"We cant find your bag. Sorry."
"But my uniform is in that bag, among other things. You lost it; you find it."
"Sorry. We cant find your bag."
That was how my return to the Hyatt began after a blissful five day visit with my wife and family in Paris.
"OK, fine. Can you tell me what room I am in?"
"You're going to be staying at the Premiere Class hotel, as the Hyatt is totally full for the next few days."
"Great."
So I hauled my tired butt over to the Premiere Class hotel for a two night stay. I asked for my key at the desk and was told that my roommate would be back at about 2:30am. I wondered why My Wang would be working so late, but I was too tired to care, so I flopped myself down on the bed and fell fast asleep.
At just about 2:30am, my roommate came crashing into the room. I got up, and drowzily started to berate Wang for being so loud, when I noticed that it was not Will who was causing the raucus. It was some other dude.
I have to say this here: for a man like me to lose his Wang is a very devistating experience, but to wake up in a strange place expecting to find your own Wang, and to discover instead that you have a totally different wang in the bed just next to you, well, that is a bit disturbing. I mean, I like my Wang. I am used to my Wang. This foreign Wang could be anybody, and I didnt want to sleep with that wang near me. I mean, how many Wangs can one man take in the same night?
He told me his name was Pierre... Pierre Malochet. I was kind of hoping for some uphemism for the male member. Like, he could have said, "Hi, my name is Pierre... Pierre Dong" or something. I have come to expect that from the strange men who share my bedroom, you know? Regardless, we saved the formalities till morning and went right to bed.
In the night, this new guy did something that so grossed me out that I have a hard time recounting it here, but for the sake of literature, I will solider on in my attempt to recreate the moment for you, dear readers.
You know how when people think they have something in their teeth, like after eating spinach, but they dont have a tooth pick, so they make this sucking sound? You know how a dog will lick his chops after a meal and make this sound like gums slapping against gums? You know that sucking tube the dentist puts in your mouth to clear away all the saliva so he can work? Put all those sounds together, and that is roughly the sound Pierre makes in his sleep... all. night. long.
I spent the evening dry heaving. In the morning, I was up before my alarm, and ran from the room, just to get away from that terrible noise.
I got to work early that day, and if I thought I knew the meaning of the word "tired" before, then I was dead wrong.
I brewed an espresso, but it would have done more good to pour it down my pants.
I dragged myself from place to place, all the while Pierre's sucking noise echoing in my head. I resolved to kill him later in the day.
In the past, Apollo has been busy. A busy day is when we have a morning of about 150 people in for breakfast, but that is not too uncommon, so I can handle it.
Once we had about 230 for breakfast, and the whole restaurant was so busy, I swear that cooks ran from the kitchen pulling their hair out.
On Tuesday, after five days with my wife, and getting to bed at 1:30am the night before, only to listen to Pierre suck his own face for three and a half hours, I was met with the days reservation list.
It seems Korean Air is pleased with the service they have been getting and have decided to hold a conference with us. Super, a whole boat load of Koreans.
I asked the hostess how many were on the books for the morning.
She smirked.
That is never a good sign.
So, I asked again, how many on the books?
She hesitated before she replied: "Four hundred."
Then, I was awake.
The day passed in a blur. Everyone helped out. Even the chef and I worked together, slicing and plating salmon for the bottomless Korean pits. I think we would have done better to throw live fish at them, shouting, "Sushi for breakfast! Sushi for breakfast!" than actually trying to work out a plate presentation.
When it was over, I had six heart attacks, and then went to lunch.
Later in the day, I went back to the Hyatt Reception, fresh from the Korean onslaught, to get my key to move back into my room at the Hyatt.
"You're in room 2435, with Pierre Malochet" said the concierge, while Pierre stood grinning behind me.
I had had enough.
"Look, no. Change my room. I want my Wang back."
And that is how I was reunited with my Wang. Pierre was disappointed, to be sure, but I dont care. A man's Wang is important to him, you know?
So, that's that. I am back at the Hyatt, working breakfast again, and living with my big Willy.
When I saw him finally, I was happy to give the guy a big hug to welcome him home.
I dont know, maybe its masturbatory, but it was nice to have a firm grip on my Wang again.
It is good to be home.
29 November 2007
28 November 2007
That's Why Parents Eat Their Young
The title of this blog is a direct quote from the induplicable Mary Jo Schab. I think she meant to say, "That is why animals eat their young," but who knows, it could have been a Froidian slip. After four days straight with her kids, Lord knows, no one would have blamed her.
I wonder if my sister in law Leah had the same experience I did. When someone you know comes to visit you in a place where you moved, it makes you feel even more at home because you realize how much you know.
Ruta arrived on Thursday, and I ran from work to see her. It was so good to have her in my arms again. We talked and talked when she arrived. It is so good to have someone who knows you well around. I can talk about the past without saying things like, "Ok, so this one time about five years ago..." I can just talk, and know that she has been there for most of what I am referring to. It is good to be understood.
I got to the apartment that we rent when she comes, and good wife that she is, dinner was waiting. Since the train strike was still on, I had to take a bus to another bus, ride that one standing up for an hour, and then walk for forty minutes before climbing three flights of stairs before I could lay my hands on her, so dinner was a welcome sight.
She told me all about her trip to Brazil. Apparently some people there didnt take too kindly to my earlier comments about Ranch, but my feeling is, if they liked ranch so much, they should have brought some with them when they fled the country. You know who you are.
Regardless, my wife knows how to travel. I asked if she had read Life of Pi, like I had recommened, and she said, "Oh, yes. I started it while sitting under an umbrella on a beach in Rio." Poor girl. Anyway, she had some great things to say about Leah and Brazil, and I think I will live there next. It sounds like a really great country. Come for the capoeria, stay for the pie!
The next day, my parents and sister and "uncle" and "cousin" arrived (you know those people who arent blood, but you grew up with them, so they're 'cousins'). What can I say, Italians dont do things in twos. In total, I became tour guide for seven of us. To quote my cousin Donna, "This is like hearding cats!" It was a lot of fun, but I had forgotten how loud Americans are. Many was the time I had to give the look to a relative who had piped up too much. Geez, people, its a small country. They can hear you in Nice.
Anyway, we took a long walk all around Paris for two days: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elyesees, La Bastille, Hotel de Ville, the Louvre (though we didnt go in), Notre Dame, the Latin Quarter, and a boat ride down the Seine. My favorite parts were when we would stop and eat though.
When first we started out, it wasnt long before someone chimed in with, "Lets stop for a glass of wine" which in Schabeez means, "Who would like to stop for a glass of wine, and finish the bottle, and then get a beer to wash it down?"
We stopped at a place called Dome (someone actually asked me what that meant in French) and had a couple. It was nice, warm and cozy. Donna and I ordered the afrorementioned beers. I asked for the medium, which at Dome translates to: "Please help me start a drinking problem." These were enormous, giant beers. Moments later, Donna was done and we headed out the door.
Being that my wife arrived on Thanksgiving, and my family the next day, no one really had a chance for a proper sit-down Thanksiving Dinner. Make no mistake, there are plenty turkey dinners available in Paris, but we had no desire for turkey.
Saturday night, after the boat tour, we conveined at a little place in the Bastille area. We eschewed the traditional turkey and cranberry sauce for grilled octopus, fried potatoes, braised artichokes, giant shimp in garlic and lemon, baked goat cheese and fresh bread by the loaf full. It was a little, out of the way tapas place, and the food was incredible. My Uncle John ordered a couple of nice bottles of Spanish reds to wash it all down, and it was deelish. We talked forever, and it was so good to be back with my family again.
Earlier that day, we had stopped for lunch at a little place on Avenue Kleber, which connects the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. I had the roquet salad with buffalo mozzerella. It was magical, but what was really of note was the wine.
My Uncle John is a wine guy, as is his daughter, so I love them a little extra.
My uncle ordered a bottle of Bordeaux that was really, really great. Tannic and very fruity, and dry as the day is long. This bottle was from a region around Bordeaux called Saint Emilion, which is one of the prettiest and most well preserved French communes available. It is also noted for its spectacular wines. This one was no exception. I realize that a white would have paired much better with a salad, but hey, who are you to critcize? When next you find yourself in the market for a great bottle, consider any AOC Bordeaux from Saint Emilion, especially 2004. Its a year I like.
Uncle John and Donna (Donner to those in the know, a nickname I think she earned when my sister and her took a weekend in London. I dont want to know how it came up) left on Sunday morning, so the Schabimkuses were on our own. The general feeling was exhaustion, so we took a walk down Rue de Rivoli, a main drag here, and went to the movies.
Sunday we got out, and I took my dad to the Invalides. It is a military hospital that Napoleon built for the guys who got all shot up for him. Nice guy. He would eventually need the hospital himself, and when his body was returned from exile in Corsica, he was buried there. His tomb is HUGE. It is one coffin within another, to protect one of France's greatest military leaders, or... um, actually, France's only great military leader. They're not into the whole world domination thing like we are. Go figure. Regardless, there are seven coffins, one within the next, and his sons are buried in the corners of the building around him.
It is a place that is supposed to be filled with solemnity and grace, but a field trip of French fourth graders spoiled that. It was in this place of historic greatness that my father spoke his only perfect French, by the by. He said, "I would like to get a picture of that statue, but I will wait until les petites bastards leave." Ahh, high culture.
While my father and I were admiring a Dubleya Dubleya Two exhibition at the same museum, my wife and mother and sister were taking Paris by storm. We all met up at Notre Dame, and the ladies went over everything that they bought, which was an extensive list. I had the pleasure of carrying Ruta's capitalistic conquests around with me for the rest of the day. I'm good like that.
It was shortly there after that we continued shopping. This time for bags and New Year's dresses. My dad and I stood waiting in the lobby of one store. I asked if he didnt want to look around at the bag my mother was thinking of purchasing for herself, to which he replied, "Oh, I've got one just like it. I'll just wait here."
Later, after an hour or so of wandering the tiny rues of the Latin Quarter, we stopped at the Saint Severin for a drink. This is a favorite place of mine for cognac, so that's what I had. It was perfect. We sat at a little table in the window and sipped our drinks, and passed the day away. I realized how much I missed them over and over on this trip, but not more than this time. It was just what I was looking for: simply to talk with my family.
That night we got back to the apartment, and Ruta and I had gone shopping for another Thanksgiving Dinner, so I got lucky. Instead of missing Thanksgiving altogher, I had two dinners in Paris. Not too bad.
We killed a bottle of Bordeaux and a sack of macarons that my mom bought, not to mention the four kinds of cheese on the table.
We sat and lauged, while the open window let in the cool Paris breeze and the sounds of the street. The table was full, the light was soft, the laughter loud, and the wine and company delicious.
Cameras are great, and video is fabulous, but nothing could have captured that night like my mind's eye did. It is how I always want to remember my family, laughing together.
And so it made in doubly difficult that they left on Tuesday, but I had to get back to the hotel that Monday night. My parents and sister said goodbye first, to leave me and Ruta some time. I dont know what made it so hard; as of this writing I have exactly one month before I come home, so it wont be long until I see them again. Still, I put my arms around my sister, and held her tight. She is a wonderful woman. My mom and dad too, the best parents I could ask for.
After they left, I took care of any last minute details that needed attending with the apartment, and said my goodbyes to Ruta.
When she dropped me off at the airport, I knew I would see her in a month. When she left from her first visit, I knew she was coming back, but this time, I felt different. Maybe it was because I was leaving her at the apartment, but I dont know. It was so hard to walk out of that apartment with her still fresh on my lips and buy a ticket to ride away from her, again.
