and then I built a table. and kept manifesting them. I am little uncertain as to why. but it is now a nervous tick — and invades my dreams (and I pace, fidget, even squint “tables”). the tables have been as humble as dirt and sometimes princely, almost royal. thousands of hands have brought food to and from these tables and countless elbows have come to rest on their planks. but I am just beginning — really just at the first stages of the inquiry.

on april 23, 2006, a different kind of music was in the room. indie-rock-heartthrob stephen malkmus was crooning about old wine and rocking back and forth. gore vidal was on my left, my daughter perched on his knee; he was clearly uncomfortable with her landing — but she was a determined four-year-old and thought “mr. vigaal” was a worthy victim. a thought crossed my mind: why not use the table. use it critically, imaginatively, obtusely, politically and occasionally feign artistic intent — but study it. we have lost tables. they seem to have been swallowed up by our concept of “individuality” — the loneliest, most gratifying concept since masturbation. I’ll spare you more speechifying. I make tables happen. and perhaps someday I will be able to say more about “the why.”

step 1. build a fire. 1996.

I have a theory. the round table evolved from the fire. the primordial and even commonplace fire. the round table finds its highest form in the architecture of the symposium. the long table comes from the tree. and the small table — the restaurant table — well, that comes from our desire to control our environment. when I was following mark lakeman around portland we attached 60-foot bamboo/visqueen wings to a datsun truck. we served tea, and people banged drums — it was a modern fire. we forgot to add the table. generally, tables rise 30 inches from the ground. when seated your food is far enough away to allow for eye contact and easy conversation and the surface is close enough to accommodate the natural bend of the elbow.

step 2. break the law. 2001

in march 2001, I erected a 21-foot (3 hollow-core doors) table in the living room of a portland bungalow. the idea was simple, cook for people and take their money completely outside of the realm of the legal food system. it was an “underground” restaurant before that term had a definition. it was meant more as a toolkit than a discrete occurrence. my former partner and I intentionally broke the law, intentionally made as much noise as possible — and in so doing made it clear that the authorities in question were far too busy to spend their time sleuthing around town looking for speakeasy feasts. it was not just a way to pay the bills. it was a clearly stated question to the establishment, meant to act as a thorn in the side — what jaime lerner calls “urban acupuncture.” now there are many hundred underground restaurants in this country. I think the toolkit helped.

step 3. try harder. the back room. 2005.

when I started family supper (step 2.) I was vastly opposed to a “program” of any kind. it was a simple choreography. no politics, no theater. just a mildly anarchistic revolt against the banalities of the modern restaurant. there were no choices. you sat with strangers. the menu was always a surprise, you had to share food (gasp) — and if you had a lousy time — well… f’off. when esteemed novelist and “public intellectual” (I love that moniker) matthew stadler asked me to twist the concept, make it a formal evening, invite authors and thinkers, stage a conversation — kind of like milk that has been fortified — I didn’t pause. I said yes.

step 4. use the table. twist the table (harder). turn it on its head. 2006.

on april 23, 2006, I asked gore vidal if I could come to his los angeles home and manifest a modern-day symposium in his living room. he said yes. three months later gore deftly made two things very clear to me: sitting, eating and drinking with philosopher-kings is as important as it ever was; and, secondly, I was not yet ready to host a symposium with the likes of gore. but this work will continue. it must. our culture has done much to discredit food and much to discredit its elders.

step 5. through the looking glass. what can we learn from history. now. march 2007–present.

the food we celebrate, the food that adorns our tables at critical cultural moments is cuisine; genuine cuisine is rarely the result of a chef with several michelin stars. I see it more as a rut of culture, a repeated action, an obvious and adroit response to a basic context, but also informed by larger historical events that run by like groundwater. bouillabaisse, succotash, and pibil have little to do with the four french mother sauces. six months ago, morgan brownlow and I began to investigate the intersecting forces that form cuisine by launching a series that presses down on the most gastronomically influential non-chefs in history: apicius, brillat savarin, alice b. toklas, catherine de medici, etc. we coined the series, “the history of the mouth.” on said evenings people from the arts, literature, film and even the disciples of political science stomp around the table artificially recreating a kind of historical context and strangely, somewhere in the crosshairs, the food we share seems more familiar. imagine eating the same crawfish recipe alice and gertrude ate in the war years, but now, in a crumbling warehouse on a table draped with sliced dresses, and the diners launching into soliloquy, reading the works of the two ladies. it beats dinner and a movie.

step 6. don’t show up. september 15, 2007.

“we shall put the spectator in the centre of the picture.” the italian futurist carlo carra wrote this alluring line in 1910, and I have always wanted to emulate his words and host an event that had no host. on september 15, 2007, at the bridge motel in seattle it happened. Forty guests showed up and were confronted with a pile of ingredients, pots, pans, an ad hoc kitchen, a 40-foot table — and no host. they had been abandoned (much to their surprise). mutiny? no. they fed 60 people that night and had a tremendous time. I was even allowed to shoot a cautionary message through this work: tables are not individual acts; they are, at their core, a collaboration.

step 7. get political. or at least global. july 2007–present.

coffee is the second most valuable commodity on the planet — second to oil. it is grown in some of the most war-torn and conflicted regions of the world. we talk about oil. we even talk about corn. but we rarely talk about coffee — maybe it is safer that way. nonetheless seattle coffee roaster caffe vita has commissioned me to manifest tables in each of the countries from which it directly sources beans. I gather as many of the coffee-entrenched as possible (farmers, pickers, brokers) and together we cook a deep pot of food, something closely entwined with the culture of the crop, and we talk about their lives. this globetrotting table is acting as a sponge, a petri dish and an amplifier for their stories. the early results have changed me and have run through the veins of vita and will hopefully expand the dialogue about the complex cup we all enjoy.

step 8. get political again. but closer to home. june 2008–june 2009.

in the northwest we hold our heads high: we have progressive cities, the country’s “most green” city, the country’s “best planned” city, etc. these lovely communities are held together by a strong and desolate arm of concrete and steel called the I-5 corridor. I am concerned about the in-between — I think the future of our glittering towers depends much on the isolated stretch between portland and seattle, bellingham and vancouver. our brightest intellects — most piercing imaginations — only seem to concern themselves (understandably) with the bright-lit cities of the region. in a gesture of seduction I am going to take to the streets. starting in june 2008 I will erect 12 tables during a one-year period — 12 tables poised dangerously close to the onslaught of steel that is the interstate. this project will require participation and I am hoping the table can bring a few of the brightest minds into the in-between.