Adults. My parentage was deeply flawed and deficient in debilitating and dangerous ways; however, Nature, abhorring a Vacuum, struck a balance by granting them talents and strengths which were compensatingly meteoric to the Good. I rattled around like a pinball flying from one bumper to another just to stay out of the waiting abyss of darkness at the bottom of the decline. Separation was one technique until alcohol gave me the courage to be part of the problem or the apathy to surrender. Sometimes passing out was the best option. The point is that for each scar, each disappointment, each unfortunate lapse of guardian judgment; there is the equally powerful treasury of extraordinarily expanding experiences that offset the damage. Quick to criticize, slow to give credit, it has taken me almost 50 years of stringing life’s opportunities together to capitalize on the mine that was not the “Standard Issue Childhood”; 75205, notwithstanding. And, that the dark abyss is not fatal. Ask Jonah.
Children. My grandmother, Vivian, instilled in her daughter, Vivian, a reverence for food preparation and home-sewn couture. Where the sewing lessons inspired irascibility, the cooking instruction spawned an avocation of disciplined study and practice and enjoyment of the culinary arts including the cultures that they nourished. We children were the beneficiaries. There are conservatively more than 5,000 who will testify that Vivian the Elder and Vivian the Younger each put Jesus’ loaves and fishes trick to shame (John 6.1-14). Regardless of what fiscal calamity fell upon our household, there was always food and it was always good even if it meant that bag lunches had hearts of palm instead of carrot sticks or endive stuffed with olive spread substituted for tuna on white—we ate. Rigid Tupperware (deemed more valuable than one’s own safe return from Grade 1) containers in place of Baggies portended some explaining to my classmates at the luncheon table and barred any chance for a swap. Embarrassment’s lash, then, serves me well, now. Cuisine Gourmet became Cuisine Gourmande which yielded Cuisine Minceur to help us trim down. www.foodtourist.com/ftguide/Cookbook_Review/Cuisine_Minceur_by_Michel_Guérard.htm
The advent of Cuisine Nouvelle starved us on a fare of very large plates.
Hearth&Home. The foodie triad was complete when my adoptive father wed Mother. Saturdays the TV was locked onto PBS for all the cooking shows. All sets were inter-tuned to the same programs, The Galloping Gourmet, Romanogli’s Table, The French Chef each in their turn demanded no voice-over from the under 18 crowd. During the broadcast, something out of a wine-stained cookbook was on the stove or in the oven, M.I.A. glasses of wine were quickly replaced with fresh so that the population explosion of cheap pressed stemware required the conscription of cheap pressed barware to battle Thirst. Ignoredly cigarette ash would fall in the soup, on the floor, in the sauce; and forgotten butts smoldered gingerly on drain board or appliance edges. Their signature scorch would be the only testament of their participation. Everyone talked. The TV’s talked, mother talked, father talked, and Grandmother talked via phone from ½ mile away. Each one giving his/her pronouncements of how to improve and/or simplify the recipe or technique demonstrated so the “help” could do it or so “it wouldn’t take all day”. Grandfather was the sommelier. My brothers and I provided the adolescent appetites and the candid faces of Truth in Palatiability.
“Gross!” was an acceptable if disheartening criticism as long as the portion were fully ingested before an opinion filed. “Gross!” only meant that it may appear again on another attempt, except fried eggplant which got panned too many times, too unanimously, too vociferously to withstand perfecting.
If ever a minor child looked askance at the plat du jour, the results of this selfless discipleship, the reprimands would begin to descend unwaveringly and religiously. “You don’t want to grow up to be a HillBilly, do you?” inflected in such a way that we didn’t have to know a hillbilly in order to know that the answer was patently, “No.”
The Outside World. This same conditioning cut the opposite way, too. As I made my way into the world, away from the Vivians, their kitchenalias, and their censorship of processed foods; my friends and lovers introduced me to Shake ‘n Bake, Hamburger Helper, Mexican Buffet, Pizza Delivery, Mac&Cheese, and Manwich. Church Lady Casserole became my favorite dish at the new-to-me venue of Parish Hall Buffet. “You don’t want to grow up a HillBilly, do you?” the mantra pounded. Mother’s work paid her back the day my brother called in a panic from Nashville, TN: “Mother, there are no olives for my salade nicoisse in this town! What do I substitute?” Mame met Beau.
Summer 2008–“Necessity is the Mother of Invention”. At first blush, Sallisaw OK looked like Deprivation Depot; but, on the contrary, it has been an integral part of the River Journey by demonstrating that solutions lay in open view beyond the horizon yet broadened. Our initial mistake was underestimating how different it was from our familiarities which is, of course, what made it so rewardingly successful. One of the challenges was food. My error was denying the importance of well-prepared food to me. Just because I don’t have to have Mozzarella swimming in brine on hand or Corn-Fed Veal on ice does not mean that I don’t need a good grocery store or decent lunch out. Sallisaw has one grocery store, one Wal-Mart, and every fast food joint you can name. Pad space for Drive-Thru’s is so valuable on the frontage road of IH40 at US Hwy. 59 that Arch FastFry Competitors share a pad and co-market under one roof. Soon, 80 mile round trips to Fort Smith, AR at $5/gallon gas in a 10mile/gal. F150 seemed cheap after exhausting all other local options.
One of the local options was the restaurant named, The Chinese Buffet, but you just had to know that because the sign had blown over and rested face down on the roof (“Oklahoma! Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!”). To eat in Sallisaw, one must overcome one’s aversion to Steamtable—All U Can Eat—Buffet. Even so, Chinese Buffet with the sign blown down seemed dicey. So, we made do by ordering from the menu and were probably served unawares from the kitchen the same food that was on the line. We learned to rely on these Koreans’ penchant for fresh food with taste and texture, and we could pirate the Wi-Fi from the adjacent Microtel. Eventually, I warmed up to the four rows of self-serve steamtable because next to the Jell-O were Sushi, California Roll, specifically, but Sushi. “Curiosity Killed the Cat” so after resigning myself to an excruciating death of salmonella compounded by e-coli, I tried some. “Don’t want to grow up a HillBilly, do you?” I didn’t die; on the contrary, it was satisfying and delicious. Wasabi made up for off-days. I became about Sushi as Frito-Lay would want us to be about potatoe [with my love to Dan Quail] chips, “No one can eat just one”.