Anyone who knows me or has read this blog knows that I love France. No doubt, but I have to say, I am getting sick of saying goodbye to people.
My friends Sean and Mike will be here in a few days, and it will be nice to see them, but I am hoping that their plane is delayed three weeks or so, so that I dont have to say goodbye again.
Anyway, a wonderful visit all around, and a fresh and well-deserved burst of one of America's best holidays.
I was so glad to have spent it with my family.
I wonder if my sister in law Leah had the same experience I did. When someone you know comes to visit you in a place where you moved, it makes you feel even more at home because you realize how much you know.
Ruta arrived on Thursday, and I ran from work to see her. It was so good to have her in my arms again. We talked and talked when she arrived. It is so good to have someone who knows you well around. I can talk about the past without saying things like, "Ok, so this one time about five years ago..." I can just talk, and know that she has been there for most of what I am referring to. It is good to be understood.
I got to the apartment that we rent when she comes, and good wife that she is, dinner was waiting. Since the train strike was still on, I had to take a bus to another bus, ride that one standing up for an hour, and then walk for forty minutes before climbing three flights of stairs before I could lay my hands on her, so dinner was a welcome sight.
She told me all about her trip to Brazil. Apparently some people there didnt take too kindly to my earlier comments about Ranch, but my feeling is, if they liked ranch so much, they should have brought some with them when they fled the country. You know who you are.
Regardless, my wife knows how to travel. I asked if she had read Life of Pi, like I had recommened, and she said, "Oh, yes. I started it while sitting under an umbrella on a beach in Rio." Poor girl. Anyway, she had some great things to say about Leah and Brazil, and I think I will live there next. It sounds like a really great country. Come for the capoeria, stay for the pie!
The next day, my parents and sister and "uncle" and "cousin" arrived (you know those people who arent blood, but you grew up with them, so they're 'cousins'). What can I say, Italians dont do things in twos. In total, I became tour guide for seven of us. To quote my cousin Donna, "This is like hearding cats!" It was a lot of fun, but I had forgotten how loud Americans are. Many was the time I had to give the look to a relative who had piped up too much. Geez, people, its a small country. They can hear you in Nice.
Anyway, we took a long walk all around Paris for two days: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elyesees, La Bastille, Hotel de Ville, the Louvre (though we didnt go in), Notre Dame, the Latin Quarter, and a boat ride down the Seine. My favorite parts were when we would stop and eat though.
When first we started out, it wasnt long before someone chimed in with, "Lets stop for a glass of wine" which in Schabeez means, "Who would like to stop for a glass of wine, and finish the bottle, and then get a beer to wash it down?"
We stopped at a place called Dome (someone actually asked me what that meant in French) and had a couple. It was nice, warm and cozy. Donna and I ordered the afrorementioned beers. I asked for the medium, which at Dome translates to: "Please help me start a drinking problem." These were enormous, giant beers. Moments later, Donna was done and we headed out the door.
Being that my wife arrived on Thanksgiving, and my family the next day, no one really had a chance for a proper sit-down Thanksiving Dinner. Make no mistake, there are plenty turkey dinners available in Paris, but we had no desire for turkey.
Saturday night, after the boat tour, we conveined at a little place in the Bastille area. We eschewed the traditional turkey and cranberry sauce for grilled octopus, fried potatoes, braised artichokes, giant shimp in garlic and lemon, baked goat cheese and fresh bread by the loaf full. It was a little, out of the way tapas place, and the food was incredible. My Uncle John ordered a couple of nice bottles of Spanish reds to wash it all down, and it was deelish. We talked forever, and it was so good to be back with my family again.
Earlier that day, we had stopped for lunch at a little place on Avenue Kleber, which connects the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. I had the roquet salad with buffalo mozzerella. It was magical, but what was really of note was the wine.
My Uncle John is a wine guy, as is his daughter, so I love them a little extra.
My uncle ordered a bottle of Bordeaux that was really, really great. Tannic and very fruity, and dry as the day is long. This bottle was from a region around Bordeaux called Saint Emilion, which is one of the prettiest and most well preserved French communes available. It is also noted for its spectacular wines. This one was no exception. I realize that a white would have paired much better with a salad, but hey, who are you to critcize? When next you find yourself in the market for a great bottle, consider any AOC Bordeaux from Saint Emilion, especially 2004. Its a year I like.
Uncle John and Donna (Donner to those in the know, a nickname I think she earned when my sister and her took a weekend in London. I dont want to know how it came up) left on Sunday morning, so the Schabimkuses were on our own. The general feeling was exhaustion, so we took a walk down Rue de Rivoli, a main drag here, and went to the movies.
Sunday we got out, and I took my dad to the Invalides. It is a military hospital that Napoleon built for the guys who got all shot up for him. Nice guy. He would eventually need the hospital himself, and when his body was returned from exile in Corsica, he was buried there. His tomb is HUGE. It is one coffin within another, to protect one of France's greatest military leaders, or... um, actually, France's only great military leader. They're not into the whole world domination thing like we are. Go figure. Regardless, there are seven coffins, one within the next, and his sons are buried in the corners of the building around him.
It is a place that is supposed to be filled with solemnity and grace, but a field trip of French fourth graders spoiled that. It was in this place of historic greatness that my father spoke his only perfect French, by the by. He said, "I would like to get a picture of that statue, but I will wait until les petites bastards leave." Ahh, high culture.
While my father and I were admiring a Dubleya Dubleya Two exhibition at the same museum, my wife and mother and sister were taking Paris by storm. We all met up at Notre Dame, and the ladies went over everything that they bought, which was an extensive list. I had the pleasure of carrying Ruta's capitalistic conquests around with me for the rest of the day. I'm good like that.
It was shortly there after that we continued shopping. This time for bags and New Year's dresses. My dad and I stood waiting in the lobby of one store. I asked if he didnt want to look around at the bag my mother was thinking of purchasing for herself, to which he replied, "Oh, I've got one just like it. I'll just wait here."
Later, after an hour or so of wandering the tiny rues of the Latin Quarter, we stopped at the Saint Severin for a drink. This is a favorite place of mine for cognac, so that's what I had. It was perfect. We sat at a little table in the window and sipped our drinks, and passed the day away. I realized how much I missed them over and over on this trip, but not more than this time. It was just what I was looking for: simply to talk with my family.
That night we got back to the apartment, and Ruta and I had gone shopping for another Thanksgiving Dinner, so I got lucky. Instead of missing Thanksgiving altogher, I had two dinners in Paris. Not too bad.
We killed a bottle of Bordeaux and a sack of macarons that my mom bought, not to mention the four kinds of cheese on the table.
We sat and lauged, while the open window let in the cool Paris breeze and the sounds of the street. The table was full, the light was soft, the laughter loud, and the wine and company delicious.
Cameras are great, and video is fabulous, but nothing could have captured that night like my mind's eye did. It is how I always want to remember my family, laughing together.
And so it made in doubly difficult that they left on Tuesday, but I had to get back to the hotel that Monday night. My parents and sister said goodbye first, to leave me and Ruta some time. I dont know what made it so hard; as of this writing I have exactly one month before I come home, so it wont be long until I see them again. Still, I put my arms around my sister, and held her tight. She is a wonderful woman. My mom and dad too, the best parents I could ask for.
After they left, I took care of any last minute details that needed attending with the apartment, and said my goodbyes to Ruta.
When she dropped me off at the airport, I knew I would see her in a month. When she left from her first visit, I knew she was coming back, but this time, I felt different. Maybe it was because I was leaving her at the apartment, but I dont know. It was so hard to walk out of that apartment with her still fresh on my lips and buy a ticket to ride away from her, again.
Anyone who knows me or has read this blog knows that I love France. No doubt, but I have to say, I am getting sick of saying goodbye to people.
My friends Sean and Mike will be here in a few days, and it will be nice to see them, but I am hoping that their plane is delayed three weeks or so, so that I dont have to say goodbye again.
Anyway, a wonderful visit all around, and a fresh and well-deserved burst of one of America's best holidays.
I was so glad to have spent it with my family.
19 November 2007
L'Enfant Terrible
I woke up with a start.
Jeez, bad dream, wow.
I looked over, and Will was sleeping soundly. It was three thirty am.
"Oh, good, I have another hour to sleep."
But what a dream:
I am standing in the kitchen, and there is no one around. I cant find the chef or the sous chefs or the other cooks, and there is a line a mile long of people demanding food that I dont know how to make, things I have never heard of. And all I know is that I must do it, while these people yell and scream and demand things in a language that I dont really understand. I have no choice but to keep working as furiously as possible, trying to keep my head above water. But there is more and more work, and I cant seem to get a handle on all of it, and I am drowning....
And that's when I wake up.
Today I arrived at work to find Francine back. If you recall, a couple of months ago I blogged about a woman who was totally taking advantage of me. Making me do her work and not telling anyone that I was carrying her load.
Well, four weeks ago today, I was moved to the breakfast buffet to work with her, this woman named Francine. She is older than me, about 35 or 36 and thinks she is the boss of the world.
I worked with her for one day a month ago, and the next day, she didnt show up at all.
Nor has she shown up for four weeks, claiming that she was ill.
Today is when her vacation and sick pay ran out, and so she came back to work.
She wouldnt talk to anyone though, and was pretty pissy all around.
She arrived at 5:30am, like the rest of us, and went to working on the hot line. I did too on the cold buffet. Marc, another cook and a good friend, was helping Francine on the hot line, until we discovered that the person who is supposed to cook for the employee kitchen wasnt able to get to work today because of the ongoing train strike, so Marc was moved to the employee kitchen. Francine would do hot line and I would do cold, and that would be that.
About an hour after showing up, Francine decided to take a break... for a half hour. She just sat in the lounge, sipping her coffee and looking aloof.
Later she came back and peeled some tomatoes, and that was too much to handle, so she took another break.
That was fine though, as the morning was a little slow.
Marc came back for a while, as things for the cafeteria were prepped and helped on the hotline, so Francine took another break while things picked up in the restaurant.
All the while, I am scurrying back and forth, cutting salmon, making jams, slicing fruit, bla bla bla.
Marc took his leave of us to get to work on the cafeteria, and I was alone for a minute. No problem.
Then a Korean man asked for an omelett. I told him that I would get the chef, if I could just find Francine. Not in the lounge... Not in the Lady's.... Not in the kitchen...
Then one of the sous chefs came running up to me: "Mark, Francine just took off. She walked out and got in her car and is gone. You are alone in Apollo. Call me if you need anything." And he left, to do what, I dont know.
All I knew was that I was left alone to do three people's jobs.
That's when the Koreans came down for breakfast, and you know how that is.
I dont know how to make Kim Chee or Korean breakfast noodles or sticky rice.
At the same time I am cutting salmon or preping cheese or bringing out fresh croissants, chocolate croissants, baguettes, sandwhich bread and jams, fresh fruit, turkey, tomatoes, butter, mousse, yogurt, etc., I am also making French toast, pancakes, waffles, bacon, fried potatoes, baked tomatoes, sausage, and scrambled eggs, not to mention attending to a line of people who can order whatever they choose.
It was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
And when I saw that line of people ambling towards me, clean, empty plates in hand, that's when I remembered my dream.
And that is what made me think of Joseph Conrad. He wrote Heart of Darkness, 'member? "The horror... the horror..." The horror indeed, there, Joe.
Anyway, he has this quote that suddenly made perfect sense to me:
"We live, as we dream: alone."
Being in an area of the kitchen that I am not trained on, with no help, swamped, while everyone is expecting me to hold the line, and while a line of hungry customers is waiting for me to fill the orders, that scares the shit out of me.
