THREE CHILDREN WAIT OUT THE KARABAKH WAR IN A STEPANAKERT BOMB SHELTER

4 November, 2020

According to the United Nations Refugee Agency, three children I visited earlier this week are not war refugees. That’s because although they were forced to flee their homes because of war, they did not cross into another country. Instead, they went across town to a solid structure with a reinforced basement that can better protect them from falling bombs than their own dwelling could.

With their mother leading the way, they fled their home in Stepanakert, the capital of Karabakh, where war erupted the morning of September 27.  For the past month they have been at this fortified school that doubles as a bomb shelter and a rest stop for soldiers. The children’s father, a baker, has stayed at his bakery making bread for the troops.

Officials estimate at least 60% of the region’s population of roughly 150,000 have left their homes because of the war, some to the homes of family in Yerevan, some to abandoned buildings, some to a building that can take the punch of an explosion better than their own home.

Compared to those squalid camps you may have seen from the war in Syria, this converted school is not miserable, but the heart still aches, especially when you see your own family in the faces of these “non-refugees.”

The first two I meet, a 6-year-old Maneh and her sister Mary, 9, remind me a lot of my own family. Maneh is the name of my goddaughter, my nephew Mesrop Ash’s daughter and Mary is a live ringer for my cousin Greg and Lorenza’s daughter Francesca. I stare into their face and envision my goddaughter and niece in a bomb shelter. It is a sad vision. Maneh and Mary are sitting on a bed, staring at a hot plate warming a large pot of Tanabur (aka Spas), a traditional Armenian yogurt soup with wheat berries and herbs.   

When I start asking questions, first of Maneh and then of Mary, they have that unblinking stare that seems to say ‘unless you are my mother or bringing me some food what could you possible say to interest me?” It’s not a mean look at all. It’s adorable and sweet, but it definitely says “you’ve got nothing for me.”  Mary’s looks says: I am in a rough situation here, I’m dealing with suicide drones and you’re asking questions? Really?   

Little does she know that although I might not have anything for her, it turns out I do have something for her little brother.

As Mary stares, with a seemingly permanent smile, Edward, 5, wearing pants and a sweater, comes up to us and starts singing. He is wearing the world’s cheapest sun glasses, worse than the type you get after your eyes are dilated. I reach into my computer bag and pull out my sunglasses and tell them all a story, which my fellow journalist Angelika translates.   

“These sunglasses have been with me in my darkest hours. In the worst times they have brought me comfort. When I cry,  I put them on and no one can see my tears. And when I sing I put them on and I look cool. I want you to have them.”   

I hand them to Edward who slowly takes them after looking at his sisters, then puts them on with much enthusiasm, Maneh has to straighten them. Edward beams and swings from side to side. He looks like a 6-year old Armenian Ray Charles. And then he starts to sing.  Lika translates.

I was a violet in a garden.

And you were a dream

You were born on a dark night

But now you are a violet only for me.

As Lika translates for me, I wish I had those sunglasses back. Edward hands them back to me, but I let him know they are for him to keep. I look over at his sister Mary. She’s still staring, but I think I catch her nod ever so slightly. I think I showed her something.

As we leave, without my sunglasses, I hug them all goodbye. I stick my hand out to Edward and he slaps it hard. Kid got cool fast.

And to come clean, those sunglasses never hid my tears. I bought them last week in Yerevan.

And don’t let the United Nations fool you. These kids and the tens of thousands of others, around the world, are all refugees. Seek out an organization you trust and help them out.

WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE STEPANAKERT

30 October, 2020 19:40

By Michael Krikorian

“Riding high in April, Shot down in May” – Frank Sinatra line from  “That’s Life”.

April to May? Hell, at least it took Frank a month to do what Angelika Zakaryan heartbreakingly did right before my eyes in a 15-minute journey from ecstasy to agony.

Angelika, also known as Lika, 26, is a journalist from Yerevan-based CIVILNET news agency who has been writing a personal daily diary of the war in her native Nagorno Karabakh for the last month. Her columns are brutally raw, innocent and heartfelt.  