Our final meal in OK was a fish fry at Casi’s Barefoot Bar where we feasted on catfish jug caught by Walt from River. Rhoda and her family catered the entire event for the guest list of most of Sebastian County. We celebrated Casi’s 21st and Our Summer of Change.
August 2000—The Fags and Bags Tour. Dale and I had concocted a tour of the Ohio River Valley, The Hudson River Valley, and The St. Lawrence Seaway via rail and canal barge that would have bankrupted the Queen. Instead of cutting back, we recruited passengers, two septuagenarian widow-women who jumped at the chance for two younger men, albeit, Gay (“any port in a storm”) to hand them around for three weeks on tour. Dale served as the courier and purser. I provided cartage and food service. They deferred expenses. As caterer, it was my responsibility to provision the boat & prepare the meals at sea. On shore, I scouted suitable dining venues and made arrangements. On rail, I ordered food to be packed in boxes. Even for a three hour layover in Ottawa, it was my responsibility to find the Mayfair Restaurant where all the cabbies go for Fresh Grilled River Trout Almondine (Fridays, Noon-1P only, please) with sautéed asparagus spears in butter and potatoes gratinee. Or, the Maple Leaf in Gananoaque—another story…
This arrangement worked out well: Dale wanted to know when the train pulled. I wanted to know where we were eating. The ladies wanted to know in which bag was the Scotch. We had all agreed before departing Dallas that an airport was always at hand for opting out. For the entire three week tour, no one dared.
Montreal—August 2000—The Fags and Bags Tour. Montreal is a treasure in August. No Southwestern Sun to burn up the vegetation, we were outside touring the Mosiaculture, www.pbase.com/dumontd/mosaiculture_international_montreal_2003
www.mosaiculture.ca/index_va.html, during the day and crawling Ste. Catherine’s for dinner after dark. Rue de Ste. Catherine is a Boulevard of sex shops, video stores, fruit stands, and cheap food conveniently on the opposite block from our Hotel on deMaisonneuve, O. This strip competes vigorously for the many students in the city by keeping prices low while pushing quality and variety up. More than one night we could be found sandwiched between piercings and tattoos, standing at a counter pressed against the glass eating Greek, Indian, or Oriental foods out of paper cartons, engaging the locals in whatever combination of languages we could patch together. We were the novelty act of the only 40-, 50-, and 70-year olds who would darken the door of these low bistros and engage teens and 20’s in conversation. “You don’t have children, do you?” a youngster would eventually venture. However, for our last day in Montreal, we wanted to celebrate with an adult meal in a real restaurant, Chez Enzio had linens, metal flatware, and crystal stemware.
Chez Enzio located in the 1600 block of deMaisonneuve O. was my first introduction to the one-employee restaurant. Across the street from our hotel, I stepped in just before the dinner hour to make reservations for a table. Below street level, one steps down into an entry hall where in the wintertime flailing off of coats, hats, gloves, and scarves doesn’t disturb the Dining Room whose décor looked like “Grandmother’s House” in Alsace-Lorraine. Over heavily textured walls painted that singularly Germanic Pale Rose were paintings in oil or watercolor of landscapes, interiors, or pets. Interspersed were photographs of loved ones born, dead, and in between. Simple iron chandeliers glowed the apricot of the pleated and ruffled window coverings. Mis-matched chairs like at Granny’s on Sunday Afternoon marched around tables of white linens, crystal stemware, and surgically bright stainless utensils. The kitchen smelled of food as March smells of rain.
Shortly, from this oasis from hunger steps Enzio who is not Quebequois but is French. Short and stocky he was a Gallic fireplug 25 years ago who has traded wrinkles and hair for hospitality and charm and a couple of pounds. Calling from the back of the kitchen: “Bon Jour! Bon Jour! Monsieur! Bienvenue!” He makes his way through the cadre of waiting tables and takes my hand which is inconvenient because it is how I speak French.
“May I make a reservation for four people at 8 PM, svp?” I inquire in that sort of French that resembles English.
“Non,” responds Ennio, “I canz tayquez yu at 7:30 ou 8:30.” without looking at the book.
“D’accord. Nous arrivrons aux 8:30. Merci.” I confirm the 8:30 time, I think.
He responds in full-blown French, a long discussion with hand gestures, dependent and independent clauses, the subjunctive mood for Pete’s sake. Obviously something more involved than “Fine. We’ll see you then.” Seeing my face collapse, he started over in English sort-of. All alcohol needed to be purchased at the liquor store next door and be brought in. Of course, he said you cannot possibly know what you will want to drink until you have ordered your meal. “Of course!” I think to myself glibly.
As it was late-afternoon going on to early-evening, it did not strike me as strange that I didn’t see any activity in place. All over Manhattan at this time of day, restaurants are bereft of any staff save the proprietor, usually perched on a stool sipping a coffee, waiting for the evening’s take to arrive.
Fags & Bags arrive at the appointed hour to find a room comfortably but not overly full of diners. Enzio waved us in from the kitchen, but, soon came, wiping his hands on a towel, to embrace our welcome and show us to the table. As we settled, he returned to the kitchen again. Some of the formerly laid tables have been used and their cloths folded up from the corners to hide the remains instead of being cleared. Honoring the alcohol rule, we installed our bottle of Scotch at the center of the table for lack of a more discreet location.
“Oh!” Ennio said when he arrived looking down at our bottle, “Yu needz glasses. Arez yu American or Engleesh?”
“Texan.” one of the ladies asserted with her new dentally implanted smile.
“OH! yu willz needz ice. I come back.” and away Enzio went leaving menus behind for our entertainment which was good because “I cum back” with glasses, a bucket of ice, and a pitcher of water indicated that this was not a place to go for a quick bite. We were in for the evening which was fine because we had been whirl-winding all day on a Grey Line bus, now we were sitting in a dining room not a chop house, soon we would be ready for our bed for tomorrow we shall pull out.
