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704. webfeet - 6/14/2006 3:45:36 AM Yes, and I will look on, proud from my post as a part-time bookkeeper in a vacuum-cleaner company. Then, I will later wrap up my opus in a neat little parcel, and drink myself to death with Cherish and Roy and throw darts at my NuPlanetOne kewpie doll.. And, oh nevermind.
You have a very good ear for dialogue. And that is half the battle. 705. concerned - 6/24/2006 4:51:03 AM Say, what's a 'herione'? I've heard of 'heroines', of course. 706. Ulgine Barrows - 6/24/2006 9:54:14 AM yeah right, Let's get together on these 'heroines', of course.
Before we get much older
707. Ulgine Barrows - 6/24/2006 10:04:58 AM mmm
fuck me now
or fuck me later
strategy 708. webfeet - 6/27/2006 5:55:27 AM Well, ding dong dell..who do we have here?
I hope that wasn't a haiku. Because, if it was, I've never heard such a strange little melody put to music. Yes, yes it might actually be a haiku! Lovely, ulgine. Unprecedently lovely. 709. webfeet - 6/27/2006 6:08:58 AM I suppose I should be telling you all now. Get out your hankies.
No, no, I'm not not published, yet. What I'm doing is leaving the country Friday to spend ete en provence with belle-mere and it is highly unlikely that you shall hear from me for the entire summer! All those 4th of July Barbecues I will have to miss, oh, I can't stop sobbing. City heat inthe dog days of summer. Please, someone hand me un mouchoir while I dab my eyes.
Of course, I am landing straight into the jaws of death. But, what's a fool to care? There are tartes everywhere! And I can dance in the street every time her back is turned and dream under the parasol of a small cafe, in total silence.
710. alistairconnor - 6/27/2006 9:45:14 AM Middle of Aix en Provence if I am not mistaken?
Classy big village. Plenty of pretty fountains for the kids to splash around in. Though perhaps Aix is a bit prim and strait-laced to tolerate that.
I hope les grands-parents have enrolled the progeniture in a centre aéré, so they can tough it out with the locals?
Perhaps Clément is old enough for a week in a summer camp? That would be formative. 711. Magoseph - 6/27/2006 11:43:03 AM What I'm doing is leaving the country Friday to spend ete en provence with belle-mere and it is highly unlikely that you shall hear from me for the entire summer!
Why is the ordi’s sacrosanctity still in effect, Web?
712. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:23:59 PM No-one plays in the fountains, alistair. Not even frogs. OH GOD WHAT HAVWE I SAID? UM, that's a big no no.
We're not staying in Aix the whole summer..keep in mind Aix is now akin to Burbank or Cheddar Cheese, WI as it's perhaps the 17th time I'll be going there since the magical yeear of 1998. I usually fall captive to its charms in the late evening
And all of Europe and 'The Americans' flying in for the 'Cezanne' exposition which took 20 years to get afoot, at the Musee Granet. Looking forwarsd to it. No really. An un air conditioned little museum smaller than the Frick with hundreds of world class breathers in my face as I bend to peer into each portrait, rubbing buttocks with Italians. Oh, alrite, it does sound like fun. I'm thirsty just thinking aboutit.
Cezanne is buried, incidentally, in the cemetary behind BM's jardin gardenc omplex and you can see just the tippy tip of Sainte-Victoire, if you stand at the head of that colline, in the distance. I expect someone is going to force me to go on a hike there.
And thenit's down to the sud-ouest to Pau and its environs to have a small reunion with the second-generation paysans and their off-spring in bm's Bearnais clan. Everyone is exceedingly polite and I am carted before them like a circus animal..for their entertainment. An American! In our living room!
This is going to sound mean, and by golly, it is. I deliberately picked out espadrilles that put my already tall frame at a good inch or so taller than usual.Normally I never wear any shoe with even the slightest hint of a heel. A tiny one, just to give a little grace to my ankle, but not really. I did this especially to vex BM. When she orders me around, she will have to look up to me!!! Can you believe anyone could stoop so low? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA 713. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:29:27 PM Well, I'm awake now. There!
And mags, the ordinarteur is in theory welcome at any time for my use, except that it never seems to work when I go near it. And whathisface, phi phi my beau pere, can play the 'mad professor' and shake his head and shrug, but he is more savvy than he lets on. He has a fucking imac laptop for god sake.
Never works. Never. When I'm near it.
That doesn't mean that I can't try.