And I thought, "So, I'm scarred. So the f@!* what"
and I went to work.
I dont really know how to describe being, as the French say, dans le merde (in the shit). If you have ever waited tables or worked in the stock exchange, you get it.
You dont think, you percieve and act. It is action without thought; motion without propulsion. Your eyes never stop moving, and your mind is ten steps ahead of your hands. Time passes super quickly, and you arent even aware of it.
It is really zen, and it was this state that I quickly fell into.
At the same time I was slicing salmon or making jam or bringing out fresh croissants and bread and fruit and mousse, I was making pancakes, French toast, poaching eggs, etc.
The hot line consists of bacon, sausage, sauteed mushrooms, baked tomatoes, fried potatoes, hard and soft boiled eggs, rice, silver dollar pancakes, French toast, waffles and eggs anyway you want them.
I did it all at the same time I was doing I was putting out the cold buffet.
Here is your omellet, Madame. Bon Appetit, Monsieur!
It was service with a smile, and I meant it.
If you have read the blog recently, you know I am no fan of our Korean guests, but when that line formed and they demanded, "Me want omelett yes," I found that before I could grimace and judge them, I was asking, "French or American style, Monsieur?" And I meant it.
My mind whirred; my hands flew. And you know what? Not a cut, not a burn, not a freaking scratch.
I sliced fermented cabbage in spiced sauce: voila- kim chee.
I boiled down stock, seasoned it and added salt dried noodles. Presto! Korean breakfast noodles.
I over watered rice and let it dry, so the extra water would make the starch bind it all together. Sticky rice.
It was my biggest fear: coming here, being overwhelmed, not speaking enough of the language, not knowing what to do or how to do it, and everyone watching me fail.
I even dream about that fear.
Today it showed up on my doorstep.
Something I have learned here: when those dark places show up, when the merde really hits the fan, usually I make a joke or run for help or complain before tentatively stepping out to take it on, or at least, I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.
I am not ashamed to admit it.
But not today, and not anymore.
In the end, I worked cold buffet, hot line, the restaurant crowd and room service. When it was over, I went to help Marc in the employee kitchen. When he found out that Francine had just taken off and left me alone, I got an extra big, "Oh, la la, la la!" (They throw in two extra 'la's if they really mean it).
Later, as I was walking to the lounge for a much needed break, I passed the kitchen where I had been working this morning. It was spotless. I had cleaned that thing from top to bottom, neck to nuts, and left it better than I had found it. Freaking spotless, y'all.
Today, for the first time, I was a Chef.
I dont know if Francine will be back tomorrow or if I will have help or what, but today?
Today I kicked ass.
Consider the house rocked.
Can I get an Amen?
Jeez, bad dream, wow.
I looked over, and Will was sleeping soundly. It was three thirty am.
"Oh, good, I have another hour to sleep."
But what a dream:
I am standing in the kitchen, and there is no one around. I cant find the chef or the sous chefs or the other cooks, and there is a line a mile long of people demanding food that I dont know how to make, things I have never heard of. And all I know is that I must do it, while these people yell and scream and demand things in a language that I dont really understand. I have no choice but to keep working as furiously as possible, trying to keep my head above water. But there is more and more work, and I cant seem to get a handle on all of it, and I am drowning....
And that's when I wake up.
Today I arrived at work to find Francine back. If you recall, a couple of months ago I blogged about a woman who was totally taking advantage of me. Making me do her work and not telling anyone that I was carrying her load.
Well, four weeks ago today, I was moved to the breakfast buffet to work with her, this woman named Francine. She is older than me, about 35 or 36 and thinks she is the boss of the world.
I worked with her for one day a month ago, and the next day, she didnt show up at all.
Nor has she shown up for four weeks, claiming that she was ill.
Today is when her vacation and sick pay ran out, and so she came back to work.
She wouldnt talk to anyone though, and was pretty pissy all around.
She arrived at 5:30am, like the rest of us, and went to working on the hot line. I did too on the cold buffet. Marc, another cook and a good friend, was helping Francine on the hot line, until we discovered that the person who is supposed to cook for the employee kitchen wasnt able to get to work today because of the ongoing train strike, so Marc was moved to the employee kitchen. Francine would do hot line and I would do cold, and that would be that.
About an hour after showing up, Francine decided to take a break... for a half hour. She just sat in the lounge, sipping her coffee and looking aloof.
Later she came back and peeled some tomatoes, and that was too much to handle, so she took another break.
That was fine though, as the morning was a little slow.
Marc came back for a while, as things for the cafeteria were prepped and helped on the hotline, so Francine took another break while things picked up in the restaurant.
All the while, I am scurrying back and forth, cutting salmon, making jams, slicing fruit, bla bla bla.
Marc took his leave of us to get to work on the cafeteria, and I was alone for a minute. No problem.
Then a Korean man asked for an omelett. I told him that I would get the chef, if I could just find Francine. Not in the lounge... Not in the Lady's.... Not in the kitchen...
Then one of the sous chefs came running up to me: "Mark, Francine just took off. She walked out and got in her car and is gone. You are alone in Apollo. Call me if you need anything." And he left, to do what, I dont know.
All I knew was that I was left alone to do three people's jobs.
That's when the Koreans came down for breakfast, and you know how that is.
I dont know how to make Kim Chee or Korean breakfast noodles or sticky rice.
At the same time I am cutting salmon or preping cheese or bringing out fresh croissants, chocolate croissants, baguettes, sandwhich bread and jams, fresh fruit, turkey, tomatoes, butter, mousse, yogurt, etc., I am also making French toast, pancakes, waffles, bacon, fried potatoes, baked tomatoes, sausage, and scrambled eggs, not to mention attending to a line of people who can order whatever they choose.
It was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
And when I saw that line of people ambling towards me, clean, empty plates in hand, that's when I remembered my dream.
And that is what made me think of Joseph Conrad. He wrote Heart of Darkness, 'member? "The horror... the horror..." The horror indeed, there, Joe.
Anyway, he has this quote that suddenly made perfect sense to me:
"We live, as we dream: alone."
Being in an area of the kitchen that I am not trained on, with no help, swamped, while everyone is expecting me to hold the line, and while a line of hungry customers is waiting for me to fill the orders, that scares the shit out of me.
And I thought, "So, I'm scarred. So the f@!* what"
and I went to work.
I dont really know how to describe being, as the French say, dans le merde (in the shit). If you have ever waited tables or worked in the stock exchange, you get it.
You dont think, you percieve and act. It is action without thought; motion without propulsion. Your eyes never stop moving, and your mind is ten steps ahead of your hands. Time passes super quickly, and you arent even aware of it.
It is really zen, and it was this state that I quickly fell into.
At the same time I was slicing salmon or making jam or bringing out fresh croissants and bread and fruit and mousse, I was making pancakes, French toast, poaching eggs, etc.
The hot line consists of bacon, sausage, sauteed mushrooms, baked tomatoes, fried potatoes, hard and soft boiled eggs, rice, silver dollar pancakes, French toast, waffles and eggs anyway you want them.
I did it all at the same time I was doing I was putting out the cold buffet.
Here is your omellet, Madame. Bon Appetit, Monsieur!
It was service with a smile, and I meant it.
If you have read the blog recently, you know I am no fan of our Korean guests, but when that line formed and they demanded, "Me want omelett yes," I found that before I could grimace and judge them, I was asking, "French or American style, Monsieur?" And I meant it.
My mind whirred; my hands flew. And you know what? Not a cut, not a burn, not a freaking scratch.
I sliced fermented cabbage in spiced sauce: voila- kim chee.
I boiled down stock, seasoned it and added salt dried noodles. Presto! Korean breakfast noodles.
I over watered rice and let it dry, so the extra water would make the starch bind it all together. Sticky rice.
It was my biggest fear: coming here, being overwhelmed, not speaking enough of the language, not knowing what to do or how to do it, and everyone watching me fail.
I even dream about that fear.
Today it showed up on my doorstep.
Something I have learned here: when those dark places show up, when the merde really hits the fan, usually I make a joke or run for help or complain before tentatively stepping out to take it on, or at least, I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.
I am not ashamed to admit it.
But not today, and not anymore.
In the end, I worked cold buffet, hot line, the restaurant crowd and room service. When it was over, I went to help Marc in the employee kitchen. When he found out that Francine had just taken off and left me alone, I got an extra big, "Oh, la la, la la!" (They throw in two extra 'la's if they really mean it).
Later, as I was walking to the lounge for a much needed break, I passed the kitchen where I had been working this morning. It was spotless. I had cleaned that thing from top to bottom, neck to nuts, and left it better than I had found it. Freaking spotless, y'all.
Today, for the first time, I was a Chef.
I dont know if Francine will be back tomorrow or if I will have help or what, but today?
Today I kicked ass.
Consider the house rocked.
Can I get an Amen?
15 November 2007
Tired November Morning
The alarm goes off, but he's already awake. He gets up quickly to turn it off, as the piercing shriek of the portable clock makes him anxious, and because of the sleeping Chinese guy on the bunk above him.
He had put the clock on the small desk in his room, about three feet from his bed, so that he would have to get up to turn it off, and since he would be out of bed anyway....
He stands there, staring at his pants. He loathes to put them on, as he will need to put on his undershirt and coat and clogs and toque and head out the door soon after.
Its the first step in a process that he is not looking forward to beginning.
In the dark, he turns to the little sink to his left, and looks to see if he needs a shave. It is too dark to tell, but something about his shadowed reflection catches his still groggy attention.
His face looks bigger. Maybe it is because he has lost some weight. His hair needs cutting, but with this train strike, there is no way of getting to a decent place.
His eyes look a little sunken and are framed by puffy, dark circles.
Then it dawns on him: he is exhausted.
He exhales.
Turning from the mirror, he opens the shade to look out on the day. It is still very dark. He can see the cars silently racing to and fro and wonders how those drivers get up early enough to get to where they are going.
This window is so thick that no noise comes through. Maybe birds chirp; maybe cars honk; maybe the rush of traffic whirs by his little room on the fourth floor of this little hotel, but if the morning's delicate orchestra is playing, he can't hear it.
Somewhere, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower is still sparkling, or maybe that is the light of planes coming through the fog. It is too dark to tell.
Months ago, he would have told himself it was the Eiffel Tower, but now, it seems more likely that it is the steady stream of planes cruising overhead than anything else.
He wonders how many of the people on those planes he will have to feed.
He wonders how busy the place will be today.
He wonders if he can bring himself to even look for his razor, much less his pants.
His bed is like a pack of sirens, calling him sweetly to rest again. How is it that after eight hours of solid sleep, he can be so very tired?
But then, it isn't really solid sleep, is it?
How long was it that he turned from this side to that, waiting to drift off? Half an hour? An hour? He has never had difficulty sleeping like he does these days.
He decides, with an unhappy resolution, that he cannot go back to bed.
In silence and dark, he looks back to the mirror, for confirmation. Maybe his face will have changed. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe he doesn't look so much older.
He does. Maybe its the dark, though... (It isn't).
His arms ache. His legs ache. His stomach is empty. His eyes are dry.
And when he stops thinking about these things, that is when he picks up the tooth brush and hair brush and razor, and scrubs off the night.
Fresh breathed and rosy cheeked, he is still just a better coiffed version of a tired, old man.
Didn't she used to ask him how he just popped out of bed in the mornings? Wasn't is always her who had difficulty getting up? Is this what that was like?
Before he knows it, in dark and silence, his pants are on, as are his shirt and jacket and shoes.
He is out the door and into the chill. The morning is dull and blue.
By the time he reaches the back door to the kitchen, he is cold. At least this should wake him up, but it doesn't.
