchen, he was eventually producing everything that the restaurant served: from the breads that started the meals to the desserts that finished them and all of the oils, condiments, and foods in between. He loved the restaurant, but it paid a toll and after his children were born he sold it and took time off to raise them. But after six years at home, he’s glad to be back.

“When I closed the restaurant in 1999, watermelon never tasted so sweet. The yoke was taken off my neck. It was freedom like I’ve never tasted before. But after six years raising the kids, getting back into the restaurants gets me all jazzed up again.”

It was with this passion and excitement that Chef Willis started Kitchen Made in 2005. He didn’t want his own bricks and mortar commercial kitchen because it would require too much work and he’d already done it; however he longed for the chef life. He now prepares weeks worth of meals in his customers’ kitchens, removing their stress and offering a variety of top-notch meal choices that fit within their budget, diet, and taste. The elderly are his most common customer and he enjoys cooking for them.

“They’re really appreciative. They’ve got the years of understanding flavors and tastes and what a good kitchen does for them.”

As I wrap up the interview, I ask him if he has any last comments. He pauses for a moment to form just the right sentiment and then tells me that anyone remotely interested in food should take the time to do some of the things he’s already done; to work in a professional kitchen for a few years, to work hours peeling and dicing carrots, all to garner a true appreciation and passion for food and all that it can offer us.

He smiles, reflecting back on his own life as a professional chef, and then adds, “The watermelons never tasted so sweet.”