Now I have to go. My children are away, my husbandis in paris and I have been blissfully alone for 2 solid nights. And I have no time to waste. 714. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:32:16 PM ...the valise is open and they're coming back today. 715. wabbit - 6/27/2006 2:44:09 PM I am already looking forward to your return and the host of stories I've no doubt you will have to share! 716. alistairconnor - 6/27/2006 3:42:37 PM I was only joking about the fountains. Sort of.
My kids would be up to their armpits, and I'd probably get a ticket from the municipal police. You should have seen them tearing across the Bridge of Sighs against the flow of traffic, fearlessly facing down finger-wagging Germans.
Well I presume they were Germans. Perhaps they were Swiss. Or Aixois. 717. arkymalarky - 7/1/2006 1:20:06 AM This remind anyone of a certain American short story? 718. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:12:55 PM Chapter 4 Scallops Istanbul and The Big Moon Clock
Being under the gun as we approach the dinner service was routine. Fabiano following me into the walk-in while getting last minute instructions was, in effect, me completing a thought. Throughout the course of the day and day before any service, nightly specials were discussed on the fly, pretty much in unison as we went along according to the daily prep sheet and informal daily meetings. It could seem complicated to an outsider but just based on the advance ordering for any particular week, as well as the daily order for seafood and produce, Fabiano always could figure out where I was going in terms of specials. He knew that morning upon seeing the seafood order that I had bought 4 gallons of Nantucket Bay scallops. My main fish guy, Jimmy, ‘Fishee Man’, as we called him, was a one man independent distributor. He had been in the business for forty years and now pretty much just kept a handful of customers so he could have something to do with himself since he sold his big fish house down in New Bedford. He was like seventy years old and had a million ailments peculiar to the trade, but had a robustness and optimism of spirit that could keep a fox hole of bleeding soldiers from realizing they were oozing entrails; just from the strength of his resolve and unshakable matter-of-factness. If I needed facts about fish, Fishee Man had them. If you needed something out of the ocean, Fishee Man could get it, describe it, and tell you every restaurant and Chef that has bought it or even asked about it recently. I say could, but only if he decided you were his pal, and I was one of his best pals. And during scallop season getting the very best real McCoy’s from the myriad coves and lagoons along Cape Cod and actually out of Nantucket Bay, you needed someone who knew someone. Fishee Man knew everyone. If he said he had Gold Nuggets, my mouth watered. Nantucket Bay scallops were prized, and they deserved to be, and aside from perfectly handled and indigenous muscles, Alaskan King Crab, or Wellfleet oysters, these little balls of flesh were like an aphrodisiac of the deep. They made you horny for seafood. No other way to put it.
“I got’em Fab,” I grunted as I pulled the scallops from a lower shelf in the walk-in.
“You gonna run’em out, or save one for tomorrow?” Fabiano was gently poking the risotto on the opposite side of the walk-in where three sheet tray racks held everything important for quick service pulls. “This is good now.” He said as he eyeballed the rice.
“What, oh, I haven’t seen the reservation list yet, but I’m betting all four gallons gone by 8.”
“Ya, this is ready,” I said as I lightly felt the bottom of one of the sheet pans holding the risotto.
“Why you wear that ring now? You never wear that before?” He gestured at my hand that now hung onto the side of the speed rack that held the trays and held me as I leaned there thinking.
“What? Oh, a good luck charm from my brother.” I looked at the ring and got the twinge of fear mixed with the flash memory of slapping my brother’s face when he was 12. All he did for the smack was cry like a girl because a bully threatened him. He never really forgave me.
“Who Boss? The dead one, yes?” I had three more.
“Oh ya. Loco grande.” I lampooned. He smiled the big dimpled pose as he recalled his own flash images.
“The Grip.” He raised his arm and formed an open hand like he was going to try to take hold of a basketball. On more than one occasion I had seen my brother smother the face of a loan client, and depending on the information that had been offered in terms of repayment, he squeezed in varying vise clenches until the new terms were understood. His hands fit around a human skull like a normal guy holding an orange. He was ‘The Grip.’ At 6’5, he was a mountain, and good speed might keep you out of reach, but if those talons snatched you, the only reason he didn’t snap your neck was because he wasn’t supposed to. I never saw him kill anyone on purpose. No one did.
“Ya. The Grip. Big stupid shit.” I muttered
“Boss, that time he picks up Julio by the head!”
