The Finest Meats and Cheeses in All the Land
Negotiate a hairpin-tight left turn off of Eisenhower Drive in Augusta, GA and you’d be forgiven for having thought you’d stumbled upon a Hollywood movie set from an era where time stood blissfully still. The main entrance to Augusta National is romantically well-shaded beneath a sunshine-dappled canopy of 76 stately Magnolia trees that stand proud as a phalanx bisecting the noisy outside world from Tradition. At the terminus of so-called Magnolia Drive sits a flawlessly manicured large grassy roundabout anchored by an ornate collection of bright yellow Azalea plantings artfully shaped into the likeness of the United States. Just feet away, a 50 foot flagpole towers over the tranquil setting, at the top of which the Stars and Stripes tuft confidently in the crisp southern Spring breeze. The roundabout contours and snakes its way to the edge of the famed August Clubhouse. Here, in the first week of every April, Spring officially arrives. The Clubhouse is a beehive of activity as workers rush-about to make perfect a picture of Legend, the famed $1.50 Masters Pimento Cheese sandwich included. Welcome to the Augusta National.
While players teed off earlier today at Tea Olive Hole #1, the Clubhouse this past Tuesday played host to a fete just as momentous. Here, the fabled Masters Club Dinner convened all past Masters champions. Each adorned in their bespoke green jackets (which interestingly NEVER leave the Grounds), each of the 31 guests took their seats surrounding a large rectangular table topped with a thick optic white cotton tablecloth. Fresh clippings of lemony azaleas playfully lazed about in a geometric pattern running the length of the table. Dustin Johnson tapped away on his cell phone while Jordan Spieth bellied up late to dinner. Tiger Woods was prominently seated front and center amid a cloud of impolite and unaskable questions that hung stubbornly In the air. Niceties and small talk boringly filled the void until silence suddenly enveloped the room. Approaching the 150 square foot formal dining room table was last year’s heroic winner, Hideki Matsuyama. The silence just as quickly gave way to a rousing standing ovation. Hideki, shy and bashful, smiled and nodded approvingly and motioned as best he could for his contemporaries to be seated. They resisted. A full 93 seconds later — and Hideki beet red with embarrassment — the room hushed. Hideki coyingly replied: Thank You. I hope you enjoy dinner. To which the diners erupted into uproarious laughter.
A fun custom with the annual Masters Club Dinner is that the prior year’s winner gets to author the menu for all the enjoy. Hideki took this privilege to new heights this year. Whereas past hosts veered from crowd-pleasing cheeseburgers and milkshakes (Tiger Woods) to pigs in a blanket and peach cobbler (Dustin Johnson) then haggis (Sandy Lyle) and whatever monkey glad sauce (Charl Schwartzel) is, Hideki went all-in on Michelin three-star fine dining. Assorted fresh flown-in sushi, sashimi nigiri and hibachi-grilled yakitori chicken skewers? Sure thing. Miso-glazed black cod accompanied with an umami dashi broth? You bet. Miyazaki A5 wagyu beef ribeye with wild mushrooms and fire-roasted root vegetables? 1000%. Japanese-style pillow strawberry shortcake with vanilla whipped cream and Amaou strawberries. Yes, please! The constant conveyance of food laid to rest any doubt that the meal would be insufficient to satiate growling hunger pangs. Japanese cuisine is not for everyone which makes Hideki’s proud choices all the more remarkable. Players who rolled their eyes at press conferences earlier in the day when read the night’s menu (yep, Dustin Johnson, you’re a meme. Again) were seen practically licking their plates and asking for seconds. In terms of reception, a hole in one. Talk about the weather, comebacks, a promising Tiger renaissance, family, travel, Covid and Ukraine took their rotating turns as topics du jour as the sun set quietly in the windowed distance.
One by one, revelers retreated to the nearby bar and later to their rooms to rest up for matters at hand. The Clubhouse has seen it all; if its walls could talk. 88 years of folklore united in sportsmanship, forged of mystique and fed with cosmopolitan taste. So from helplessly chasing gourmet food around a porcelain Apilco plate with a pair of chopsticks to haplessly pursuing a dimpled golf ball 465 crooked feet into a 4.25 inch hole, The Masters has begun. Forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk!
I know it’s been several days, but it’s worth quickly revisiting the general nuttiness that was last weekend. First we had the early retirement of Coach K, Tom Brady-style just shy of the summit. Asked after the game of the potential of a Tom Brady-style UNretirement in 40 days, he said he’s NO Tom Brady. His Dukies put up a good game-long back-and-forth fight but UNC rallied at the end to pin the Blue Devils to the mat. Meanwhile on Saturday, the Wildcats just couldn’t manage to escape Kansas’ suffocating Defense. The WIN had the Jayhawks soaring into the FINAL Monday night
yet in the first half the players feared they’d be little more than squirming dinner on a plate. It’s at that point that the Tar Heels witnessed their would-be coronation dissolve into the ether. Kansas mounted a roaring epic comeback for the ages. The Jayhawks had their victory handed down while the Tar Hells went belly up. That’s the drama and the beauty of the Madness in March!