I met her on Day 27 of the war in what has become her new home: a school with a sturdy basement that has been converted into a bomb shelter. Our meeting had been prearranged by Salpi Ghazarian, the director of the Institute of Armenian Studies at the University of Southern. Before I left Los Angeles,  Salpi said “You’ll like Lika.”  I said nothing, but thought to myself  “No, I won’t.”  I almost never like anyone who someone else says I will. But, in this case, I was wrong and Salpi was right.

Angelika has this engagingly bright smile, the kind that nearly closes the eyes, that now often masquerades her sadness and anger. But, that smile also makes her darker thoughts all the more powerful when they break past her inherent goodness. When a kind person wishes ill will on someone, it hits much harder than when a commando says he will slaughter the enemy.

We engage in some small talk before we hit the streets of Stepanakert.  It’s no surprise - if you know me even a little - that “Casablanca” comes up. And Lika loves that movie, too, and even quotes one of the lines from Ilsa, aka Ingrid Bergman. “I hate this war so much.” 

She also says the war has introduced her to Joan Baez and the song “Donna Donna”, which I’ve never heard.

Our first stop is another school converted to a bomb shelter. There are children here. After an hour or so, we leave to get some lunch.

On the way, in our van driven by Arshak, a veteran of the war here in the 1990s, Angelika gets news that sends her spirits soaring, sends her “riding high”.  Her brother is home from the front. Arshak speeds the Honda van to her house. As we get near, another car is pulling up and a man is getting out. It’s her brother.

“Stop! Stop!” she screams . “That’s my brother.” I slide open the van’s side door and before I can even get out, Lika is climbing over me and onto the street. She rushes to her brother and they embrace for a long, silent time.

Lika’s brother has been on the front since the beginning. His closest friends, all volunteers, have previous army experience. They have all survived so far, though several other young men they fought alongside, near Martakert, have been killed. Angelika hardly says a word as he and I talk briefly. She’s beaming, bouncing on her toes, hands either clasped behind her back or touching his shoulders.

She says we will go to the best store open and bring back some things to eat. Less than 15 minutes later, we are at a store called Gurman, a corner market type of place the size of a Seven-Eleven. I wander around, grab some chocolate bars and notice that Lika is off by herself near the toothpaste shelves. She’s on the phone.   

When she approaches me a minute later, she’s not the same jubilant young woman I was just with. She looks like another person. I’ve never seen anyone “shell-shocked”, but I’m guessing they look like Angelika now. Her mother just called to tell her that her favorite cousin has been captured by the Azerbaijani military.   

“I don’t know what to think,” Lika says. “I can’t even cry.”

She stands numb in the little market as men in army uniforms pass by. “I’m so afraid. He has a heart of gold. I’m so afraid of what they will do to him. Beat him. Or worse.”

I don’t know what to say. What can I say? I don’t say anything.

##

Yesterday, I left Stepanakert. I had to say goodbye to Lika, so I go to the school-turned-bomb shelter, three-blocks from my room at the Park Hotel.

At the school, two metal doors are locked with thick iron chains. My phone doesn’t work. I call out her name. Then loudly. Then I yell. Nothing. Then, I think, hell I’m in a war zone, and from the ceiling of my lungs, I roar out “Angelika! Lika! Angelika.” I think of Terry Malloy yelling for Edie Doyle in “On The Waterfront”. Then I see her appear through the dirty windows. She is so relieved to see me. “I thought they were yelling for me because the Azeris were coming to get me.”

That is her worst fear, she tells me as we go downstairs into a converted classroom where she sleeps.

“I would be more afraid of Azeri hands than Azeri bombs. If a bomb fell on me, I wouldn’t be afraid. I wouldn’t have time to be. But if they got their hands on me? The things they would do to a woman. It’s not that I don’t fear the bombs. If you are a human being you have to be afraid of bombs. But, I think they would do the most horrible things to me. But, still, as much as I hate this war, I am here.”

Lika reports her brother is back at the front. There is no further word about her cousin, although the International Red Cross has been alerted.  