He drags himself to the kitchen, and brews an espresso. He drinks it with a fresh croissant. Nothing.
Hours later, in the rush of ravenous customers, he is asked to run down the hall to get more bread.
He does. He isn't thinking. He isn't learning. He is just responding to orders.
He trots himself down the hall, and notices through the thick glass windows that the sun is just about to peak over the hills. The sky is grey and pink, and there is light all around, a soft one that doesn't jar him like the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. In the light he can make out his reflection in the glass. He doesn't dare look too long, so he takes a moment to stop and look out on the sun burning over the horizon. A large V of black birds cuts a swath across his sight line. The cars whiz by.
He can't hear them. Its like watching the world from inside a snow globe, fake and silent.
And it is this thought that jars his feet to motion, that pulls him away from the window that he will not look through the next time he passes.
He gets the bread, and returns to the kitchen.
He had put the clock on the small desk in his room, about three feet from his bed, so that he would have to get up to turn it off, and since he would be out of bed anyway....
He stands there, staring at his pants. He loathes to put them on, as he will need to put on his undershirt and coat and clogs and toque and head out the door soon after.
Its the first step in a process that he is not looking forward to beginning.
In the dark, he turns to the little sink to his left, and looks to see if he needs a shave. It is too dark to tell, but something about his shadowed reflection catches his still groggy attention.
His face looks bigger. Maybe it is because he has lost some weight. His hair needs cutting, but with this train strike, there is no way of getting to a decent place.
His eyes look a little sunken and are framed by puffy, dark circles.
Then it dawns on him: he is exhausted.
He exhales.
Turning from the mirror, he opens the shade to look out on the day. It is still very dark. He can see the cars silently racing to and fro and wonders how those drivers get up early enough to get to where they are going.
This window is so thick that no noise comes through. Maybe birds chirp; maybe cars honk; maybe the rush of traffic whirs by his little room on the fourth floor of this little hotel, but if the morning's delicate orchestra is playing, he can't hear it.
Somewhere, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower is still sparkling, or maybe that is the light of planes coming through the fog. It is too dark to tell.
Months ago, he would have told himself it was the Eiffel Tower, but now, it seems more likely that it is the steady stream of planes cruising overhead than anything else.
He wonders how many of the people on those planes he will have to feed.
He wonders how busy the place will be today.
He wonders if he can bring himself to even look for his razor, much less his pants.
His bed is like a pack of sirens, calling him sweetly to rest again. How is it that after eight hours of solid sleep, he can be so very tired?
But then, it isn't really solid sleep, is it?
How long was it that he turned from this side to that, waiting to drift off? Half an hour? An hour? He has never had difficulty sleeping like he does these days.
He decides, with an unhappy resolution, that he cannot go back to bed.
In silence and dark, he looks back to the mirror, for confirmation. Maybe his face will have changed. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe he doesn't look so much older.
He does. Maybe its the dark, though... (It isn't).
His arms ache. His legs ache. His stomach is empty. His eyes are dry.
And when he stops thinking about these things, that is when he picks up the tooth brush and hair brush and razor, and scrubs off the night.
Fresh breathed and rosy cheeked, he is still just a better coiffed version of a tired, old man.
Didn't she used to ask him how he just popped out of bed in the mornings? Wasn't is always her who had difficulty getting up? Is this what that was like?
Before he knows it, in dark and silence, his pants are on, as are his shirt and jacket and shoes.
He is out the door and into the chill. The morning is dull and blue.
By the time he reaches the back door to the kitchen, he is cold. At least this should wake him up, but it doesn't.
He drags himself to the kitchen, and brews an espresso. He drinks it with a fresh croissant. Nothing.
Hours later, in the rush of ravenous customers, he is asked to run down the hall to get more bread.
He does. He isn't thinking. He isn't learning. He is just responding to orders.
He trots himself down the hall, and notices through the thick glass windows that the sun is just about to peak over the hills. The sky is grey and pink, and there is light all around, a soft one that doesn't jar him like the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. In the light he can make out his reflection in the glass. He doesn't dare look too long, so he takes a moment to stop and look out on the sun burning over the horizon. A large V of black birds cuts a swath across his sight line. The cars whiz by.
He can't hear them. Its like watching the world from inside a snow globe, fake and silent.
And it is this thought that jars his feet to motion, that pulls him away from the window that he will not look through the next time he passes.
He gets the bread, and returns to the kitchen.
10 November 2007
Explaining Baseball to a Russian
There is a French word that has many meanings.
It means to gorge, to eat without stopping, to eat until you can eat to more and then continue eating. Further, this word means to eschew quality for quantity, to switch off one's gag reflex, and literally pour the food down the gaping hole in one's face. It means to demand things that aren't available; to expect things that aren't possible, and to complain at top volume until you can get the next giant forkful of food into your head. This word means to debase one's self publicly, to lower one's own self worth to that of a human garbage receptacle, and to do all of this at warp speed.
This word.... is "buffet".
Every morning, my alarm goes off at 4:45am. I get up in the dark; I dress in the dark; I arrive at work when it is still dark. I do this so I can prepare five kinds of bread, four jams, honey, maple syrup, four kinds of fruit salad, smoked salmon, fresh ham, turkey, skinned tomatoes, three kinds of cheese, whipped cream, muesli, lemons and four kinds of fresh fruit, which all must be ready to go at 6:30am.
They always are. I make a point of that.
Then, they come.
At any given time, there are forty Koreans in the hotel. Twenty leave every day, and twenty arrive, and they all work for Korean Air.
As anyone of these "people" will gleefully tell you, their company pays for their breakfast, so they have decided, in order to save money, that they will only eat breakfast. Really, they don't eat for the rest of the day.
So, they gorge. They gorge like no people I have ever seen. The Americans staying with us dont eat anywhere near as much as these people.
And they have no sense of taste. They load up their plates and mix everything into a big stew and shovel it down. They really don't care what they are eating. I saw one guy with salmon and chocolate on the same fork. Puke city.
And the quantities these people swallow down! I will put out a three foot long plate of smoked Norwegian salmon, and two women will take the whole thing between the two of them.
I put out twelve plates of salmon last Thursday, in one hour. No joke.
And the way they complain! They complained so much to their supervisors (not to the hotel mind you), that Korean Air "asked" that we put out Korean breakfast foods if we wanted to keep our contract with them. So now, we prepare noodles, chicken, kim chee, etc. And now they complain that it is not like it is in Korea. Um, could that be because you are in France? Hi?
And they are all blind. I put out a huge bowl of that great butter I was talking about two blogs ago. It is wrapped in gold foil with a big blue sticker on it that says "BEURRE." I am asked at least twice a day, "Where butter!?" Not only do they ask me in English, but in bad English. At first, I would say, "Oh, its right this way, Madame." But now, I don't even look up from what I am doing. I just point in the general direction of the parking lot, hoping that they will wander out into the French countryside and learn to churn butter for their own damn selves.
It has yet to work.
Other than that, things have been pretty steady. Will is ill, so my Wang just lies there- shriveled and pathetic.... ahem....
This past weekend, I was wandering Paris, and went to see a photography museum near La Bastille. It was really great. Three American photographers. If you have the chance, check out Larry Clark's stuff. He is the guy who directed that movie "Kids" in the late '90's. He also released a book called "Tulsa 1963 - 1971". This exhibition was about that book. Yikes. It was all about breaking though the lie of the mom and apple pie America of the fifties and sixties. For every person he shot that had died, there was painted on the wall next to the photo the method in which they passed. The simple word "dead" appeared next to a black and white of a pregnant teen shooting speed. It was so disturbing.
Another photographer, French born Martine Barrat, had an exhibition called "Harlem in My Heart". It was shots of Harlem in NYC, and it was the exhibition I was least interested in. It was pretty cool though. There are shots of kids learning to box in underground gyms in Harlem in the 1980's. I mean, in the 80's! These are kids too, the youngest "boxer" was three and a half years old.
What a shiny, happy society we come from!
The next day, my friend Inna and I went for coffees in Saint Michel. I was just sitting there, telling her about exhibition when a woman put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Mark?" I looked up and saw this woman Angela from Kendall was standing there with her husband. I was shocked; I hadn't seen her in years. She said, "My husband and I were just talking about you and your wife yesterday." You were? I didn't even remember her name. She is in Paris for the week, just visiting, but what a small world to run into her. Weird. It was cool though, she asked if I could recommend some restaurants, and I did. She asked how to get there, and I could explain easily. Paris is really getting easy to navigate, and I felt like I really was at home, once I saw someone American who had no idea where they were.
Later, it started to rain, and Inna and I ran for cover. We wound up in a little bar in the Latin Quarter called, of all things, Le Guillotine. It was the strangest place. Its floor is covered in real grass. I mean, its sod, but still. That was weird, and it served all these Irish beers, but the basement is a jazz club. So, good beer and jazz with weird people? I am hooked.
While there, Inna asked if she could ask me something about America, being from Siberia and all. I told her "Sure!" and she said, "Can you explain the game with the stick and the square?" I stared at her like I was watching a Korean eat. I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Come again?"
"The game you all play, in New York."
Still nothing.
"With the men in white and the hats?"
Somehow, "hats" did it.
"Oh! Baseball?"
"Yes, yes, that's it. Explain this game to me."
I thought, "Oh, no problem..." but if you have ever tried to explain baseball to someone who has never seen a game, it turns out it is pretty difficult...
"Its not a square; its a diamond."
"No, I have seen field; that is square."
And later...
"But is this fair? One man against nine?"
"Well, they switch sides during the inning."
"What is 'inning'?"
"Ummm, its like a quarter."
"And this game has nine quarters?"
And finally...
"We do not play baseball in Russia."
"No, I know that."
"You win grand baseball tournament; you say you are world champion."
"Yeah, well, I guess the champion of the baseball playing world."
"We could play baseball in Russia and be very good."
"I'm sure you could. Maybe you would be the world champion of the grand baseball tournament."
"No."
"No?"
"No. We don't play baseball in Russia."
"Oh. Well, of course not..."
When I was a kid, my cousin Michael and I watched the movie "Red Dawn" about six thousand times. It was the story of how the Russians invaded Iowa, and how a group of teenagers led by Patrick Swaze and Charlie Sheen ("Wolverines!!") fought back, and pushed those Ruskies all the way back to Moscow. Clearly, a movie entirely based in reality.
Still, I grew up with the idea that Russians were: A. Bad, B. Very cold, and C. Interested in real estate in Iowa.
As it turns out, none of these is true. Still, I guess this conversation about baseball was a wake up call. I mean, I really thought that everybody knew about baseball. Everybody (as in EVERY body) doesn't. It was fascinating to explain the nuts and bolts of this game to Inna. I mean, all the rules and traditions that go into this game still do not explain the love people have for it. It is so uniquely American, and no amount of time rehashing balls and strikes was going to instill in this woman an understanding of the mystery of baseball. There is something unattainable, just out of reach about that game, in the way that there is not about basketball or football. I think it is because baseball is America's game.
It made me think: there is a mystery to being someplace or someone. I mean, I have met people from all over the world here, and I don't know why I am so interested in talking to them about their homes. I mean, what is so fascinating in hearing about Sri Lanka? Really? I think that these stupid questions we ask each other are all vain attempts to figure each other out. In essence, we all look vaguely similar, and I think we presume that we have the same basic values and needs, but there is something that we just do not understand about one another. There is a mystery to us.
Paris is a mystery all of its own. There is something that you just can never understand about this place, its passion or something, that keeps people here, and I think Parisians only know it when they leave.
Its like if you took away all the landmarks and the cafes and people, Paris would just be a big plot of land, but it is more than just its cafes or landmarks or people. It is something more than just "Paris".