The parties around the room looked to be engaged in quietly discussing World Peace, the relevance of robin’s egg blue to hemlines above or below the knee, or whatever are we going to do with Auntie Old Maidie. Occasionally, a joke would ring out; but, out of respect for others, one confined one’s party to one’s table. We talked about the excitement of going to Toronto on the first train out, the beauty of Montreal, and return trips. After ample time to consider the generous menu and swill our Scotch, Enzio reappears to buzz the other tables and arrive at ours to take dinner orders.
“What’s the special?” we ask brightly.
“Eeet ees all especialle” Ennio assures us. “Comme appetizaire, I soujhest la soupe.”
“What’s the soup, today?” we ask brightly.
When traveling in France, if the soup is an appetizer, a special, or comes with the entrée, it is always legume. The only time soup is not vegetable is when it is called something other than soup, like vichyssoise, or bouillabaisse. “Soup” implies legume and anything else that fell on the floor and requires boiling before it can be sanitarily served instead of wasted.
“La soupe tudaay, ees like tous les days, legume.” See? What did I tell you?
We went around the table. For those who did not order a specific appetizer, Enzio would look down his Gaul nose through his lenses and mark “soupe” by their place on his pad while his mouth would silently shape the sounds “ssssssooooooouuuuuu” allowing the final “P” to pop percussively, “PUH”.
Entrees were more involved because there were the discussions of what we would call “sides” which got rather involved. We struggled with all the ways and manners of cutting a carrot while Enzio struggled with what would enhance the selected meat. So, we compromised. “I weel bring plats to shaire, a la famille.”
“D’accord.[OK]” “D’accord.” “D’accord.” we all rang out with glee, our pronunciation spanning “Duckerd” to “Duh-Cord to “Darfour”, however, Francophones genuinely feel that Anglophones must not be discouraged no matter what the cost to their language. Smiles it matters not whether out of support or embarrassment from other tables prompted us to venture into “Merci” and “S’il vous plait” before the ordering process was over. The reader’s imagination will give greater justice to what actually came out than I can do limited by mere print.
Then, there was salade to consider. Well, that was a problem. We didn’t consider salade and Enzio didn’t offer salade a la famille. This was not Olive Garden. Four individual discussions ensued about la salade. If the kitchen were on fire, if another table needed salt, if the phone were ringing off the wall to book a reservation, and when another party arrived; Enzio did not flinch until the question of four salades had been totally and completely agreed upon and decided. “D’accord ’s all around [“Duckerd” “Duh-Cord “Darfour”].”
A satisfied “Bon!” concluded the ordering ceremony at which time Enzio took the slip of paper threaded between his fingers and began to write as a doctor would a prescription. “Okaay.” he began, “tayqhe theez ovaire to zee personne ovair zhair [eyes raised over glasses indicating the liquor store next door] an’ tell ‘eem zhat yu wantz theez wine.” And he departed the table, buzzed the room, welcomed the new arrivals and motioned with his eyes to “Go next door and get what I told you to get.” So, I did. And a choice. Two bottles in hand, I return to the table to find two diners abandoning their soupe; and, instead, ravaging my carpaccio. Dale stupefied glared helplessless as the Rape of HIS Escargot unfolded before his eyes. The crimes perpetrated by two old women who “just couldn’t eat another morsel!” fifteen minutes prior. “I’m not very hungry are you, dear?” they asked each other en route to the restaurant. “I’ll think I’ll have some soup and maybe some cheese with bread” “Me, too” they conspired on the street before arriving at dinner. A deceitful ruse.
“You didn’t tell us this was good! We didn’t know what it was.” they defended, “It’s deeeelicious!” drool running off their chins unbecomingly.
“Right. That’s why I ordered it. It’s not French, you know.”
“No?” in unison, “Well, It’s deeeelicious!”
“Fine.” I huffed at a postage stamp of ravaged carpaccio staring back from my plate as seductively as possible.
“We left you some.”
“How’s your soup?” I inquire pointedly.
“Oh, it’s divine! But. Not as good as your what-is-it?”
Enzio hears the enthusiasm, exits the kitchen, buzzes the dining room, and stands ready to accept accolades. “Encore de carpaccio,” I ask for another order of my appetizer.
“’Ow ees zhee soup-puh?” Enzio asks while his eyes drop onto the alien bottle of wine.
“Who cares?” I whine, “They’ve eaten my carpaccio!”
“Whaht eez zhees?” he picks up my wine selection as if it were the handkerchief of Typhoid Mary, “Du yu ‘ave a problem wiz zhee, ‘ow du yu call eet where zee wataire goze ou’ zhee bazhtub?”
“Drain.” Dale prompts.
“Zhair eez zhee problem wiz zhese ‘drain’?”
“No.” I hold my ground.
“Zhen why yu bigh?”
“Because I thought it would be nice to have a choice.” holding my ground.
The light shone in his old face, his eyes sparkled and he said, “Zhen, yu want tu cum een zhee kitchen an’ choose ‘ow I kook? Hmmmmm?” after a pause, “”Ow much yu pay?” he asks. I told him. “OOOOOH-LA-LA” wagging his head in hands and clucking his tongue. “Yu like?”
Michelangelo would have abandoned authorship of David after this display of disgust. “Don’t know” I shrug.
“Non. I uze zheez to cleen zhe kitchen. I be back.” and he leaves his guests, his kitchen, his restaurant for two seconds, he goes next door, and returns with another bottle and some change. “When yu want a choeese, yu ask Enzio. Voila! zhe choeese.” He buzzes the room as he returns to the kitchen. This one gets water, that one salt. All in an unhurried but near-officious manner.
Enzio speaks to each table with equal interest and enthusiasm. He is our host, we are guests in his dining room. The meal was only long with respect to our fatique, but after a couple of weeks of being on the move, it was nice to sit still and quiet for several hours. We were properly restored with food, wine, coffee, and cognac when the check did not come. And did not come. And did not come. The rest of the group chose to go back to the hotel rather than fall asleep in their plates. And did not come. I said, “I’ll see about the check. Y’all go on.” And, I sat. By myself. And sat. Finally, I ask another solo diner, “How do you get the check?”
“Presentez-vous a la cuisine.” disdainful of the Anglophone begging me to admit “je ne comprend pas” or even the more shameful, “I don’t understand.”