“Ya, poco cabasa.” I grinned and shook my head at the memory.
“No one see his other hand hold him by his belt from behind, ha ha!”
“Bobo. Forget that. Here’s how it’s gonna go.” I gestured him out of the walk-in as Brian my pastry chef pushed in. Bingo. I had an idea. “Get some basmati going.” I said as I held the walk-in door slightly ajar and Fabiano drifted off backwards with the stress face that said he was not having fun. He knew I had assumed command and his comfort zone for the night was in jeopardy. “Oh, and tell Julio to clean 2 extra bags of muscles. Just shuck’em and save all the juice.” Almost a smirk and then he spun around the corner. But the head came back around.
“Boss, psssst…she is wearing the tuba.” As he hissed his eyebrows flickered then he rolled his eyeballs in a circle.
“Blue one?” I asked as if I was totally disinterested
“Beee…yankoo!” He sang in an exited drone.
“Bianco.” I said interested.
“Bianco,” he said with a head gesture to follow him.
“No. And that’s tube. Tube top. Now get hopping. We gotta move.”
“Signore Boss. Silver dollars for everyone to see.” I knew he just wanted to get me to abdicate and stay behind the scenes. Although the thought of Rosalie running around in the tuba made me think of moonlight and wanton silhouettes. I resisted. No time now for that. But it pulled hard.
“Fab. Focus. Go with the flow. Basmati, muscles.” I went all business on him then turned my head into the walk-in.
“Brian, I need some plain Anglais.” I barked it and he turned and stood with his snob face and smirky stare behind his thick framed, retro Buddy Holly glasses.
“What!” He looked like he was reacting to an imbecile that had made its second request for an explanation after the first one was exhaustive and precise.
“Hello, remember me? Executive Chef. Kept you. Got rid of Annetta. Anglais?” I grinned like an overfed fat man.
“On the left, back, behind those figs. What for? May I be so bold?” Still with the condescension of self absorption.
“Scallops Istanbul. Lobster Anglais. It’s all about to be invented.”
719. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:13:28 PM He had that worried look he gets when he senses I’m about to trounce on his overly sensitive cuisine ethics. Brian is a food purist. Perhaps even an intellectual in a food history sense. And because he won’t ‘trend’ his desserts, as he calls the fusing and stretching of classical recipes, he remains on the outskirts of the downtown scene even though he is more than qualified and abundantly creative enough to land a job in one of those top kitchens. I love his end of the line and even did most of the desserts myself for six months, but trying to do both ends was hurting things in the middle, even if Fabiano loved having me diverted. Now, with Brian firmly in place, Fabiano feels crowded when I just step right back in and commandeer the rectangle on a busy Saturday night.
“Good Lord,” Brian half muttered. “Scallops aren’t necessarily a Turkish staple. They tend to favor muscles. And anchovies seem to be rife across all regions. Hamsi, I believe they are called.” He spit that out like he always does as if at some imaginary audience versed in encyclopedic recall.
“No kidding?” I never heard of Hamsi. “Julio is shucking muscles as we speak. Basmati pilaf is contemplated. I am thinking a minature Kabab vrs a Metze. The little fish don’t fit but eggplant and cumin are on board somewhere.” I waited for the smirk, besides I needed to know if I forgot anything perceptually Turkish.
“I see,” he said with the eyeglass magnified squint and blink of blond eyelashes that always precluded the smirk.
“The kicker, Sir Brian, is the olive oil. God neckta. Just a splash over the steaming scallops before the ride to the table.” I realized I had it worked out as I now saw shrimp on my mini Kababs. Piece of eggplant, poached muscle, baby mushroom, small shrimp, red onion. On the plate, 8 o’clock going clockwise: Pyramid of bay scallops. At noon, round mold of pilaf. Then at 4 o’clock the Kabab lying with one end at six to three o’clock. The Anglaise would flow out from under the pyramid from 9 to 5 o’clock. Figs.
“What are the figs for?” I interrupted Brian’s punctuated smirking by grabbing his Black Mission Figs from in front of the Anglais sauce.
“Take them,” he said somewhat expecting it. “You know the meringues didn’t move,” he added as if the world was all wrong and he was all right.
“Oh, ya. The fig apricot beauty. Hazelnuts. Damn delicious. I loved that thing.” We both knew it was world class.
“If it isn’t chewy and gooey, this crowd is not buying it. Generally speaking,” he deadpanned, but brightened.