These are the places without names; these are the people without faces.
I think its these places we are trying to go when we travel; its these people we are trying to meet, past the obvious, past the front door, past what we know or think we know.
When I got married, we had a quote on the back of the program from the Persian mystic Rumi that makes more sense to me everyday. It went:
Out beyond ideas of wrong and right,
there is a field. I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about-
language, ideas, even the phrase each other
doesn't make sense anymore.
True that,
and he didn't even mention baseball.
It means to gorge, to eat without stopping, to eat until you can eat to more and then continue eating. Further, this word means to eschew quality for quantity, to switch off one's gag reflex, and literally pour the food down the gaping hole in one's face. It means to demand things that aren't available; to expect things that aren't possible, and to complain at top volume until you can get the next giant forkful of food into your head. This word means to debase one's self publicly, to lower one's own self worth to that of a human garbage receptacle, and to do all of this at warp speed.
This word.... is "buffet".
Every morning, my alarm goes off at 4:45am. I get up in the dark; I dress in the dark; I arrive at work when it is still dark. I do this so I can prepare five kinds of bread, four jams, honey, maple syrup, four kinds of fruit salad, smoked salmon, fresh ham, turkey, skinned tomatoes, three kinds of cheese, whipped cream, muesli, lemons and four kinds of fresh fruit, which all must be ready to go at 6:30am.
They always are. I make a point of that.
Then, they come.
At any given time, there are forty Koreans in the hotel. Twenty leave every day, and twenty arrive, and they all work for Korean Air.
As anyone of these "people" will gleefully tell you, their company pays for their breakfast, so they have decided, in order to save money, that they will only eat breakfast. Really, they don't eat for the rest of the day.
So, they gorge. They gorge like no people I have ever seen. The Americans staying with us dont eat anywhere near as much as these people.
And they have no sense of taste. They load up their plates and mix everything into a big stew and shovel it down. They really don't care what they are eating. I saw one guy with salmon and chocolate on the same fork. Puke city.
And the quantities these people swallow down! I will put out a three foot long plate of smoked Norwegian salmon, and two women will take the whole thing between the two of them.
I put out twelve plates of salmon last Thursday, in one hour. No joke.
And the way they complain! They complained so much to their supervisors (not to the hotel mind you), that Korean Air "asked" that we put out Korean breakfast foods if we wanted to keep our contract with them. So now, we prepare noodles, chicken, kim chee, etc. And now they complain that it is not like it is in Korea. Um, could that be because you are in France? Hi?
And they are all blind. I put out a huge bowl of that great butter I was talking about two blogs ago. It is wrapped in gold foil with a big blue sticker on it that says "BEURRE." I am asked at least twice a day, "Where butter!?" Not only do they ask me in English, but in bad English. At first, I would say, "Oh, its right this way, Madame." But now, I don't even look up from what I am doing. I just point in the general direction of the parking lot, hoping that they will wander out into the French countryside and learn to churn butter for their own damn selves.
It has yet to work.
Other than that, things have been pretty steady. Will is ill, so my Wang just lies there- shriveled and pathetic.... ahem....
This past weekend, I was wandering Paris, and went to see a photography museum near La Bastille. It was really great. Three American photographers. If you have the chance, check out Larry Clark's stuff. He is the guy who directed that movie "Kids" in the late '90's. He also released a book called "Tulsa 1963 - 1971". This exhibition was about that book. Yikes. It was all about breaking though the lie of the mom and apple pie America of the fifties and sixties. For every person he shot that had died, there was painted on the wall next to the photo the method in which they passed. The simple word "dead" appeared next to a black and white of a pregnant teen shooting speed. It was so disturbing.
Another photographer, French born Martine Barrat, had an exhibition called "Harlem in My Heart". It was shots of Harlem in NYC, and it was the exhibition I was least interested in. It was pretty cool though. There are shots of kids learning to box in underground gyms in Harlem in the 1980's. I mean, in the 80's! These are kids too, the youngest "boxer" was three and a half years old.
What a shiny, happy society we come from!
The next day, my friend Inna and I went for coffees in Saint Michel. I was just sitting there, telling her about exhibition when a woman put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Mark?" I looked up and saw this woman Angela from Kendall was standing there with her husband. I was shocked; I hadn't seen her in years. She said, "My husband and I were just talking about you and your wife yesterday." You were? I didn't even remember her name. She is in Paris for the week, just visiting, but what a small world to run into her. Weird. It was cool though, she asked if I could recommend some restaurants, and I did. She asked how to get there, and I could explain easily. Paris is really getting easy to navigate, and I felt like I really was at home, once I saw someone American who had no idea where they were.
Later, it started to rain, and Inna and I ran for cover. We wound up in a little bar in the Latin Quarter called, of all things, Le Guillotine. It was the strangest place. Its floor is covered in real grass. I mean, its sod, but still. That was weird, and it served all these Irish beers, but the basement is a jazz club. So, good beer and jazz with weird people? I am hooked.
While there, Inna asked if she could ask me something about America, being from Siberia and all. I told her "Sure!" and she said, "Can you explain the game with the stick and the square?" I stared at her like I was watching a Korean eat. I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Come again?"
"The game you all play, in New York."
Still nothing.
"With the men in white and the hats?"
Somehow, "hats" did it.
"Oh! Baseball?"
"Yes, yes, that's it. Explain this game to me."
I thought, "Oh, no problem..." but if you have ever tried to explain baseball to someone who has never seen a game, it turns out it is pretty difficult...
"Its not a square; its a diamond."
"No, I have seen field; that is square."
And later...
"But is this fair? One man against nine?"
"Well, they switch sides during the inning."
"What is 'inning'?"
"Ummm, its like a quarter."
"And this game has nine quarters?"
And finally...
"We do not play baseball in Russia."
"No, I know that."
"You win grand baseball tournament; you say you are world champion."
"Yeah, well, I guess the champion of the baseball playing world."
"We could play baseball in Russia and be very good."
"I'm sure you could. Maybe you would be the world champion of the grand baseball tournament."
"No."
"No?"
"No. We don't play baseball in Russia."
"Oh. Well, of course not..."
When I was a kid, my cousin Michael and I watched the movie "Red Dawn" about six thousand times. It was the story of how the Russians invaded Iowa, and how a group of teenagers led by Patrick Swaze and Charlie Sheen ("Wolverines!!") fought back, and pushed those Ruskies all the way back to Moscow. Clearly, a movie entirely based in reality.
Still, I grew up with the idea that Russians were: A. Bad, B. Very cold, and C. Interested in real estate in Iowa.
As it turns out, none of these is true. Still, I guess this conversation about baseball was a wake up call. I mean, I really thought that everybody knew about baseball. Everybody (as in EVERY body) doesn't. It was fascinating to explain the nuts and bolts of this game to Inna. I mean, all the rules and traditions that go into this game still do not explain the love people have for it. It is so uniquely American, and no amount of time rehashing balls and strikes was going to instill in this woman an understanding of the mystery of baseball. There is something unattainable, just out of reach about that game, in the way that there is not about basketball or football. I think it is because baseball is America's game.
It made me think: there is a mystery to being someplace or someone. I mean, I have met people from all over the world here, and I don't know why I am so interested in talking to them about their homes. I mean, what is so fascinating in hearing about Sri Lanka? Really? I think that these stupid questions we ask each other are all vain attempts to figure each other out. In essence, we all look vaguely similar, and I think we presume that we have the same basic values and needs, but there is something that we just do not understand about one another. There is a mystery to us.
Paris is a mystery all of its own. There is something that you just can never understand about this place, its passion or something, that keeps people here, and I think Parisians only know it when they leave.
Its like if you took away all the landmarks and the cafes and people, Paris would just be a big plot of land, but it is more than just its cafes or landmarks or people. It is something more than just "Paris".
These are the places without names; these are the people without faces.
I think its these places we are trying to go when we travel; its these people we are trying to meet, past the obvious, past the front door, past what we know or think we know.
When I got married, we had a quote on the back of the program from the Persian mystic Rumi that makes more sense to me everyday. It went:
Out beyond ideas of wrong and right,
there is a field. I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about-
language, ideas, even the phrase each other
doesn't make sense anymore.
True that,
and he didn't even mention baseball.
04 November 2007
Le weekend
In 1894, a ship was built in Holland. It wasn't a big ship, but large enough to carry a small cargo of furs or guns or whatever compact items could be stowed on board. The boat made its way back and forth, all over Europe, delivering its cargo and picking up new. Who knows what hands received what items from the holds of this boat; guns to armies of grand republics? High fashion to the backs of aristocratic ladies? Secret lovers stowed away for a chance at a life together?
Eventually, the boat made its way to Paris, probably not for the first time, and was bought by a private owner. A woman named Louise who wanted a place to live. She renamed the boat La Louise, obviously after herself, and parked it on the Seine. When she died, she passed it down to her children, as did they to their children, and so on for the past 113 years...
This weekend, I was invited to spend the weekend with my friends Sylvain and Catherine. They are wonderful people who live in the heart of the city, so theirs is a great place to make one's way around Paris from.
I left the Hyatt late morning and made my way to the city center. The train station near my house was quiet enough, but it would prove to be the last quiet place I would see for the whole trip into Paris.
My first train was stopped, and ordered to turn around and to to the airport, so we all filed off the train to wait for the next one. One man on the train exploded angrily at the information lady, but about two minutes later, another train showed up and whisked us on our way.
I arrived at Chatelet Les Halles, a central Metro station, to change for another train, and before I could put my ticket in the machine, I was stopped by a large crowd gathered around a large group of classical musicians. There were about 12 musicians in all, playing everything from the upright bass to four violinists to woodwinds... It was just the coolest and least expected thing in the Metro. I watched for a while and headed on. On the platform of my next train, a group of four Russian musicians started hastily setting up. Before I could reach for my iPod, they started up a long and loud Russian dirge. Who plays a dirge for tips? It was cool to see though, and they really worked the crowd. The crowd, by the way, grew and grew until I was standing on the edge of the platform. When the train arrived, I was pushed into the car by a mass of people making their way from Russian dirge to Parisian city center.
Finally on board, I found a seat and made to relax and enjoy the ride, when, at the next stop, two Italian men got on the train, dropped a large speaker, got out their respective saxophone and tuba, and launched into something in three four time. They had a blast, but the crowd (including me) had had enough at this point. When their hats came off at the end of their first song to receive tips for their performance, the train car was quiet and unmoved. I think of all the people on that crowded car, these guys probably made about three euros. At the next stop, they abruptly packed up and scampered off, mumbling away to each other, probably about how Parisians don't appreciate live music. If they only knew...
I arrived at Sylvain and Catherine's place, a boat called Neilali. Catherine was there, but she told me that Sylvain was out working, "On a Saturday! Like an American!" I let that one slide.
She introduced me to her friend Eva, who I was told would also be staying the weekend. Confused, I asked where I might be sleeping. Catherine explained that Eva would take the extra bedroom on Neilali, since her apartment was being redone, and I would be spending the weekend on Eva's boat: La Louise. I flipped out.
La Louise is a much larger boat than Sylvain and Catherine's, and to have it all to myself was such a treat. It has a large living room and a large bedroom, a bar, a fireplace, and two bathrooms. My bed was below the water line, so I would literally be sleeping with the fishes. Eva brought me there, and let me alone to relax for a bit before dinner. I had brought a bottle of Bordeaux as a "thank you" for letting me stay with them, and so Catherine insisted that we drink it at a special vegetarian dinner she was preparing. I had absolutely no problem with this.