But, of course, I would have died first, before giving him the satisfaction he craved. In fact, I did not understand anything but, “a la cuisine.” Which was sufficient for me to reply, “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.” dripping of saccharine and deference. “Jerk” I think to myself.
So, I go to the kitchen and ask for the check. “Don’t you have any help? Someone to pick up the dishes? Pour the water? Cook the orders?” I gape while Enzio figures my bill on his hands.
“Zhen, what wood I du?” he says with a smile and my change. “Bon Voyage. Merci!” he walks with me from the kitchen to the entry hall. Gives me a big hug and my hat. “Bonne Nuit, Monsieur, Merci! Merci!”
Looking back, I see the corners of our tablecloth fold up to cover our mess.
Toronto—The Fags and Bags Tour—2000. The following day we arrive in Toronto for a late lunch and a nap at the Royal York Hotel, formerly a Canadian National Railway property, but now managed by Fairmont. I was anxious to find dinner so Dale and I set out by ourselves secretly. A short walk up King Street into the Theatre District there is the KitKat www.kitkattoronto.com
a Holstein’s butt sticks out of the front façade over the door. Dale and I walk in to meet John who, like all restaurateurs at this hour, is at the bar with his coffee waiting for the dinner hour and its promise of hungry patrons. The front room is the bar no wider than a train car.
“Hello, Gentlemen” John gets off his stool. “Would you like a table for dinner?”
I am leery because his approach more than his manner reminds me of the barkers on Times Square Deli’s where Bagels are $5, Cream Cheese is $5, Fruit Cups are $18.50, Coffee is $5 and Sugar $2.50 each. “No”, I resist, “We’re just scouting right now, but I’d like to see a menu.”
“Too bad.” he turns his back on us and says, “Chef’s just made some gazpacho. Best in the City.” and he saunters back to his cooling coffee.
“Gazpacho?” I say to myself, taking the bait. “Gazpacho?” I call to John. “Hot or Cold.”
“Cold.”
“Well, the best Gazpacho in the World came from my Mother’s hands” I throw down the gauntlet, “And, she’s dead now 10 years. Bet yours is no where near as good as hers. I bet yours is too acidy, too sweet, or too watery.”
John turns slowly. The challenge struck. “We’ll see. But first, since your mother’s dead, I’ll have to trust you to be honest.”
“Don’t worry.” Dales smiles while planning his escape. “Three paces to the door. Turn right. Right again at the corner. Run ½ block to the subway and home.” he calculates quietly to himself. “Dial 9-1-1”.
And, in short order, a demi-tasse of ice cold gazpacho felt good in my summer hands. I looked into the cup the size of a Toonie and my heart sank. I looked exactly like my Mother’s gazpacho “not too chunky but not minced” she would drill into me at the Cuisineart. Perfectly chilled I brought it to my lips and before taking it into my mouth I breathed in its aroma, “too much acid spoils the appetite, too much water tastes stingy, if it needs sugar throw it out” she would instruct. It smelled like Mother’s gazpacho. I took it into my mouth by half. “the vegetables must sit like finely cut jewels in your mouth while the tomato baths your tongue minty with white pepper and basil” she whispers. I swallowed. “it must go down of a piece letting the slight garlic finish urge the next taste”. It was my Mother’s gazpacho. I took the second half to be sure. It was the gazpacho that I have ever since failed to duplicate despite constant instruction.
“May we have a table for four at 8:00 PM?”, I asked in abject defeat.
“See you at 8, gentlemen.” John the Victor made note in his book and returned to his coffee. No name asked nor given.
At the appointed hour, after Scotch time, we arrive at the KitKat, Bags in Hand. The joint is jumping. Theatre-goers are on their way out. Bus boys are clearing tables in order to seat the mob at the bar. A puddle of people spills out the door trying to get on the list while a string of single-filers races across the street fumbling for tickets and adjusting lipsticks on physically impossible Jimmy Choo’s. No one can go anywhere without passing through the thin corridor between the bar patrons and the mirror wall which doubles the effect. “Good-bying”, “Loved seeing you!”, “Kiss! Kiss!”, “We’ll meet up at intermission!” mingle with The Big Game announced on several sets hanging over the crowd, “SCORE!” and the crowd goes wild in and out of TVLand. The phone rings absently without pause. I push my way to the rostrum like Orpheus climbing out of Hades.
“You’re here!” John shouts into my ear. “I almost had to give away your table.” jokingly. The clock serving to hold down the pages of his book blinks, 7:59 over the blank entry that reads 8P… four…gazpacho…Table 1 now being checked off. “Follow me” he signals and stops, “Where’s the rest of your party?” he screams into my ear. I am afraid that the noise is going to drive Dale crazy. I’ve made a huge mistake. No one will be able to say a word to anyone else.
“The rest are behind me, I guess.”
“C’mon” and John cuts through the crowd like warm butter. “I put you back here.” He calls back.
“Okay.” I scream very concerned because I don’t want to have to beat a retreat, I don’t want to have to find another restaurant with its requisite “I don’t care where do you want to eat…I don’t care I’m not really hungry…wherever is fine”, and I want to eat here. But the noise in the bar is prohibitive even to Helen Keller.
Just passed the bar and through a Rabbit’s Hole of a door, passed a stairway going down which clings to a tree growing up and penetrating the glass canopy overhead, passed the refrigerator case which displays dessert and other eatables through its curved glass front is a dining room made out of reclaimed back lot of this once-warehouse building typical of those that populate the Theatre District of Toronto. Next to the service area against the wall is a booth with high backs, simple cushion, room for six and one step above the floor. “How’s this?”
It’s quiet. “Fine!” I am thrilled and relieved. It’s quiet like the difference between a playground and a tea room.
“If I see the rest of your party I’ll send them over.” John jokes. And one by one they squeeze through the throng to arrive grateful for this oasis of comparative calm if not a little disheveled. One stopped by the tree to make sure she had come out with all of it. We settle down and slide in. “This is fine!”, we agree as our waiter comes up.
“What are we having to drink?” our waiter asks.
“SCOTCH!” the table defines with the abandon of junkies over Cocaine.
“and a diet cola.”
