December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

June 24, 2013--Ed Iacobucci

Some people know how to live, others how to die, and then there are those very few who know how to do both.

Ed Iacobucci was in that rare, latter category.

Anyone who knows anything about the history of computing and big data knows about Ed's life's work--first, as the leader of the IBM team that developed the OS/2 operating system that ultimately made personal computing possible; and then as founder and CEO of Citrex, which provides server and desktop virtualization, software-as-a-service, and cloud computing technologies, including Xen open source products.

Many of the original founding members of Citrex had participated in the OS/2 project. Ed's vision was to build OS/2 with multi-user support. IBM was not interested so he left and was offered a job at Microsoft as chief technical officer of its networking group; but he turned it down to start Citrex.

Rona and I got to know Ed as a breakfast companion at the Green Owl in Delray Beach. We know lots of regulars there, and enjoy and love many of them; but when we would spot Ed at the counter working on the crossword puzzle we knew the morning would for certain get off to a good start.

He was fun, he was informed, he was interesting, he was provocative, he was playful, creative, and optimistic. Just what one would expect of someone who had been so professionally inventive and successful. But unlike many who were, Ed was as comfortable talking with Ernst the chef as he was with Harvey, the owner of a local insurance agency. When Ed was ready to leave for work, unique among all of us, he would always head for the kitchen to let the staff know how much he enjoyed the food and to ask how things were with them.

Just last week we learned that he was terribly ill and in hospice care. His wife Nancy told us that he had been battling pancreatic cancer for the past 16 months.

I was shocked and almost before expressing my concern, blurted out, "How could that possibly be? We saw him as recently as a few months ago and he was the same old Ed."

"He didn't want to burden anyone with his struggle," she said. "He didn't want to be treated as a sick person. He wanted to keep living as normally as possible until that was no longer possible."

"For what it's worth," Rona said to Nancy, "he achieved his goal. All we noticed was his hair loss. Other than that he was fully himself. He told us he shaved his head to inspire his employees. He told them, he said to us--clearly not sharing the truth of his condition--that he would keep doing that until his new company, VirtualWorks, achieved a certain level of profitability."

"That was Ed," Nancy said when she called to tell us he had died, "He was as inspiring at the end as he was during the 20 years we were married. And I wouldn't trade those years for anything, with all the ups (and some were very big) and downs (these also could be very substantial)."

"We know," I said, "He, and you, rode that roller coaster with great spirit and style. I can only imagine what all those years were like with him. I too wanted my 20 years of Ed."

"One story and then I have to go," Nancy said, sounding as good as one could be in these dreadful circumstances, "You know he was a big Miami Heat fan and wanted to live long enough to know how they did in the finals. The seventh and deciding game was Thursday night. I had the TV on in the bedroom and though he was losing consciousness every few minutes he would ask the score. It was a close game and not decided until the end of the fourth quarter. When time ran out, he awoke again and I was able to tell him the Heat won. He smiled and patted the bed next to him, indicating he wanted me to join him. Which I did. I held him in my arms and after a few sweet moments he stopped breathing."

"Same old Ed," Rona said through her tears.