I unpacked my backpack and went up on the deck to watch the sun set on the river.
Autumn is in full swing here in Paris, so leaves are changing colors and falling, and the sun sets earlier every day. La Louise is parked right off of La Place de la Concorde, the governmental center of France, and is in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. I sat on the deck and watched the sun go down on the river and waved to tourists as they passed by on boat tours. By the time the lights on the Eiffel Tower came on, it was time to go.
Sylvain and Catherine, Eva and I dined on a delicious pumpkin soup and a gratin of cauliflower and potatoes (chopped cauliflower and potatoes in heavy cream with cheese, then baked). While the ladies prepared dinner (a nice change of pace for me these days), Sylvain opened a bottle of 13 year old, single malt Scotch. I am not a Scotch drinker, but this stuff was really, really smooth and fruity. It was delicious. I had one glass, because at 45% alcohol, I think one was enough, especially after Catherine lined up four bottles of red wine on the table for dinner. That is a bottle of wine, per person. Ok, so we're not screwing around here.
The soup was delicious, and the gratin was too. In typical French fashion, dessert was an array of cheeses. They had gone to a little cheese shop in La Bastille that they know I like, and bought a bunch of good ones. One in particular was a cheese I had bought for myself when Ruta was here: a triple cream cheese, covered in red and gold raisins that had been soaked in rum. It is delicious, and the Bordeaux that I brought went very well with it.
Later, we sat out on the deck and talked and talked in the cool evening breeze while finishing off the wine. I get along so well with these people. They are just fascinating. They have made everything about their lives so interesting, from the fact that they live on a boat on the Seine, all the way down to the wine glasses they used for dinner. Sylvain asked if I liked them, and of course I said yes, and that they looked old. He said, "Oh, they are, from the 19th century. You can pick up a set for about 200 euros pretty easily." It was at that point that I very carefully put the glass down and started looking around the boat for a nice, plastic sippy cup. A moment later, Eva got up to open a window and accidentally swept one off the table. The glass shattered, and its wine splashed all over the couch. Eva was so upset, but Sylvain and Catherine threw their heads back, laughing. "I guess that's what I get for bragging about the wine glasses!" Sylvain said.
I just think that is incredible. These people just know how to live, and they have all these friends from around the world. When I arrived for dinner, Sylvain was coming in from a day of visiting a friend at L'Hotel de Dieu, Paris's main hospital, where Princess Diana died. Unfortunately, if you are not a doctor or a patient, you cannot get into the ICU, so Sylvain stole a paramedic's jacket that he found on a chair in the waiting room and marched in to see his friend. He had brought this 80 year old man some beer ("I know he's in the ICU, but he really likes his beer, so..."), and sat with him for a few hours. Later that night, when I was leaving and couldn't find my scarf, he put the jacket on me. It is a three quarter length, leather jacket with big, official writing on the back that says HOTEL DE DIEU. As I walked back down the quai towards La Louise, people definitely turned heads. I felt like running along the river, yelling, "Out of the way! I'M A DOCTOR!"
Oh, and the friend he was visiting? The man is fluent in English and French, so Sylvain speaks Franglish to him. Why does the guy speak both so well? Oh, only cause he worked for the US Secret Service. What kind of man spends his days stealing paramedics jackets, just so he can bring beer to his 80 year old spy friend in the ICU? That's awesome.
Dinner started at 7:30, and again in typical French fashion, ended at about midnight.
My friend Olivier gave me a ring on my cell and said, "Be at La Place de la Concorde in twenty minutes. We're going out." I had already had some good but strong scotch and a bottle of wine, but hey, who's counting?
Olivier and I, as well as a new friend from Madrid (Javier) went out to a bar in the Latin Quarter for sangria, and then headed up near the Moulin Rouge for another drink when the sangria bar closed.
The night was fun, but what was of note was the name of the bar: La Requin de Chagrin (it rhymes in French). Chagrin in English means, what? Sad, and a little embarrassed. In French it means deeply depressed, as in "Il est mort du chagrin" or "He died of a broken heart."
La requin is "the shark," so I was having beers at a bar called "The Deeply Depressed Shark." What is wrong with these people? You have to love them. In fact, the bar has a picture of a shark, looking over his shoulder at you, and weeping, while smoking a cigarette and playing the piano. What?
I got in at about 3:30am and went right to bed. I am sure that the beer, sangria, wine and scotch helped, but I like to think it was the gentle rocking of the boat that lulled me into sleep.
Whatever it was that lulled me into sleep, it was the pounding hangover I had the next morning that woke me up. Please note, the gentle rocking of a boat may be calming and relaxing while dining with friends and watching the world go by, but it is enough to make you want to tear your own head off if you are hungover.
I had some water, stared at the wall for an hour until I could feel my head again, and headed out.
Not much today, just bumming around Paris. I started a new book, "Revolutionary Road" and had breakfast at an outdoor cafe. Later, I stopped into a random cathedral for a look-see, when I discovered I was right next to a big movie theatre. I ducked in and caught the afternoon showing of Woody Allen's new movie, "Cassandra's Dream."
All I am going to say about it is this: at some point in your life, before you die, you must see this movie. It is one of the most spectacularly brilliant movies I have seen in a long time, and I am not a huge Woody Allen fan. Holy cripes, this movie was good. It opens in the States in January, so clear your calenders.
Anyway, I'm back at the Hyatt now, and as much as I love what I am doing, it is always a little depressing to come back to work after spending your days trolling the streets of Paris, ready to run into whatever may come along.
Sounds like some body's got a case of the Mondays.
Maybe, but I don't think I'm anywhere near as upset as that shark was.
Poor thing.
Eventually, the boat made its way to Paris, probably not for the first time, and was bought by a private owner. A woman named Louise who wanted a place to live. She renamed the boat La Louise, obviously after herself, and parked it on the Seine. When she died, she passed it down to her children, as did they to their children, and so on for the past 113 years...
This weekend, I was invited to spend the weekend with my friends Sylvain and Catherine. They are wonderful people who live in the heart of the city, so theirs is a great place to make one's way around Paris from.
I left the Hyatt late morning and made my way to the city center. The train station near my house was quiet enough, but it would prove to be the last quiet place I would see for the whole trip into Paris.
My first train was stopped, and ordered to turn around and to to the airport, so we all filed off the train to wait for the next one. One man on the train exploded angrily at the information lady, but about two minutes later, another train showed up and whisked us on our way.
I arrived at Chatelet Les Halles, a central Metro station, to change for another train, and before I could put my ticket in the machine, I was stopped by a large crowd gathered around a large group of classical musicians. There were about 12 musicians in all, playing everything from the upright bass to four violinists to woodwinds... It was just the coolest and least expected thing in the Metro. I watched for a while and headed on. On the platform of my next train, a group of four Russian musicians started hastily setting up. Before I could reach for my iPod, they started up a long and loud Russian dirge. Who plays a dirge for tips? It was cool to see though, and they really worked the crowd. The crowd, by the way, grew and grew until I was standing on the edge of the platform. When the train arrived, I was pushed into the car by a mass of people making their way from Russian dirge to Parisian city center.
Finally on board, I found a seat and made to relax and enjoy the ride, when, at the next stop, two Italian men got on the train, dropped a large speaker, got out their respective saxophone and tuba, and launched into something in three four time. They had a blast, but the crowd (including me) had had enough at this point. When their hats came off at the end of their first song to receive tips for their performance, the train car was quiet and unmoved. I think of all the people on that crowded car, these guys probably made about three euros. At the next stop, they abruptly packed up and scampered off, mumbling away to each other, probably about how Parisians don't appreciate live music. If they only knew...
I arrived at Sylvain and Catherine's place, a boat called Neilali. Catherine was there, but she told me that Sylvain was out working, "On a Saturday! Like an American!" I let that one slide.
She introduced me to her friend Eva, who I was told would also be staying the weekend. Confused, I asked where I might be sleeping. Catherine explained that Eva would take the extra bedroom on Neilali, since her apartment was being redone, and I would be spending the weekend on Eva's boat: La Louise. I flipped out.
La Louise is a much larger boat than Sylvain and Catherine's, and to have it all to myself was such a treat. It has a large living room and a large bedroom, a bar, a fireplace, and two bathrooms. My bed was below the water line, so I would literally be sleeping with the fishes. Eva brought me there, and let me alone to relax for a bit before dinner. I had brought a bottle of Bordeaux as a "thank you" for letting me stay with them, and so Catherine insisted that we drink it at a special vegetarian dinner she was preparing. I had absolutely no problem with this.
I unpacked my backpack and went up on the deck to watch the sun set on the river.
Autumn is in full swing here in Paris, so leaves are changing colors and falling, and the sun sets earlier every day. La Louise is parked right off of La Place de la Concorde, the governmental center of France, and is in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. I sat on the deck and watched the sun go down on the river and waved to tourists as they passed by on boat tours. By the time the lights on the Eiffel Tower came on, it was time to go.
Sylvain and Catherine, Eva and I dined on a delicious pumpkin soup and a gratin of cauliflower and potatoes (chopped cauliflower and potatoes in heavy cream with cheese, then baked). While the ladies prepared dinner (a nice change of pace for me these days), Sylvain opened a bottle of 13 year old, single malt Scotch. I am not a Scotch drinker, but this stuff was really, really smooth and fruity. It was delicious. I had one glass, because at 45% alcohol, I think one was enough, especially after Catherine lined up four bottles of red wine on the table for dinner. That is a bottle of wine, per person. Ok, so we're not screwing around here.
The soup was delicious, and the gratin was too. In typical French fashion, dessert was an array of cheeses. They had gone to a little cheese shop in La Bastille that they know I like, and bought a bunch of good ones. One in particular was a cheese I had bought for myself when Ruta was here: a triple cream cheese, covered in red and gold raisins that had been soaked in rum. It is delicious, and the Bordeaux that I brought went very well with it.
Later, we sat out on the deck and talked and talked in the cool evening breeze while finishing off the wine. I get along so well with these people. They are just fascinating. They have made everything about their lives so interesting, from the fact that they live on a boat on the Seine, all the way down to the wine glasses they used for dinner. Sylvain asked if I liked them, and of course I said yes, and that they looked old. He said, "Oh, they are, from the 19th century. You can pick up a set for about 200 euros pretty easily." It was at that point that I very carefully put the glass down and started looking around the boat for a nice, plastic sippy cup. A moment later, Eva got up to open a window and accidentally swept one off the table. The glass shattered, and its wine splashed all over the couch. Eva was so upset, but Sylvain and Catherine threw their heads back, laughing. "I guess that's what I get for bragging about the wine glasses!" Sylvain said.
I just think that is incredible. These people just know how to live, and they have all these friends from around the world. When I arrived for dinner, Sylvain was coming in from a day of visiting a friend at L'Hotel de Dieu, Paris's main hospital, where Princess Diana died. Unfortunately, if you are not a doctor or a patient, you cannot get into the ICU, so Sylvain stole a paramedic's jacket that he found on a chair in the waiting room and marched in to see his friend. He had brought this 80 year old man some beer ("I know he's in the ICU, but he really likes his beer, so..."), and sat with him for a few hours. Later that night, when I was leaving and couldn't find my scarf, he put the jacket on me. It is a three quarter length, leather jacket with big, official writing on the back that says HOTEL DE DIEU. As I walked back down the quai towards La Louise, people definitely turned heads. I felt like running along the river, yelling, "Out of the way! I'M A DOCTOR!"
Oh, and the friend he was visiting? The man is fluent in English and French, so Sylvain speaks Franglish to him. Why does the guy speak both so well? Oh, only cause he worked for the US Secret Service. What kind of man spends his days stealing paramedics jackets, just so he can bring beer to his 80 year old spy friend in the ICU? That's awesome.