The waiter: “Sorry the kitchen caught on fire just as you walked in. The chef’s burned up. The sous-chef is convulsing in pain from third degree burns over 90% of his body and the fire department is caught in curtain traffic, but I can call in a Pizza. Do you want a menu?…Oh, and…The Scotch was arrested in cuffs as an accomplice. Sorry (pronounced SORE-ee)” and beats a retreat.
“Yes!” I proclaim knowing that this is going to be FUN. A waiter who can play.
“What did he say?”
“What?”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Yes!’”
“No! the waiter!”
“Who cares? Is he bringing Scotch!”
“Yes this is going to be fun.” I affirm to myself as I cast my eye around the room. I love cosmopolitan cities where the denizens don’t match. The diversity of this room inspired the bar scenes in the Star Wars trilogy. The up-and-coming financier lech sitting with his Goth tartlette and her Edmonton parents; his hand firmly writhing high between her thighs. The former ex-beauty queen her lips just a touch too bright, her outfit though current a little to tight, her surgery not quite healed, but “I just can’t stay in the house another minute!” and her not-quite-well-enough-to-do husband but “He loves me. How can I leave?”. The wannabe player and his brain surgeon wife. The revered star of stage and screen with Tarzan’s Big Brother in a little more than a thong and chemise. A couple of tables of college interns waiting for their gender to drop. Over there is the Frommer’s couple in the corner. The old crow alone in the corner probably owns the land we’re sitting on and half the city council and John. She scowls disapprovingly her Nancy Marchand. The lilt of French soprano voices colors the bass guttural and nasal gruntings of the men in English while dishes clatter the beat and waiters bark orders into the kitchen. I am reminded of Debbie Reynolds opening line from her one woman revue, “Isn’t wonderful we’re all here and we’re all still alive?”
“Scotch, Scotch, Scotch, and Diet Coke. Menus and I’ll run downstairs to see what the kitchen has that’s ‘off-menu’” Waiter appears and disappears.
I open up the menu to find all the favorites from Vivian’s Kitchen. I cannot possibly decide. “I know”, I suggest, “Let’s just order stuff and pass and share instead of each gets an entrée.” Well, after our experience at Enzio’s the night before, the ladies were glad to just sit and watch the crowd. “Besides, Alexander, you always order best. You do it. Carpaccio.” So, Dale and I started to make the list for the waiter. “Okay, girls, you do the wine.” “Gazpacho!” “Hooray! the wine! where’s the list? Lessee.” they coo searching their pencil-box purses under the cloth for the glasses they are too vain to actually wear on their faces but cannot see without. Improvised lorgnettes at arms length prove a fashionable alternative.
“We’re just going to order dishes and taste”, I begin to the waiter “when we’re full we’ll stop ordering. No need to worry when any of it comes out we’ll eat it just the same.”
“Great.” The waiter beams.
“We want wine.” the Scotch blurts out.
“Great.” The waiter beams.
“We want this [pointing], this [pointing], and this [pointing] Ha! Ha! Ha!” the jocularity and enthusiasm of the room was contagious.
“We have to have carpaccio” I begin “and this soup with four spoons, that soup with four spoons, in fact, just bring lots of forks and spoons and we’ll work it out.” It was that kind of a place, it was sort of a College Campus Dining Hall but will adults and a serious menu. “Osso Buco, saltimbocca, crab cakes, field green salad, sliced tomatoes, and soufflé to start. How many chocolate soufflés, girls?”
“One for me, I’m not sharing!” you see how the party got out of hand. “Don’t forget the Garbanzo Soup!”
“GAZZZPACHO.” the table corrects.
“Whatever” the withered voice follows the indignant hand waving us aside.
The evening romped along with tables turning for yet another permutation of God’s creative sense of humor, talk centered on what a swell time we had had as our tour together was coming to an end. Other trips we had taken or wanted to take. Interruptions came from waiters and waitresses who wanted to meet the squatters from Texas. “Hi! Who are Yew? We’re from Texas!” was the standard conversation starter from another in our party, not I. She used it to charm lock masters and train engineers as long as they were men. It worked here, too. Part of glee was that we had actually spent three weeks together without unpleasantness and part was the celebration of new and old friendships and part was this venue of conviviality with sophistication and erudition. I don’t know how much of the menu we actually ate, however, no plate left the table wet nor sullied. And each of us tried at least one new thing.
Toronto—The WinterWonderland Tour—February 2009. On our first night in Toronto, the Theatre District was dark so we thought we’d walk down to see if there were any free tables for dinner. We had no intention of going to the KitKat, we walked by the KitKat which was jammed.
“I’ve eaten there. It was fabulous.” we reminisced but were more interested in trying something new.
There are lots of restaurants along this strip. Several Italian. One French. Two Chinese. One Japanese. Two Korean/Viet Namese. A hamburger joint. And a Sports Grill. But not being a Theatre night, they were open to sparse crowds. Their waiters leaned languid against the bar looking more like buzzards waiting for something to die than eager to serve dinner. Their lights glinted stale like the eyes of a courtesan jilted late in life. In short, they were dead.
We engaged a street person for several blocks in conversations about world politics, Obama and the Canadian Recession, and proved to him that “I’m not giving you any money today” meant “I’m not giving you any money today.” Maybe tomorrow. Unlike the homeless in Dallas and NY, Canada’s homeless are not hard-lived, middle-aged, skid-row types. They are young men, almost entrepreneurs. They are well-spoken and well-read, articulate, and probably available for hire of a type without soliciting. On our Montreal Street Rue St.-Denis, one young man illustrated a proposed oral technique with his mouth and middle finger he assured would send me to coasts uncharted for the price of a cigarette. Suspecting that there was a little more Madison Ave. suggested than even he could deliver, I declined; but it is fodder for fantasy. Back in Toronto, “I used to be clean shaven, like you.” he pointed to my face, “but I make more money with a fuzzy face and ragged hair.” Their opening line is almost always, “Got a nickel?” to which we learned to answer truthfully and enthusiastically, “Yes!” and walk on. Irony is always attracted to itself because “it is a sign of intelligence” according to Carol Burnett. We walked to the end of the strip where the two us turned around and left the third behind.
“Got a nickel?” we were approached by another in the second block of our return.
“Yes, but I promised the homeless guy back there a nickel tomorrow so how can I pay you when I owe him?” I explain hat in hand.