She drifts off in thought and comes back.

“Do you remember the fires in Australia a little while ago?  The world was so worried about the koala bears that were hurt and killed in the fire. I love koalas. But I wish people would care about Armenians like they care abut koala bears.”

Soon, we say our goodbyes. I go sentimental and steal a line from Casablanca. Swapping out Paris for Stepanakert. She walks back to her new home.

That night, in the calmness of a Yerevan hotel room, I look up the Joan Baez song “Donna Donna” and I understand why Angelika Zakaryan loves it so much.

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered

Never knowing the reason why.

But whoever treasures freedom,

Like the swallow has learned to fly.



A GLENDALE DOCTOR ON THE KARABAKH FRONT

27 October, 2020 23:40

By Michael Krikorian

The good Scotch flowed smoothly in a spacious Glendale backyard on Saturday night a month ago. It was September 26 and Dr. Alexander Gevorgyan, a surgeon who specializes in facial reconstruction, was enjoying his friends’ tales of hunting in the mountains near Bishop, California as they indulged on a Macallan 18 year-old scotch whiskey and the even more rarefied Macallan 25.

Then someone’s phone rang. It was Sunday morning in Karabakh and war had erupted. Azerbaijani forces were bombing the eastern towns of the mountainous region populated almost solely by Armenians. 

By Monday, Gevorgyan was organizing efforts with his co-workers to send relief supplies to Armenia and on to the frontline. Blankets, bandages and coats were among the essential items they gathered to send. But, considered the most urgent supplies to sent were tourniquets, that dreaded battlefield dressing vital to stopping extreme blood loss.

For the next several days, Gevorgyan, who was born in Gyumri in 1979 and moved to Yerevan following the devastating earthquake in nearby Spitak in 1988, anguished over what he could do to help. But, deep down he knew he had to go help the wounded. He told his wife, Anet.

Anet was silent for several seconds. Then she swallowed and said, “You know you have kids.”

“I know,” he said. “I have a country, too.”

The couple hugged and he rationalized his case. “You and the children will be safe in Los Angeles. But there are a lot of children fighting and they will need my skills. There are 18, 19-year-old boys fighting. They are our kids, too.”

Anet knew she couldn’t stop him. The only thing she could do was make him promise to come home safely.

Gevorgyan, who has lived in Glendale since arriving in America in 2010, landed in Yerevan Oct. 9 and arrived by car to Karabakh the next night.

####

Tuesday afternoon, a man wearing a black outfit that matches his beard and hair is walking up a narrow dirt path away from the hospital towards a narrow, partially paved street. A dirty van turned into a makeshift ambulance races by the man walking. It is taking two soldiers whose bloody wounds have been staunched at this site to a more sophisticated hospital in Stepanakert or maybe even Yerevan.  As the van drives off, two explosions are heard in the distance. Soldiers and workers implore a journalist not to give the location of the hospital. They don’t think the enemy would bomb here if they were aware of the hospital location. They know it.  

The man in black is Dr. Gevorgyan and, as he is about to sit down on a concrete block, a soldier hurries over and respectfully puts down a red blanket.

The doctor stares at a reporter for couple of seconds. “I heard there was a journalist here who wanted to interview me, but I didn’t want to leave the hospital to talk to anyone. I am not a star. But the commander told me the journalist came from Los Angeles, so here I am.”

He looks around the dusty corner where three soldiers stand guard.    My photojournalist team of R. Ezras Tellalian and Gevorg Haroyan shoot what they can, careful not to photograph anything that could give away our location.

“This is where I arrived that first night. It was absolutely pitch black and there were probably a million stars in the sky above, but I only looked up for drones,” he says. “You can hear them. Then came vans with the wounded, speeding up and making this turn,  down this hill to the hospital. It was chaos. In my training and at work of course I have seen bleeding patients after car accidents, but the quantity of bloody people I saw that night is something you only see in a war zone.”

Morphine and its relatives are used liberally.