Dinner started at 7:30, and again in typical French fashion, ended at about midnight.
My friend Olivier gave me a ring on my cell and said, "Be at La Place de la Concorde in twenty minutes. We're going out." I had already had some good but strong scotch and a bottle of wine, but hey, who's counting?
Olivier and I, as well as a new friend from Madrid (Javier) went out to a bar in the Latin Quarter for sangria, and then headed up near the Moulin Rouge for another drink when the sangria bar closed.
The night was fun, but what was of note was the name of the bar: La Requin de Chagrin (it rhymes in French). Chagrin in English means, what? Sad, and a little embarrassed. In French it means deeply depressed, as in "Il est mort du chagrin" or "He died of a broken heart."
La requin is "the shark," so I was having beers at a bar called "The Deeply Depressed Shark." What is wrong with these people? You have to love them. In fact, the bar has a picture of a shark, looking over his shoulder at you, and weeping, while smoking a cigarette and playing the piano. What?
I got in at about 3:30am and went right to bed. I am sure that the beer, sangria, wine and scotch helped, but I like to think it was the gentle rocking of the boat that lulled me into sleep.
Whatever it was that lulled me into sleep, it was the pounding hangover I had the next morning that woke me up. Please note, the gentle rocking of a boat may be calming and relaxing while dining with friends and watching the world go by, but it is enough to make you want to tear your own head off if you are hungover.
I had some water, stared at the wall for an hour until I could feel my head again, and headed out.
Not much today, just bumming around Paris. I started a new book, "Revolutionary Road" and had breakfast at an outdoor cafe. Later, I stopped into a random cathedral for a look-see, when I discovered I was right next to a big movie theatre. I ducked in and caught the afternoon showing of Woody Allen's new movie, "Cassandra's Dream."
All I am going to say about it is this: at some point in your life, before you die, you must see this movie. It is one of the most spectacularly brilliant movies I have seen in a long time, and I am not a huge Woody Allen fan. Holy cripes, this movie was good. It opens in the States in January, so clear your calenders.
Anyway, I'm back at the Hyatt now, and as much as I love what I am doing, it is always a little depressing to come back to work after spending your days trolling the streets of Paris, ready to run into whatever may come along.
Sounds like some body's got a case of the Mondays.
Maybe, but I don't think I'm anywhere near as upset as that shark was.
Poor thing.
02 November 2007
"...a moveable feast"
"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast."
-Ernest Hemmingway
A long marble table is set for five.
Everyone has the same place setting: a folded napkin, two forks, two knives, a spoon, a water goblet and a wine glass. Simple, as dinner settings go.
In the center of the table is a silver basket of fresh baked bread, small pats of butter from Normandy, and the obligatory salt and pepper.
The Hyatt Regency Charles de Gaulle has decided to honor its stagiares with a dinner of their choosing as a gesture of gratitude for putting up with so much moving back and forth, to and fro, from the Hyatt to Premiere Ass and back again.
Not everyone could make it, but for those of us who could, the dinner would be resplendent with culinary delights and oneological treasures, not to mention the civilized discourse of one's comrades-in-arms.
We were all given an invitation worth sixty five euros (a large sum) towards whatever we might choose from the dinner menu of Restaurant Apollo.
To be clear, I work at Apollo; I don't eat there. I cannot afford it and am not welcome, regardless.
But tonight, I was a guest of the restaurant that I have worked so hard to master, and so, I was not taking the evening lightly.
November the first is All Saints Day in Paris, as it is in many Catholic places, but unlike the States, it is a national holiday here, and being a national holiday, many places are closed. Apollo is not, but it might as well be for the few other patrons who were in for supper that evening.
Normally, I take my meals in L'Escale, the employee "restaurant" (cafeteria). It is highly informal. I wear my jeans, don't comb my hair, and can wolf down uninterrupted mountains of whatever I so choose from the luke warm buffet line at my disposal. Usually, MTV-E is on the television, and European wannabes grind their way towards the camera while European rappers fake their way through "gangsta"hood.
It is a sad place that I try to get into and out of, with the quickness.
But tonight was different. I had been asked to dinner at Apollo, and it was coming out of Mama Hyatt's pocket. I didn't need to think about it.
To be sure, formal attire is not required at Apollo. Since any variety of traveler can be expected at any time in this hotel, only a minimum degree of formality is expected at Apollo. Basically, if your fly is closed at least half way, you can get in. Another way of looking at things is that if you can afford to eat here, we don't really care what you look like. Actually, that is much more accurate.
Regardless, I was determined that my fly would be fully closed for this occasion.
How often is it that one is invited to a full, formal supper in one of the great cities of the world in a nice restaurant, at no cost? Not often enough for me, so I decided to dress up.
I wore my blackest of black jackets and a nice pressed white shirt with a pair of nice slacks. Actually, they were pants, but "slacks" sounds a little nicer, so lets all just go with it, hmmm?
I suppose that life is in the looking at it. If you sit down on the ground with a PB&J in hand, and look at it like a banquet, then I suppose it is one.
For me, I was happy to be enjoying dinner with some good people, some good food, and a heck of a wine list, so it was the height of civilization to me.
And really, I highly recommend it, if ever you find yourself in the position to try it:
We ordered by course: cocktails, entrees, main courses, wine. Nobody really wanted dessert, so we left that out. Good thing too. I had not the room.
So, one of the great things about being away from home is that there are things that I cannot get. Case in point, I am a true lover of the martini. I like them with vodka, dry (but not too dry) and with an olive stuffed with the bluest cheese on hand. I like them up and cold, cold, cold.
If you ask for a martini in Europe, though, you are asked, "White or red?" White or red what? is what I wanted to know the first time I was asked this.
Turns out, Martini is an Italian company that makes the vermouth that goes into the concoction we call a martini, and that is where it gets its name. We don't really serve the white or red variety in the States, only the green "extra dry" variety.
So when I asked if they served martinis, and was greeted with the response, "Up or on the rocks?" instead of the usual "red or white?" I was in bliss.
On the downside, cocktails are always accompanied by American cigarettes. Being the oldest male, I was seated at the head of the table, so I had a little room to lean back and actually breath. Still, there is an undeniable glamour to the cocktail and cigarette combo. Not enough to die over, but one that I can appreciate from a breathable distance. Let the kids have their fun, I say.
Bread is served Russian style, ripped open by hand, and spread with butter and salted (that's the Russian part). It is good. The salt enhances the butter, not that it needed anything.
An AOC is a big deal in France. This butter has one. AOC stands for Appelation d'Originé Controlleé. Basically, it means that there are laws on the books limiting the amount of this butter that can be produced, so to keep its value high, and the AOC also verifies that this butter came from Normandy, the dairy capitol of France. In the long run, people will tell you that butter is butter, but anyone who has had fresh butter compared to the spreadable crap from the tub knows better. This stuff was the tops. Creamy and fresh and cold. Hot, fresh, crusty bread and good, cold butter is a feast in and of itself.
But as I was salting my bread and butter, it came.
"Martini, vodka, up, dry" was all the waiter, Pierre (of course) had to say. It was my first martini in a long time, three months almost. I put the drink to my lips and imbibed.
Cold, crisp, a hint of salt, a smack of tart, like melting snow in an olive grove. It was grand. I let it go right to my head without a worry.
Next came the salads. Apollo serves salads in American style, before the main course. I had the coeur de succrine. It is, as I may have described before, succrine lettuce (like mini hearts of romaine), sliced into quarters, drizzled with balsamic and olive oil, and garnished with shaved Parmesan. I cracked some fresh black pepper over it and was good to go. The lettuce was so fresh, little droplets of water clung to the edges of the leaves like tiny, crystal Christmas ornaments. The balsamic is good: tart and dry, and balanced by the smoothness of the organic, extra virgin, cold pressed Italian olive oil.
Now, you can find organic, extra virgin, cold pressed, Italian olive oil in the States, but I am here to tell you (and Ruta will back me up on this), it is nothing compared to olive oil in France. This stuff is fragrant, bordering on pungent, and actually tastes of olives. It is syrupy and smooth, elegant. It is the perfect foil to the balsamic. The vinaigrette dances on the tips of the lettuce, and glides around your palate like skinny dipping teens on a hot August night, silky and graceful. Absolutely delicious, and with the salt of the Parmesan, it is almost too much to bear. I suffered through.
Next course (main course for me) was a plate of baked red pepper, eggplant and cucumber in sea salt on foccacia with fresh feta, and roquette salad. It was light, and delicious.
If you over cook vegetables, somehow, they all wind up tasting vaguely the same. Mushy and semi-bland. On the other end of the spectrum, if you under cook vegetables, they are rough, difficult to impossible to chew and have that very "green" taste. Some people make a third mistake of smothering cooked veggies in dressing of some kind, usually melted cheese or that age-old American abomination: "ranch."
Quick aside: what the hell is ranch anyway? It is undefined herbs in salted cream. Of course this tastes good, but never great. I don't care if the valley is hidden, the request for ranch, bacon or no, should always be stated thusly: "Will someone pass the ranch dressing and then kill me, please?" My good friend Josh, an ex-pat in Brazil, recently asked my wife to bring him a bottle of the stuff, as it was something he missed from the States. Just before her leaving, he changed his mind, and I can only assume he came to his normally highly intelligent senses. Either that, or he discovered Brazil's strict "No Ranch" policies. I hope it was the former.
Regardless, if vegetables are cooked just right, they can be ecstasy.
These were. Al dente, lightly basted in the aforementioned olive oil and lightly salted. Their natural flavors shone and complimented each other so well. It left me nearly agog at the vastness of variety of flavor that the Earth has to offer.
The bread was warm and flavored with fresh rosemary and thyme. I love this stuff.
I love rosemary and thyme so much, I actually had it put into the boutonnieres for my groomsmen. Really. I'm nutty that way.
There is just something about rosemary and thyme that satisfies. Simon and Garfunkle will tell you that too. Together, they taste like coming into a warm house when it is just a bit too cold outside. They taste safe and warm and like home. At least for me they do. Maybe some people get that same feeling from eating ranch. Poor souls...
The garnish to my entree was a small salad of roquettes. I don't think we have this salad in the States; I can only describe roquettes as super arugula. Smaller, pointier, strong flavor of white pepper and earth. I had it with olive oil and salt and went to town. Deee-vine. I think I will be the chef who bring roquettes to the popularity in the States. Keep an eye.
Of course, as you already know, no meal is complete without wine, and this meal was no exception.
I ordered a glass of Les Hauts du Smith, a haut Medoc cabernet/merlot blend from Bordeaux. In Bordeaux, the wine is aged in barrels that are made from a mix of American and French oak. The oak really came through on this one, as did the strawberry notes. It was a full, round, deep ruby red. It was the 2004 vintage, which was a great year in Bordeaux. Lots of fruit and a bit dry. It was a meal on its own. I think I could have just had this glass and been satisfied. The dryness of the wine cut through the salt and cream of the cheese and the oak picked up the earth of the vegetables. Glory to Bordeaux in the Highest!
Of course, I could have had all of this on my own, in my room, while watching Cagney and Lacey reruns, and it would have been nothing more than some good veggies and good booze with Tyne Daly before the weight gain.
So what made this whole event so special? The conversation. I know this sounds really snotty, but there is something about enjoying a three hour meal in a refined setting, with cloth napkins, and real silverware, and fantastic wine, while chatting away with your friends in French.
Since there were five of us there from four different countries (Korea, US, China, Russia), it was almost necessary to speak French, because it was the common language, not to mention that we are in France.