“Good line.” he says with a smile and a wave, “Have a nice night, guys.” and faded off.
And we arrive at the KitKat, tighten our winter wear, secure our belongings and plunge into the puddle of pulsing, drinking, laughing, talking Humanity.
“Hi, guys. Two? Reservation?” John asks over the din.
“No.”
“Okay, sit here by me.” Tucked next to the rostrum, jammed up against the mirrored wall, sheltered from February’s draft by two rows of bellies against the bar upholstered in overcoats, scarves, jackets, and hats, was a discreet table for two. Hidden by the hat tree which looked more like a Tiki Hut thatched with Burberry and Jos. A. Bank than a garment rack, we dined. Conversation barred by the ambient noise, we would talk later or yesterday or next week. Now, we would eat.
“Off-menu are mussels in a tomato sauce.” Our waitress bellows over “SCORE!” from the now three flat-screens pendant over the bar made six by the mirrored wall over our heads. The last row of bellies breaks away from the herd to reproduce the slap shot that replicates the exuberant mayhem, “Did you see THAT!” to no one in particular “I’ll have another whiskey” to the barkeep. Our waitress regains her balance. John threads through a party of four while its host introduces each diner to his friends watching the game. “LOVELY TO MEET YOU!” at a public hanging would be more convincing.
“Then can I have them in a white wine and butter sauce?” My Meg Ryan impersonation asks on the third attempt.
“Certainly. No appetizer? No salad?” her face begins to realize that she’s got the Frommer’s couple.
“No,” I was a little motion sick from the 8 hour bus trip from Montreal and I didn’t want to commit to the noise. I thought I had little appetite.
“I’ll have the special pasta,” Dale orders. Now she knows she’s got the Frommer’s couple and sees a whole lot of ice water and bread being served without much recompense.
Sharing the front room with us and the bar full of sea lions on an ice floe was a table of 16 executive assistants at that looking for husbands age, celebrating a birthday in preparation for anticipated showers—bridal and baby. Often something extremely funny or embarrassing would happen at that end of the room and the crescendo of cackling imprinted itself over the “Aw, dammit!” of a missed shot in triplicate—sixicate counting the mirror. Drinks spilled, bear-hugs exchanged, “I love you, Man.” mingled on the same level as “That’s sooooo cuuuuuuewte!”, deals concocted and friendships for life forged as people threaded themselves to and fro from the rear dining room. “Bitch!” “Jerk” “Ken you believe that guy?”
“Youse, all right?” John would would bend down and ask as he scuttled diners back and menus forward.
After my mussels, “May I have some more bread, please.” confirmed my waitresses suspicions and bolstered her disdain, I was still hungry. I ordered la soupe. Dale ordered a salad. Our waitress’s disposition improved. The noise blanched.
Then, I wanted some Antipasto and Dale wanted Dessert and Coffee. Where can you order a meal backwards in Dallas? When we mentioned that we had been there nine years prior, John said, “Right, Gazpacho, you’ve let your hair grow!” Not professionals. “Don’t be so long next time.” he snags the waitress, “You remember these guys from what was it? nine years ago? They had some ladies with them and they sat in Table 1 and ordered all of the menu in courses and drank Scotch and Wine. You remember? don’t you?”
“Yeah.” non-commitally since she still had tips to earn.
“Go ahead” he tells her, “I’ll settle the check.” and he returns with our card, “There’s a recession on guys, come back tomorrow night before theatre or maybe tormorrow for lunch.” Always hustling which is why the place is packed. We hack a trail towards the door through a heaved mob extricating ourselves from the gravitational pull of the sirens’ din to land onto a street scene of utter quiet.
“SSSHHHH” says the Street whose taxicabs lumber across Winter’s slick with a steely shimmer of sharpening knives
Toronto—The WinterWonderland Tour—February 2009, the following night. On our final night in Toronto, we had tickets to Ubuntu which is a story unto itself. The tarragon theatre, www.tarragontheatre.com, is just out of the CBD like the Kalita Humphreys Theatre is removed from Downtown Dallas. “Let’s find food in that neighborhood” Dale suggests as we set out at our usual time for dinner before curtain, 6P. We climb out of the Rocket at the DuPont Station, in Toronto you “Ride the Rocket”, on the yellow line, www.ttc.ca departing Union Station. Walk down DuPont like you know where you are going and you find Trattoria 328, “Let’s eat here” I steer Dale into the dining room below street level restaurant like Chez Enzio. The place is empty. Empty except for banquettes and tables denuded of all but royal blue cloths. The room is abandoned like the registration corridor of a large Convention Space after the Ball except the litter is picked up. This is really a lobby, there is the elevator. It, too, is abandoned with a serving station set up at its door. “Are they open?” we murmur quietly as if not to disturb the lifelessness.
“Halloooa!” screams the Kitchen at the end of the shotgun layout, “Halloooa!”
“Hello!” I call back.
“Come in. Come in.”
“Are you serving Dinner?”
“I would love to.” the person says. He is larger than Enzio, more outgoing, his 60 year-old body needs lots of personal space for moving around in. He dances joyously around his dining room. Luxuriant Silver Hair and a Pepsodent smile set off white trousers, white shirt, white apron.
I waited for the “but…” which did not come. Instead:
“Please sit down.” while flourishing us over to a vacant table in a sea of empty tables. We drape our winterwear over the chairs opposite so we can sit together on the banquette and monitor the room. “What can I get you to drink?” eager as Christmas Morning without being solicitous.
“Diet Coke”
“Coffee.”
“I’ll bring you some menus.” There is no one around except our waiter.
“Risotto is on the menu” I say to Dale. “Risotto” I affirm. Risotto is one of my favorite things. I make it when I pour too much rice into my homemade soupe (legume). “’Risotto…Market Price.’ It says” I whisper to Dale. “What do you think ‘Market Price’ is? Hundreds? Thousands? Obama-pricing?”
“Dunno. Ask ‘im” Dale is busy pondering the pork loin and does not want to be distracted by my musing of “’Risotto…Market Price’”.
“What’s the Risotto, tonight?” I ask.
“Whatever you want, I haven’t made it, yet.”
“How’s the pork loin?”