In the nearly three weeks he has been here, Dr. Gevorgyan says relatively few of the soldiers who’ve been brought to the hospital have died. However, he says heartbreakingly, some of the soldiers “do arrive with wounds that are not compatible with life.” He stops talking and looks at the blue sky above. In the distance several more explosions are heard.  “Sometimes doctors can’t do god’s work. We are only doctors.”

The teams of doctors and nurses perform their duties with resolute efficiency, he says. “Everyone knows what they need to do and they just do it. Stopping bleeding and extreme pain is the first steps. Number one thing is to stabilize them. I don’t even know their names. We don’t have time to chit chat.”

He gives utmost credit to the special group of people whose job is to go to the actual battlefields – be it a city street or a field – and pick up the wounded. They often have a red cross painted on their car, but lately that doesn’t protect them from being attacked.

The thought that a car with a red cross painted on it is targeted, the thought that he has to tell a journalist not to say their location because the hospital will be bombed, starts to enrage Dr. Gevorgyan.

“I hope this story helps spread the word about what is going on here. To the world. Why is Azerbaijan, a country with 10 million people, getting help from Turkey, a country with 80 million people, getting sophisticated attack drones from Israel, getting Islamic mercenaries from Syria, Libya and Pakistan to fight a Armenia, a country with three million people? Do you know why? I do. It is because those motherfuckers are afraid of us.

“And who is helping Armenia? Is America helping their fellow Christians?”

He stands up. “Tell the story. I have to get back to work.” And Dr. Alexander Gevorgyan walks back down a dusty dirt lane toward a hospital somewhere in Karabakh.

Michael Krikorian is a writer from Los Angeles. He was previously a reporter for the Los Angeles Times and for the Fresno Bee. He writes under the pseudonym "Jimmy Dolan" for the Mozza Tribune. His website is www.KrikorianWrites.com and his first novel is called "Southside".

In a Bombed-Out Church, Karabakh Soldier Leaves the Battlefield to Marry Sweetheart

25 October, 2020 07:51

When American actress Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier in Monaco in 1956 there was a lot of media covering the wedding. A quarter century later, at the marriage of Lady Diana Spencer to Prince Charles in London there were throngs of press clamoring for photos. And in 2014, the media hullabaloo to get to the marriage of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West in Italy reached a feverish pitch.

But, all those weddings – and likely every other wedding in history – can’t compare to the percentage of media present at the October 24, 2020 wedding of Mariam, 25, and Hovik, 25, in Shushi, Artsakh (Nagorno Karabakh).
Accompanying the couple were two friends plus the priest. Surrounding them were 60 members of the press from at least nine countries. That works out to 92% of those in attendance were media, a record unlikely to be ever broken.

Sometime before war broke out on September 27, when Azerbaijani forces assaulted the Armenian autonomous region known as both Nagorno Karabakh and Artsakh, Hovik and Mariam, his high school sweetheart from Martuni, set October 24  as their wedding day.

When the bombs started falling, Mariam’s family fled to Yerevan, for safety, but she stayed behind in Stepanakert. Hovik was rushed to the front with his army unit.

Fighting was fierce and he lost many friends. As they lay dying, Hovik thought of his wedding and the Armenian tradition that a soldier should replace his fallen comrades with children of his own.  He was determined not to delay his marriage.  To top it off, it is considered bad luck to postpone a wedding.

So, the plans held. Hovik received permission from his military superiors to have a two-day leave to get married in Shushi at the St. Ghazanchetsots church on the anointed day. Then, on October 8, the church was severely damaged by Azerbaijani air attacks. The church was attacked twice.

But the wedding was bound and determined to happen. Hovik and Mariam had planned to keep it quiet. It would only be them and two friends - the best man and maid of honor. But, as Armenians are apt to do, somebody spilled the beans and word reached the press center in Stepanakert.  

The word was out. A soldier got to leave the battlefield to marry his sweetheart in a bombed-out church. Talk about a fairytale wedding.

Today the wedding happened under a beautiful blue sky and with no air raid sirens wailing.