I think that sipping your delicious wine while crunching into hot, crusty bread and butter while discussing photography and making plans to meet on the Champs Elysees for coffees, all the while gabbing in the most beautiful language on Earth, well, that is what world peace is like for me.
It is civilization. How else can five people from four separate corners of the globe come together and enjoy a meal, unless they share an appreciation for being together, and know how to eat, unless there is peace between them? Because eating- dining- is a skill that you learn. When you sit down to break bread, there is something immediately intimate that you share with those you break bread with.
It was civilization, in the least arrogant sense possible, and it made me proud that this is what I provide for people. I am the guy who makes these meals happen.
After dinner, we all went off to a bar in the area for after dinner drinks. The Russian had a red Martini on the rocks (a fruity vermouth, that I actually like quite a bit), and the Korean had a Cognac. I was feeling like a guy, so I had a 1664, a French beer. It was nice. We all talked about our home countries, and what we plan to do when we go back there.
Afterwards, I got back to my room and slept. It was the sleep of kings.
I had a belly full of good wine and beer, not to mention a great meal, and a head swimming with great conversation.
I will take that experience with me as propulsion, inspiration: this is what I do; this is what I provide.
This is Paris, and thank the good Lord is it movable, because I never want to leave.
-Ernest Hemmingway
A long marble table is set for five.
Everyone has the same place setting: a folded napkin, two forks, two knives, a spoon, a water goblet and a wine glass. Simple, as dinner settings go.
In the center of the table is a silver basket of fresh baked bread, small pats of butter from Normandy, and the obligatory salt and pepper.
The Hyatt Regency Charles de Gaulle has decided to honor its stagiares with a dinner of their choosing as a gesture of gratitude for putting up with so much moving back and forth, to and fro, from the Hyatt to Premiere Ass and back again.
Not everyone could make it, but for those of us who could, the dinner would be resplendent with culinary delights and oneological treasures, not to mention the civilized discourse of one's comrades-in-arms.
We were all given an invitation worth sixty five euros (a large sum) towards whatever we might choose from the dinner menu of Restaurant Apollo.
To be clear, I work at Apollo; I don't eat there. I cannot afford it and am not welcome, regardless.
But tonight, I was a guest of the restaurant that I have worked so hard to master, and so, I was not taking the evening lightly.
November the first is All Saints Day in Paris, as it is in many Catholic places, but unlike the States, it is a national holiday here, and being a national holiday, many places are closed. Apollo is not, but it might as well be for the few other patrons who were in for supper that evening.
Normally, I take my meals in L'Escale, the employee "restaurant" (cafeteria). It is highly informal. I wear my jeans, don't comb my hair, and can wolf down uninterrupted mountains of whatever I so choose from the luke warm buffet line at my disposal. Usually, MTV-E is on the television, and European wannabes grind their way towards the camera while European rappers fake their way through "gangsta"hood.
It is a sad place that I try to get into and out of, with the quickness.
But tonight was different. I had been asked to dinner at Apollo, and it was coming out of Mama Hyatt's pocket. I didn't need to think about it.
To be sure, formal attire is not required at Apollo. Since any variety of traveler can be expected at any time in this hotel, only a minimum degree of formality is expected at Apollo. Basically, if your fly is closed at least half way, you can get in. Another way of looking at things is that if you can afford to eat here, we don't really care what you look like. Actually, that is much more accurate.
Regardless, I was determined that my fly would be fully closed for this occasion.
How often is it that one is invited to a full, formal supper in one of the great cities of the world in a nice restaurant, at no cost? Not often enough for me, so I decided to dress up.
I wore my blackest of black jackets and a nice pressed white shirt with a pair of nice slacks. Actually, they were pants, but "slacks" sounds a little nicer, so lets all just go with it, hmmm?
I suppose that life is in the looking at it. If you sit down on the ground with a PB&J in hand, and look at it like a banquet, then I suppose it is one.
For me, I was happy to be enjoying dinner with some good people, some good food, and a heck of a wine list, so it was the height of civilization to me.
And really, I highly recommend it, if ever you find yourself in the position to try it:
We ordered by course: cocktails, entrees, main courses, wine. Nobody really wanted dessert, so we left that out. Good thing too. I had not the room.
So, one of the great things about being away from home is that there are things that I cannot get. Case in point, I am a true lover of the martini. I like them with vodka, dry (but not too dry) and with an olive stuffed with the bluest cheese on hand. I like them up and cold, cold, cold.
If you ask for a martini in Europe, though, you are asked, "White or red?" White or red what? is what I wanted to know the first time I was asked this.
Turns out, Martini is an Italian company that makes the vermouth that goes into the concoction we call a martini, and that is where it gets its name. We don't really serve the white or red variety in the States, only the green "extra dry" variety.
So when I asked if they served martinis, and was greeted with the response, "Up or on the rocks?" instead of the usual "red or white?" I was in bliss.
On the downside, cocktails are always accompanied by American cigarettes. Being the oldest male, I was seated at the head of the table, so I had a little room to lean back and actually breath. Still, there is an undeniable glamour to the cocktail and cigarette combo. Not enough to die over, but one that I can appreciate from a breathable distance. Let the kids have their fun, I say.
Bread is served Russian style, ripped open by hand, and spread with butter and salted (that's the Russian part). It is good. The salt enhances the butter, not that it needed anything.
An AOC is a big deal in France. This butter has one. AOC stands for Appelation d'Originé Controlleé. Basically, it means that there are laws on the books limiting the amount of this butter that can be produced, so to keep its value high, and the AOC also verifies that this butter came from Normandy, the dairy capitol of France. In the long run, people will tell you that butter is butter, but anyone who has had fresh butter compared to the spreadable crap from the tub knows better. This stuff was the tops. Creamy and fresh and cold. Hot, fresh, crusty bread and good, cold butter is a feast in and of itself.
But as I was salting my bread and butter, it came.
"Martini, vodka, up, dry" was all the waiter, Pierre (of course) had to say. It was my first martini in a long time, three months almost. I put the drink to my lips and imbibed.
Cold, crisp, a hint of salt, a smack of tart, like melting snow in an olive grove. It was grand. I let it go right to my head without a worry.
Next came the salads. Apollo serves salads in American style, before the main course. I had the coeur de succrine. It is, as I may have described before, succrine lettuce (like mini hearts of romaine), sliced into quarters, drizzled with balsamic and olive oil, and garnished with shaved Parmesan. I cracked some fresh black pepper over it and was good to go. The lettuce was so fresh, little droplets of water clung to the edges of the leaves like tiny, crystal Christmas ornaments. The balsamic is good: tart and dry, and balanced by the smoothness of the organic, extra virgin, cold pressed Italian olive oil.
Now, you can find organic, extra virgin, cold pressed, Italian olive oil in the States, but I am here to tell you (and Ruta will back me up on this), it is nothing compared to olive oil in France. This stuff is fragrant, bordering on pungent, and actually tastes of olives. It is syrupy and smooth, elegant. It is the perfect foil to the balsamic. The vinaigrette dances on the tips of the lettuce, and glides around your palate like skinny dipping teens on a hot August night, silky and graceful. Absolutely delicious, and with the salt of the Parmesan, it is almost too much to bear. I suffered through.
Next course (main course for me) was a plate of baked red pepper, eggplant and cucumber in sea salt on foccacia with fresh feta, and roquette salad. It was light, and delicious.
If you over cook vegetables, somehow, they all wind up tasting vaguely the same. Mushy and semi-bland. On the other end of the spectrum, if you under cook vegetables, they are rough, difficult to impossible to chew and have that very "green" taste. Some people make a third mistake of smothering cooked veggies in dressing of some kind, usually melted cheese or that age-old American abomination: "ranch."
Quick aside: what the hell is ranch anyway? It is undefined herbs in salted cream. Of course this tastes good, but never great. I don't care if the valley is hidden, the request for ranch, bacon or no, should always be stated thusly: "Will someone pass the ranch dressing and then kill me, please?" My good friend Josh, an ex-pat in Brazil, recently asked my wife to bring him a bottle of the stuff, as it was something he missed from the States. Just before her leaving, he changed his mind, and I can only assume he came to his normally highly intelligent senses. Either that, or he discovered Brazil's strict "No Ranch" policies. I hope it was the former.
Regardless, if vegetables are cooked just right, they can be ecstasy.
These were. Al dente, lightly basted in the aforementioned olive oil and lightly salted. Their natural flavors shone and complimented each other so well. It left me nearly agog at the vastness of variety of flavor that the Earth has to offer.
The bread was warm and flavored with fresh rosemary and thyme. I love this stuff.
I love rosemary and thyme so much, I actually had it put into the boutonnieres for my groomsmen. Really. I'm nutty that way.
There is just something about rosemary and thyme that satisfies. Simon and Garfunkle will tell you that too. Together, they taste like coming into a warm house when it is just a bit too cold outside. They taste safe and warm and like home. At least for me they do. Maybe some people get that same feeling from eating ranch. Poor souls...
The garnish to my entree was a small salad of roquettes. I don't think we have this salad in the States; I can only describe roquettes as super arugula. Smaller, pointier, strong flavor of white pepper and earth. I had it with olive oil and salt and went to town. Deee-vine. I think I will be the chef who bring roquettes to the popularity in the States. Keep an eye.
Of course, as you already know, no meal is complete without wine, and this meal was no exception.
I ordered a glass of Les Hauts du Smith, a haut Medoc cabernet/merlot blend from Bordeaux. In Bordeaux, the wine is aged in barrels that are made from a mix of American and French oak. The oak really came through on this one, as did the strawberry notes. It was a full, round, deep ruby red. It was the 2004 vintage, which was a great year in Bordeaux. Lots of fruit and a bit dry. It was a meal on its own. I think I could have just had this glass and been satisfied. The dryness of the wine cut through the salt and cream of the cheese and the oak picked up the earth of the vegetables. Glory to Bordeaux in the Highest!
Of course, I could have had all of this on my own, in my room, while watching Cagney and Lacey reruns, and it would have been nothing more than some good veggies and good booze with Tyne Daly before the weight gain.
So what made this whole event so special? The conversation. I know this sounds really snotty, but there is something about enjoying a three hour meal in a refined setting, with cloth napkins, and real silverware, and fantastic wine, while chatting away with your friends in French.
Since there were five of us there from four different countries (Korea, US, China, Russia), it was almost necessary to speak French, because it was the common language, not to mention that we are in France.
I think that sipping your delicious wine while crunching into hot, crusty bread and butter while discussing photography and making plans to meet on the Champs Elysees for coffees, all the while gabbing in the most beautiful language on Earth, well, that is what world peace is like for me.
It is civilization. How else can five people from four separate corners of the globe come together and enjoy a meal, unless they share an appreciation for being together, and know how to eat, unless there is peace between them? Because eating- dining- is a skill that you learn. When you sit down to break bread, there is something immediately intimate that you share with those you break bread with.
It was civilization, in the least arrogant sense possible, and it made me proud that this is what I provide for people. I am the guy who makes these meals happen.
After dinner, we all went off to a bar in the area for after dinner drinks. The Russian had a red Martini on the rocks (a fruity vermouth, that I actually like quite a bit), and the Korean had a Cognac. I was feeling like a guy, so I had a 1664, a French beer. It was nice. We all talked about our home countries, and what we plan to do when we go back there.
Afterwards, I got back to my room and slept. It was the sleep of kings.
I had a belly full of good wine and beer, not to mention a great meal, and a head swimming with great conversation.
I will take that experience with me as propulsion, inspiration: this is what I do; this is what I provide.
This is Paris, and thank the good Lord is it movable, because I never want to leave.
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