“Fresh as it can be, haven’t made it, yet.”
“We’ve got an 8PM curtain at the Tarragon.”
“No problem. Risotto and Pork Loin right?”
“Yeah”
“How do you want your risotto?”
“Vegetables.” I answer.
In the course of waiting, the table of two ladies walks in as tentatively as we had. “Are they open?” they glance protectively at each other. They see us. They clutch their purses.
“Take a seat, Ladies.” I call out. “The hostess is busy burning my Risotto and butchering a pig. He’ll be right here in a moment.” which in hindsight I am surprised didn’t send them racing for the door, but they turned out to be smart asses, too. Dale disappeared himself into maps and ticket stubs plotting a route to the Tarragon.
After a time, the ladies were welcomed, drink orders taken, and dinner finalized and prepared. They on their side of the room and we on ours we did not talk beyond that initial greeting, however, with our host/chef/waiter/busboy we had a lot to say. If the name of the establishment, the Italian fare, and the proprietor’s accent were not enough, we discovered his hometown was where I went to school, Florence. “Wouldn’t recognize the place.” shaking his head piteously. “It’s all gone—CHINESE.”
When asked how was my risotto, I responded, “Perfetto” with a convincingly enough accent to bring him into a full-blown soliloquy in Florentine. Fortunately my Italian is stronger than my French so I was able to continue the conversation. I do this sort of thing primarily to impress Dale. It works.
With “Scusa”, he leaves to pull this or that dish for the other table out of the fire, serves it with the usual ceremony of “Formaggio?” or “Pepper?”. Refills their wine and their water and returns to our table.
“Per Dolce?” I inquire about dessert.
“Niente.” flatly
“What do you mean ‘Nothing’” I continue in Italian feigning utter disbelief and consternation for Dale’s benefit. “Is this not a trattoria? What kind of a trattoria does not have dessert?”
“Solo Gelato.”
“What kind of ice cream?” I challenge indignantly. Dale is embarrassed.
“Cioccolate.” He answers with that matter-of-fact inflection Italians use for “bugger off”.
“Nothing else”, I prod knowing full well I’m not having dessert.
“Caffé e Tiramisu, I think.” he holds his index finger to his lips and rolls his eyes to the ceiling as if there would be the inventory of the refrigerator box written above. “Let me check.” So, with a swing by the other table, he refills the Ladies’ wine glasses, “Everything OK?” he asks to a duet of “Delicious!”
“OK”, he affirms on his way back to the kitchen whence he returns promptly to the competing table who are totally unaware of the game afoot and offers, “Ladies, tonight I have a special on Tiramisu. I made it at lunch and there are only two servings left. Would you care for dessert tonight?” He issues this invitation in his stage voice with his back prominently stationed against us but the corner of his eye glued for our reaction.
“No, No. We are on our way to the Tarragon Theatre. We have to pick up tickets. We should be going in a bit.”
“These gentlemen are going to the Tarragon Theatre.” careful to wave his arm across the desolation of empty tables, naked of serving pieces and patrons to highlight our presence.
“Are you?” they ask us to confirm.
“Yes, but we don’t know where it is.” I answer.
“We’ll take you.” and they returned to their entrees and conversation.
“Signori,” my host returns to his other table. “I could not interest my ladies” he sweeps his arm across the desolation of empty tables, naked of serving pieces and patrons to highlight their presence “in the Tiramisu, would you like to try it?”
“It’s day-old. We’re sloppy seconds. Is it discounted?”
“Premium!” he calls back as he accesses the kitchen.
When real men quit eating quiche, I quit eating Tiramisu and Crème Brulee; both have become universal catch words for an entire class of indigestables. Crème Brulee spans any custard from Jell-O Vanilla Pudding through Flan and egg custard being careful not to leave out Tapioca; the common denominator is: Burnt. Tiramasu just as easily can be bread pudding or alternately milquetoast with sugar sprinkles coated in brown crayon. I don’t order either, and I didn’t that night. No matter, didn’t have to, because it appeared at my place—Tiramisu with a very self-satisfied chef/ maitre d’/lave-vaisselles.
You remember Tiramisu. Homemade lady fingers soaked in rum and Marsala until they can be arrested for “public intoxication” if they leave the house. Marscapone that Cool-Whip never heard of. Espresso that will corrode a Sterling Spoon. And Cocoa, its mere presence in the larder would get you labeled a Secessionist from the War of Northern Aggression even in this Racially Enlightened Age. We used to call it Tiramisu, at it was in front of me threatening my sobriety, and, of course, I ate every bite.
Curtain Time approaches and our guides are beginning to rustle. “Il Conto!” I call for the bill.
“Signori” our waiter/proprietor/busboy/chef begins apologetically, “I did not tell you that my credit card machine is not installed, yet. I just opened last week. So, if you were planning to pay by card then the meal is on me.”
Stunned. Stunned. Usually, I’d jump at the chance to walk a check. I’ve always wanted to walk a check but never had the guts. But, tonight, the food was exemplary; and I would be stiffing this man, not Coagulated Restaurants of America Corp., LLP, Inc., FSB, ADD. Besides, this happened to be the cheapest Best Meal on the trip—40$CAN.
“Is there an ATM?” Dale asks while the other table is getting antsy to leave.
“Go ahead.” I urge.
“Do you know where you are going?” one lady asks.
“Yes” Dale answers.
“NO!” I answer.
“Are you lying?”
“No.” Dale answers.
“Yes.” I try to compensate. “We are fighting over the check. It’s what men do. Go on along we be all right. Thanks, anyway. We’ll see you at the Theatre.” I encourage, waving them out trying to sound assuring while knowing that all I know about this part of Toronto is the 1500 feet of DuPont I walked from the Rocket to here. Dale is confident though. Now, about the check. Our benefactors sees the other guests out, leaving us alone.
“How much money have you got?” Dale asks.
“Little to none, you said, ‘spend it because I cannot deposit coin when I get home.’ So, I did.”
“Empty your pockets.”
I pull out my wallet and fish for my change while he does the same. I believe I have produced all liquid funds that are on my person.
“Empty your pockets.” he commands impatiently—the “I said” is implied.
I comply and produce another fiver from somewhere.
