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Cafe Annie

Is it all just a tall tale? If memory has its way, with its knack for adding shimmering embellishments, then maybe so. But somewhere at the core there must be at least a modicum of the truth. So here’s the truth, maybe with just a few flourishes.

I moved to Houston in 1981. Everything I owned was in my car. I was young, so that circumstance seemed fitting. But I was much more than just moving to Houston. I was chasing a girl. At the time, she just happened to coincide with the geography. I had no plans to stay for very long, but long enough to test the shimmering waters of love. And, as a side note, I thought I should test the depth of my curiosity for cooking. I had just finished my PhD in Biochemistry at the University of California at Riverside. During those academic days, my childhood love of cooking continually grew and, given my acquired skills for reading and research, I had expanded my knowledge of cooking to all that was available in the literature. Bookstores were my library. My early reputation was that I was the cook who always had a book under his arm. The bookish moniker stuck and I’m still stuck on the girl. We’ve been married for nearly 35 years. And she would figure prominently in the fame of the restaurant. I suppose her side of the story would sound much the same with the exception that she would possibly be more emphatic about the point that without her, I would be nowhere. So, given that locality is circumstance and she is my locality, I’m here.

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