Miriam, dressed, or course, in a traditional white dress appeared from the sidewalk and started walking toward the church. She was surrounded by cameramen and reporters, many wearing helmets, a few wearing Covid masks. Halfway to the entrance to Sourp Ghazanchetsots, Hovik, wearing non-traditional wedding outfit of army fatigues, greeted her. The two kissed quickly and led the throngs inside.

With a eight-meter wide hole in the ceiling, and a enormous pile of rubble on the church floor, they were married in a brief, solemn ceremony surrounded by the mob of press.

Outside, the couple released to white doves and gave some brief interviews.

“My parents were married in war time,” Miriam said. “I strongly believe and hope we will be the last generation married in wartime.  And I know Hovik will return to me.”

The two got into a white Honda Civic and took off. Hovik has to return to the front tomorrow. Tonight is the night.

READ this story on Civilnet here copy and paste this link if you can’t click on it. https://www.civilnet.am/news/2020/10/25/In-a-Bombed-Out-Church-Karabakh-Soldier-Leaves-the-Battlefield-to-Marry-Sweetheart/403943

Also Read: On Karabakh Frontline, Faith Remains a Key Weapon

Michael Krikorian is a writer from Los Angeles. He was previously a reporter for the Los Angeles Times and for the Fresno Bee. He writes under the pseudonym "Jimmy Dolan" for the Mozza Tribune. His website is www.KrikorianWrites.com and his first novel is called "Southside".

THE SPECIAL FORCES PRIEST WHO GOES TO THE FRONT LINES IN KARABAKH

25 October, 2020 02:07

On Karabakh Frontline, Faith Remains a Key Weapon

By Michael Krikorian

If you can imagine a priest who was a badass, you’d get Father Varazdat, a priest who wears two uniforms. 

Father Varazdat Najaryan stands - a rock solid 6-foot, two inches -  in front of the Holy Savior Church in downtown Stepanakert dressed in his black priest robe and pulls it aside revealing his army fatigues. He’s heading today to the front lines of the war. He knows war well. He was in two of them as a member of Armenia’s Special Forces Unit.

But, these days he goes to the front in hopes of inspiring the spirituality of the men fighting the invading Azerbaijanis.

“First, we go to the front to inspire the soldiers, to strengthen and encourage their faith, to expel fear from them,” Najaryan says. “But what often happens is the opposite. They inspire us. We see their honor and courage and we are strengthened.”

On the morning of September 27,  Najaryan was at home in Yerevan preparing for service at St. Anna Church when someone yelled out, “They are shooting at Armenia.”

That was the beginning of the Azerbaijani offensive to take Artsakh, the mountainous autonomous region also known as Norgano Karabakh. Instantaneously, Father Varazdat felt the call of duty. “I knew I had to be here. The earth of Armenia was calling me

Soon he was at the church in Stepanakert and then to the front lines, a varying, ever changing battlefield, that has found him in many places and often transforming himself. “You go to the war as a priest, but once you are there, you turn into a soldier. A Kalashnikov is never far away from me.”

Still, having seen so much, he offers his take on war and compares the AK47 to faith. “Yes, you need a rifle, it helps, of course. It is a strong weapon. But, an even stronger weapon is spirituality. Confidence in good faith is an actual physical weapon. It gives you real physical strength. Not only in a spiritual, mental way, but in an actual muscular way. Your arms are stronger. Your legs are stronger. You are more focused. Your determination mounts.”

And, he says, if you’re fortunate to be surrounded by similar fighters – and Armenians are – it only increases your instincts to fight and survive and surmount the odds.  “You are not only fighting for yourself; you are fighting for the 100 around you, behind you and to your sides.”

He talks about the “many miracles” the soldiers in Martouni, in Martakert have told him.  When pressed, he tells of one tale.

“A soldier had a thick New Testament in his breast pocket in front of his heart. He was hit by a projectile and the Bible stopped it from hurting him.”

What book of the Bible, he is asked. Was it Luke? Matthew?

Father Varazdet Najaryan smiles and says “The next time I see him, I will find out.”