“What about your coat?”
I comply and produce two toonies.
“AND your sweater.”
Nothing there, but I prepare an involuntary orifice search.
“Where else do you keep money?”
“No where.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.” trying to remind him through body language and delivery that though I am ten years his junior I AM 47 years old.
“OK” and he begins to organize and count in descending valuations: bills, twoonies, loonies, quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies. 40.68$CAN all in a pile in the middle of the table. We beam in the glare of the coinage as Signore il Propietario approaches.
“Christ! What did you do knock over a goddamm church?”
“We stiffed your tip.” Dale offers sheepishly.
“You’ll give it to me next time,” still laughing at the pile of change looking more like a Mardi Gras decoration than settlement. “Now, better get going or you’ll be late for the show.” He bundled us up for the cold, kissed us each on the face, and sent us out the door. “Arrivederci!”
“Bye!”
“Bye!”
Toronto—The WinterWonderland Tour—February 2009, the next day. At the other end of the spectrum in Toronto, there is always lunch in the PATH, http://www.toronto.ca/path/pdf/path_brochure.pdf, an underground mall that connects the major commercial, transportation, and entertainment venues in the CBD. It is hard for a Texan to imagine such an elaborate system of tunnels which is lined on both sides with retail businesses. The usual shoe shine, hair salon, Jamba Juice, Financial Houses, and Psychic Readers exist just like any city; but Toronto’s tenants include jewelers with Dutch names, fine crystal with Czech names, stationers good enough for the U.S. Mint, parfumiers with French Names, and silversmiths with English names. Any kind of portable merchandise that takes not a lot of floor space crams in along the corridors like Rally Day at the Church. Of course, there will always be food. And along these foyers are all things walkable: pasteries, ice cream, skewered food, bite-sized canapés, anything by the slice are neatly displayed in antiseptic cases with seductive low-voltage lighting.
When you enter the office towers, the space billows up into at least a two story atrium with some kind of roof treatment to remind you that there is an out-of-doors. Today, it was raining. Plink, Plink, Crash would the thunder boom over the Food Court. Food Court takes a little getting used to like Chinese Buffet with the sign blown down. My first experience was at the Texas State Fair. In the Tower Building is the Food Court where coupons substitute for money and the food promotes a make-believe nutritional value. Here, in Toronto, it is the money only that is make-believe and only to me. Lined against the walls or on multi-sided kiosks are little stage set store fronts all designed to put the diner “in the mood” for the fare at hand. The layout of each stall is consistent, only the façade changes, the offerings vary only slightly: Fried anything. Wrapped everything. Frozen a lot. McDucks to Starbucks.
But if you hold out for Scotia Plaza, there is Sushi-Q located alone by herself in the middle of the Food Court. Sushi-Q busies herself with preparation, freshness, quality, and taste more than decoration and gastronomic fantasy. Two open refrigerated chests separated by a cash register. Storage and Stock behind with a hot plate, napkins, and chopsticks. Everything is in less than Swiss white melamine except the sign which is red with white Sushi-Q scripted in Orientalia. Two young attendants in Clinique lab coats bustle around to restock the case, make change, and dispense soup. Unlike the cacophony on the fringes composed of “You want Fries with that?”, “Chicken or Beef?”, and the other details of the finer lunch, Sushi-Q displays a Communist Stoicism or is it a tacit tolerance for the capitalists? Regardless, the result is a quietly efficient exchange of goods for cash.
We approach the first case and peer down onto stacks and stacks of rigid cellophane boxes organized into “dishes”. All of it exceedingly beautiful to look at in its intensity of color and uniformity of design, like tiles stepped one atop its other. If the box contains California roll, then each box would have eight slices displayed as medallions with two remaining on edge at the side separated by a green grass cellophane cut-out plus two soy sauce packets and a dab of Wasabi. Fluorescent green seaweed glowed under plastic lids in identical whorls and volutes. Black something stood on point, painted lead soldiers regimented for battle under a glass shadow box.
Had I been assigned to inventory Pandora’s box, I would not have more careful in inspecting the contents, reading the ingredients and avoiding salmon before proceeding to the next specimen.
“What’s this?”
“I don’t know, it looks like California Roll.” the only thing we know how to say in Sushi.
“Then, what’s this?”
“I don’t know, what does it say?”
“I don’t know I don’t have my glasses.”
So as we fumble with this box and that, carefully setting aside things we might be interesting as Christian Ladies do at Rummage Sales, calculating their expenditures, weighing their options, the rest of Toronto is reaching around our woolen wrapped bodies to grab their purchase and get on with Lunch. Pincers in the shape of human hands connected to human arms would appear secure an item and retreat from between our bodies and over our shoulders like robotic arms in Detroit. Purchases were made with the exact change swap of traders at the Chicago Board of Trade. Supply and Demand quietly going about its business while we gawked. Finally, we approached the register, the Visa emblem faded, yellowed, curling its way to freedom from the Saran wrapped machine. Just ladled soup had just been set out steaming hot, could-be legume, probably not.
“Look, they’ve got hot soup!” I point out to the Blind. “Wonder what kind?” offering an entry to the attendant to engage the customer. Not.
“Probably Fish-Head.” Dale grunts watching the crush of people surround us in Bastille style while I take in the essence of it all. “Do you want some?” more insisting a decision than encouraging an opportunity.
“Do you?” more interested in the essence of it all than the inconvenience it is causing Toronto.
“Yes, get two.” impatiently.
“What if there are two kinds?”
“One kind soup.” answers the cashier who has already brought our lunch to a total.
Dale produces the credit card with the grimace one uses when preparing for mob disappointment, like large luggage through the two-way turnstiles at Times Square. No sooner out of his hand and thrust back in with a “Thank you, Sir” and three patrons paid-in-full while I load the tray. Painless. We made a beachhead on the other side of the ceramic tiled continent awash with people in parkas, suits and cellphones, prams.
Do I know if it was good Sushi? No, but it was delicious and fun to eat and pretty to look at. The soup could have been consommé of cat or reconstituted eye of newt from concentrate (sodium removed, of course) but it didn’t matter because it was hot on a cold day of traveling together and trying new things because we “don’t want to grow up to be HillBillies”.