He was pleased. I won him over. He knew I knew his talent. As long as he prepared the standard classical desserts he was free to do one he really felt inspired about. Besides, he was pretty much in the restaurant six days a week, which meant he could monitor everything that transpired, and he loved to tell me about any little thing that caught his notice. It was his cross in the face of the ‘vampires’ at the other end of the line, the thugs, he said, that manned the grill and ovens. Grill guys tended to be loud, boisterous, machismo fascinated individuals. And Brian, being somewhat delicate and gay, actually, was adept at using my admiration of his skills and importance as his weapon to neutralize their homophobia. Plus, he was the smartest guy in the room, which could actually help in a physical conflict, at least if you were aware that one were imminent.
720. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:14:00 PM “I hear that. And I know my attention to something actually resembling Turkish cuisine will mean nothing to 80% of our diners tonight. They will read Nantucket Bay Scallops, and that is all they will need. Toss in the words lobster and shrimp and voila, instant hit. It’s the other 20% I have to be careful with. They spend the real money. Alfred will do an exit poll as usual. I say we move 20 extra bottles of the Spottswoode Sauvignon Blanc Donna is featuring out there. And it’s fabulous. And they scoff at the mark-up.” Brian just nodded and reemphasized his agreement with some fresh fluttering of his lashes.
“How do you poach a muscle?” He asked. Worried there was a new way.
“Simmer it in something nice, out of shell. I use shrimp stock, lemon grass and garlic as a base. Tonight I add the muscle juice. Then cook it perfectly.” I said as if we were one brain talking in turns. “That way the succulence is guaranteed.”
“Suck who?” He grinned. “Where the figs going, skewer?”
“No. Pilaf molded in a ball. Figs, small dice. Pine nuts. Olive oil, a bit of garlic and cumin for color and a hint of flavor. The ball of rice sitting atop granny smith wedges that have been poached and impregnated in an intense Marsala reduction. And now that I’m thinking about it, grilled marinated asparagus sticking out from under like a house fell on them.” I pictured the extra asparagus I was going to pair with the salmon.
“And the Anglais?” He was holding 2 quarts he had fished out from his main dessert shelf.
“Simple. Double boiler back left corner to loosen it. Swirl in my lobster roe paste, salt and white pepper. I got a ton of baby lobster claws I save for garnish. I heat’em in the swirl and lay a few at the base of the scallop pile.” That was the picture I wanted in my head. “OK, make sure Rosalie is all set with the soufflés. What time you got?”
It is impossible. Futile really, to explain, to try to explain how the feeling takes hold. Something clicks somewhere within your inner ear, an alarm, a wash over of adrenalin, brief terror, a shortness of breath. Suddenly a big clock face sits above your eyes like a magnificent moon over a sparkled glittering sea with huge hands ready to tick off the seconds in a countdown in reverse time. You know that now your actions control the fall of the hands. Each thing you do, each task that you control from that point on keeps the clock from ticking. Any wasted action or distraction allows the clock to tick off one more second. You also know that if you let the big moon clock tick with the real clock instead of keeping at least a half beat behind, real time will take over. And people die in real time. Hardly anyone dies a beat behind. It is anti-time. If the two meet there is annihilation. Manipulating real time is what we all do. I mean, time doesn’t really exist; it’s just a local measurement of an orbit. It has nothing to do with the actual condition of the universe. But it is real time. The obvious acknowledged condition of our universe. The space we warp and inhabit. And the trick to getting things done in real time is to ignore the people or things measuring it. Just you and the big moon clock. And controlled breathing.
“Two minutes to four.” Brian stared at his wrist like he just set the fuse at Hiroshima. His alarm went off. He looked through me and was gone with an armful of artillery.
“Tell Fab the salmon is going over spinach.” I told his back.
He waved his left hand. No more words. I surveyed the walk-in with the eyes of a circling hawk. I would be able to see every inch of it in my mind for the next five hours. I instantly stacked the next half hour’s tasks in my inner cabinets like an efficient shopper putting away groceries. I noticed suddenly it was cold. Real world condition in a walk-in. I noted it and headed out to the dance.
721. Macnas - 7/14/2006 8:55:44 AM I still like it. 722. alistairconnor - 7/27/2006 3:50:21 PM That "scallops Istanbul" thing played out much as I surmised. Means I'm getting into the narrator's head, I suspect. 723. Jenerator - 10/11/2006 1:28:41 PM Webfeet?
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