READ THIS ON CIVILNET HERE, please copy and paste - https://www.civilnet.am/news/2020/10/25/On-Karabakh-Frontline-Faith-Remains-Key-Weapon/403923

HELLO STRANGER, IT SEEMS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU BACK AGAIN, OSTERIA MOZZA'S GREATEST NIGHT AS THE CORNER ROARS BACK

By Jimmy Dolan, Mozza Tribune Staff Writer

Hello Stranger, it seems so  good to see you back again. How long has it been?  Ooh, seems like a mighty long time.  

Those are the opening lyrics of one of the most enduring songs ever, Barbara Lewis’ 1963 monument to emotions, “Hello Stranger”.  And last night in Los Angeles, the tide of emotions broke deep as Osteria Mozza roared back to life with what was - not arguably, it just was - the greatest night ever on the Corner.

It was great because it had been so bad and the great redemption on Saturday made the triumphant return to being open and full of life all the sweeter.  As Knuckles Washington from Imperial Jordan Gardens in Watts says “The best thing about getting knocked down is getting up and having a magnificent redemption. 

The “knockdown” was not one, but several. The shuttering of a city, of a nation, really. Then, after two weeks of a food giveaway program, the entire Mozza Corner locked because of the greatest blow of all,  Nancy testing positive for Covid. Then Nancy going into San Quarantine with her trouble-searching boyfriend Michael Krikorian as they waited and prepared for Covid’s worst, which, thanks Zeus and ginger-infused hot water, never came. Then the powerful protests of the inhumane homicide of George Floyd swept through our city’s streets, and in its ugly wake, the trashing of our lovely neighbor MelroseMac and a dust up on the Corner itself by cockroach bitch ass punks.

So tension was thick before Osteria Mozza opened Saturday night. There was none of the usual banter, no wise cracks among the wait staff. It was all business.  The staff was lean.  But, they were elite. Five of them had been previously awarded the prestigious Employee of the Month. The Corner’s Director of Operations, Kate Greenberg, was the evening’s host. There were no somms, but Joe Bastianich, a wine guy from New York City, filled in. Even the kitchen crew, head by executive chef Liz Hong, was somber. The only thing her chef de cuisine Nicolas Rodriguez said at all to this reporter was “I finished ‘The Wire’ last night.”

The first hour of service was borderline awkward, it was that quiet. It took awhile to get used to not seeing people at the bars. But, as the night wore on, and the comfort level grew, the trepidation of being out in a public dining room dissipated and the place began to feel like, well, like Osteria Mozza.

Hello stranger, it seems so  good to see you back again.

Eddie and Coco were back at table 31. Sid and Joni were out in the patio. Nancy, with the joint’s most striking mask, strolled the room, stopping to greet old friends, to congratulate a college graduate, to enchant a young chef.

For the vast majority of diners, it was their first meal out in months. And the staff felt honored they had chosen Osteria to be their initial foray into a sit down restaurant. Walk by a table and you could feel the relief people had of being out and feeling good. The wine flowed and the conversations did, too.  So much so that people stayed longer at their tables than usual. So  much so that by 8:00 there were 30 people outside on the corner of Highland and Melrose waiting for their table. Thankfully, at Nancy’s urging and Joe the Somm’s pouring,  they all had a drink in their hand and were excited to be where they were.

If one table stood out it was 72, the hidden corner table nearest Highland and southside bar, where two Los Angeles fire fighters held court with their ladies.  They were having a ball. They were the reason people go into the restaurant busines, to have customers like that. . One of them LAFD battalion chief Richard Fields had even briefly went to the same high school as Nancy, Birmingham.

But, our host asked Krikorian if he could get them out of that table so some of the sidewalk crowd could take it. They had reveled for three and half hours, but they had the vibe of people who would get it. So Krikorian explained and they were delighted to give up their table and join Nancy and Michael at the bar for a couple more.  Alain Birnbaum, the Mozza GM, said today they were the coolest table of all time.  Patrick “Paddy” Daniel, the bartender, agreed.

So in the end, we saw some old friends and met some new ones that we will be able to one day say ‘Hello stranger, seems so good to see you back again.”

One of the servers last night was Elyssa Phillips who this reporter enjoy messing with. But she said something that I thought was beautiful. Elyssa said “Last year we were awarded a Michelin star. Tonight we showed the world what that really means.”

Damn, if I’m ending a story with a quote from Elyssa, I guess the world really has changed. Hopefully, in a positive way,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSa0EH0LiGk That’s a link to Barbara Lewis singing a live version Hello Stranger. Who wrote Hello Stranger? Barbara Lewis did.

L.A. TIMES OP-ED BY NANCY AND MICHAEL, "A VERY BUSY NIGHT ON THE CORNER"

THIS IS REPRINTED FROM THE JUNE 4TH ISSUE OF THE LOS ANGELES TIMES

About 9:30 Saturday night, we got a text saying MelroseMac was being looted, a hideous spillover from the demonstrations protesting the killing of George Floyd. Curfew was on, but out of what we thought was over caution, we decided one of us — Michael — should go check on “the Corner,” our name for Highland and Melrose, where three Mozza restaurants and a takeout prosper next to a computer store.

A nightmarish sight awaited. The thought-to-be impregnable metal gate at MelroseMac had been breached and inside was an eerily silent free-for-all. Next to it, Mozza 2Go and Chi Spacca had been thrashed — the entrance charred, the walls graffiti-smeared, the wine display ransacked, stacks of cookbooks burned, upended tables broken and hundreds of dishes shattered, along with four windows.

What made it sadder for us was that Chi Spacca had remained open after Mayor Garcetti ordered L.A. restaurants closed on March 16, and for two weeks, in what the in-house Mozza Tribune called “our finest hour,” it fed thousands with the Restaurant Workers Relief Program. Then Nancy tested positive and had to retreat (she barely got ill). To find Spacca beaten up Saturday made the hardship of the last three months hurt even more.

You can’t see a deadly virus and, until it’s captured by a cellphone camera, it’s difficult for much of the population to grasp day-to-day racism. But a smashed window, a building in flames and vandals dashing out a door with loot are mesmerizing sights, on television or in person.

This week, the virus that has killed, is killing, more than 100,000 Americans, and the sickening, maddening realities of never-ending racism are sharing — stunningly — equal billing with the theft of an IMac Pro and a case of barolo. The demonstrations are profound — and we praise them — but it is the upheaval in Los Angeles and across the country that has really kicked the media into high gear and, remarkably, relegated COVID-19 to the inside pages. (You remember the pandemic, right? That virus? We quarantined and wore face masks?)

So we watched, and Michael tried to thwart, the throngs targeting MelroseMac and stragglers going for the wine at Osteria Mozza. The looters mostly sprinted east on Melrose, computer boxes tucked in like a football, making the sidewalk turn at Highland and getting into waiting, almost always shiny, newish cars — one was a black AMG Mercedes — then peeling out. Police were nowhere to be found.

Twice, though, it looked like the cavalry had arrived. Around 11 p.m. and later at 11:30 or so, 10 LAPD cruisers approached, sirens on. “Police!”, the looters shouted, and scatted like bitch ass roaches. But the black-and-whites drove right by our mayhem, headed west. We understood. It wasn’t like saving Gaja or Giacosa reds was a priority for the police. They had bigger branzino to fry.

On Sunday, there was this MSNBC headline: “Chef who survived COVID-19 describes watching her restaurant looted, lit on fire on TV.” That was Nancy, but she would never have come up with such a “woe is me” headline. Compared to so many, we are lucky.

We took a walk on Monday and several passing motorists stopped to offer their “deepest sympathies.” Not necessary. Any sympathy you want to throw our way, toss it instead to those who need it more, to George Floyd’s family, for instance. Especially send it to his brother Terrence.

Actually, don’t send Terrence sympathy, give him respect and heed his words. Of all the comments about the destruction over the last week, none rang out to us as much as those Terrence offered at a memorial for his brother George. It was a Rodney King “Can we all get along” moment.

“I understand y’all are upset. I doubt y’all are half as upset as I am, so if I’m not over here blowing up stuff, if I’m not over here messing up my community, then what are y’all doing? What are y’all doing? Y’all doing nothing.”

That’s what we think too. How many of those creamers wrecking MelroseMac even knew the name of the man the protest was about?

On Saturday night, on Sunday and Monday, the looters got away with more than computers and bottles of wine. They took the spotlight off the essence of the protests. They blocked the point that black lives matter. But Tuesday night, at least in L.A., the balance shifted. The demonstrators showed us the true colors of America at its best, the marchers clarified our righteous outrage over what happened to George Floyd. We hope — they hope — this time it will finally make a difference.

If it does, then it will be worth the knockdown our beloved corner took one Saturday night in 2020. We will get back up. We can always find another case of barolo or barbaresco. Terrence Floyd can’t find another brother.

Nancy Silverton is the chef/owner of the Mozza restaurants. Michael Krikorian, a former Times reporter, covered Watts.





RESTAURATEUR MELINA DAVIES SUSPECTED IN HUGE HAAGEN-DAZ CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER STOCKPILE/GIVEAWAY OPERATION

While the hoarding for some items - paper towels, toilet paper, hand sanitizer - garnered a lot of media attention in the early Covid days, other products did not, though they were being grabbed nearly as frantically.. Take the mysterious case of Haggen Daz Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream.

Even in the old days Haggen Daz Chocolate Peanut Butter, known among fans as “CPB”, was difficult to find But, now? don’t even make the effort.

So it was major news in international ice cream circles Sunday, when federal officials announced they had made a breakthrough in the case known as Operation CPB when they named a prominent Burbank restaurant owner and cook book writer as a key player in a organization that has stockpiled literally dozens of their prime Haggen Daz flavor and then - remarkably - give them away.

Melina Davies, who allegedly has connections to Armenia organizations throughout the Mid East and sectors of South San Fernando Valley, was named in an affidavit obtained by the Mozza Tribune. Davies, who with her husband Christian, owns Olive and Thyme, could not be reached for comment.

Nancy Silverton who wrote the forward for Melina’s upcomong book “Olive and Thyme, Everyday Meals made Extraordinary” strongly defended her in these allegations.

“Fist of all, getting something you love and enjoying it is not hoarding, “ said Silverton who lives with a man known for his over indulgence of CPB.

Silverton continued. “Indulging is not hoarding. Hoarding is when you take 400 rolls of paper towels. Melina is simply savoring and also making other people feel special by giving them a threat. There should be more people like her, especially now..”

WITH AUCTIONS ON HOLD, FAMED AUCTIONEER BILLY HARRIS TURNS TO DELIVERING TACOS

in those long-ago before Covid days, Billy Harris, widely considered America’s preeminent auctioneer, was a weekly feature as the master of ceremonies of the highest caliper food events. If you paid a slew of money to have dinner at Nancy Silverton’s home in Umbria, like famed Oscar-winning producer Darla K Anderson did last year, Billy sold it to you. Not Billy “maybe” sold it to you. He did.

Harris had risen to the top of his field by starting off at the bottom, delivering Puerto Rican snacks to the shut ins in the South Bronx during “The Days” on the ‘80s.

Now, however, Harris is back to square uno. With no auctions, Harris, like most of the country, finds his old job doesn’t cut it anymore. So ever resourceful he has figured out what people in Los Angeles can’t do without; tacos.

Last week he became part of the now trending movement of ‘Drop Drop Droppin’ At Nancy’s House (Bob Dylan released the single Saturday. ) as he brought several pork, beef and mushroom tacos from the highly sought after Tijuana based mini chain Tacos 1986. Nancy and her boyfriend ate them standing up.

Unlike the 1980s when Harris worked alone in one of America’s roughest neighborhoods, this time he has help form his wife Sharon and daughter, G. The good news is you won’t have to spend $50,000 for a auctioned lunch. Harris actually lost money on this delivery.