It happened that I looked around and found myself in a dark, miserable, slimy place while a barrel of equally unpleasant monkeys hung from my neck. A stair climbed straight up to a shining world, but I couldn't get there for all the monkeys, and from the exhaustion of dragging my wearying bones and lengthening burden through the labyrinth.
I realized that I had been trying for quite some time to climb the stairs, and visions of stepping up and sliding back to fall on my face in the muck slid into my mind as translucent as dreams.
So I decided to put the monkeys down. And all that I could reach slid easily off; evidently most of the monkeys that jump from one's own labyrinth onto one's own back don't latch as tightly as the ones that sneak up and siphon energy like mynocks.
By the time a big ol pile of silverbacks littered the floor, I climbed quickly and easily up to bask, squinting my eyes shut in anticipation.
But something was wrong.
The glow wasn't warming. It wasn't coming from the right place in the sky. It wasn't warming my body. And my body--it felt awkward, ungainly, unnatural.
I cracked my squint and peeked out: still surrounded by trees and mountains; dense evergreens punctuated by granite outcroppings and walls of near-vertical earth and rock.
I began trying to walk around and stumbled and shuffled about. I called out to find someone else, anyone else, and was met with distorted echoes of my own croaking voice.
I staggered and limped toward a hill from which I might see something significant, but after much painful effort I found myself back at the mouth of the cave. I tried again, and again found myself struggling in ragged circles.
From behind me, a voice said, "Good God, what happened to you?"
I spun around and fell into an unexpected sludge puddle. By the time I heaved myself vertical, I was a disgraceful mess and the speaker had gone, although there was an afterglow as if I had seen a light that had been switched off.
I looked at myself and tried to scrape off the muck. And I realized that after such a long time craning my neck to negotiate the labyrinth, my head had screwed itself on backwards.
As with the monkeys, it was surprisingly easy to rectify; I simply spun my head back around. The body, it seems, would prefer to be in its natural state.
Head forward, progress was fantastically easier, though I still had nowhere to go. I wandered, chasing shadows, looking for a clear view, and succeeding in sapping my energy until my feet drug furrows and my progress ceased.
I struggled until I fell, and then I kept struggling because I knew not what else to do. After some great time, I lost my sense of disorientation and fell into exhaustion.
A dream world passed, flashing images of the world before the cave flitting into uneasy and unnatural shapes that disquieted just enough to dread the next vision.
Some great time passed and I felt myself an utter failure after facing an inexhaustible stream of disappointment. My view of the world was clouded, but this time by confusion and distress, not visions of failure. Or maybe it was itself a vision of failure as I could tell where I was no more than what time it was or how I might return to somewhere I would want to be. I could see a forest of trees I should be able to recognize, mountains I should be able to identify, but I was lost. Utterly. My body, packed in muck that had settled after my struggles, was numb and frozen in place.
I called for help, louder and louder until I was hoarse. And someone came, a blessedly corporeal vision bearing the hope of amelioration.
"Help me! I've lost myself!"
"Really?" she said. "How so?"
"I came out of a labyrinthine cave in which I wandered for what felt like a lifetime, attracting parasitic monkeys until I drug a trane, and now that I've come back to the surface I don't know where I am!"
"A labyrinthine cave? What do you mean?"
"I fear it was of my own design, walls I formed to protect me from something threatening at the time. Gradually, the walls occluded the sky and turned into dank tunnels lined with terrors and disappointments."
"But you're right here, there in front of me."
"But my body is no more, my head is spun! I can't feel who I was, don't know where I've been, and now that I'm out, I don't know where I am!"
She looked at me and blinked at long intervals. "So?"
"So?" I was angry. "So? So all I have is the memory of who I was, and that is not at all who I am. I remember the world I left, but that's not the world I've found. Nevermind what I am to do in the world, how am I to discover who this new person is and how this new world works when I cannot see to stand, have not the energy to to explore, and I wouldn't know where to begin! Lost, lost, I'm all lost!"
She blinked at me, shook her head, and said, "Look around. Look at me. No, AT me. See me. See?"
I nodded.
"Now look down. See where you are? Wiggle those pink little piggies. See? That's you."
I could see, and I could even feel the toes wiggling, but the vision was unnatural and difficult to connect. How could what I saw be what I remembered?
"Now look around you. Look at the world. No, not at the shapes and colors of things, but at the substance. Do you see that over there is a tree?"
"But no such things live here!"
"And look beyond it, see that there are hills? They are the same as you remember."
"But the hills I knew looked nothing like that!"
"Ah, and here we reach the crux. Did you not tell me yourself you've been oblivious to the world for some great time?"
"Lifetimes, it seems."
"And did you change in that time?"
I looked back at my toes and wiggled the unfamiliar things. "More than I can recognize."
"And yet you expect the world around you to be the same?"
"But the hills are different! The trees are different! I cannot recognize any of it!"
"Look past the trappings. Everything might be different, but nothing has changed. Nothing. So the trees on the hillside look different; is it not still a hill? So the foliage on the trees looks different; are they not still trees? See past the trappings, see into the substance, and ask yourself if it is truly a new world."
It was as though a curtain lifted. I could see the hills, the trees, forms of the world I remembered.
"You're right! It was not an alcove with a single entrance but a long tunnel that came out in a different place. It is a new world, but still contoured with hills and mountains, textured with trees and shrubs. Everything is different, but it is I who have changed. I am the one with new vision, the one adhering to old memories. It is I who need to accept this new world. Of course it has changed--if I have traveled through a tunnel until I am unrecognizable to myself, how could the world not have changed?"
"Exactly," she nodded.
"And it is up to me not to resent the change but to use what I remember, what I learned of myself in the darkness, to make sense of this new place."
"Yes!" she said.
So I stood up, shook off the muck and dust, recognized the new appendages for extensions of myself, and went exploring.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
On excitement
Few things rival the scream upon discovering the lid up at 2:00 AM.
Finding dashi and wakame in the fridge comes close.
Finding dashi and wakame in the fridge comes close.
Compromised dogness?
My lab is sweet and stiff and fat and happy and I love her for it.
But when she's sleeping in a sunny patch on the deck and squirrels are running around her, I wonder if that sweetness isn't compromising her dogginess.
But when she's sleeping in a sunny patch on the deck and squirrels are running around her, I wonder if that sweetness isn't compromising her dogginess.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
April Blizzards bring May Whiteouts?
Preface:
It was snowing without sticking when I left home. By the time I reached South Lake, it was dumping. Roads turned to slush and then started freezing under a few inches of whiteout-caliber snowfall.
I had lunch at the little Indian place. It's tasty, it's cheap, and eating there is like dropping coins in Old Faithful: you have an hour and a half until eruption.
1. Karmic payoff?
A CalTrans pickup passed me just as the road drops to two lanes. I figured the driver was one of the last guys still on call and enroute to close Emerald Bay.
I was half correct.
I complain about karma catching up in the form of ridiculous numbers of automotive encounters with law enforcement. Sometimes, I complain about my bad luck.
Cruising along at 15-25, I twice, fortunately while on straight stretches, found myself sideways in the opposite lane. It's one thing to spin out on a turn, while braking, while accelerating, but it's spooky to do so on the flat and level as you're trying to maintain speed.
The CalTrans truck was at the gate, getting ready to close Emerald Bay. But there was business to attend to: a Toyota pickup towing a Haulmark trailer had slid into a Dodge Dakota. The Dakota was crumpled through the rear wheels. The Toyota was pigeontoed and mashed through the doors.
The Dodge Dakota had a red and blue light bar and was driven by the law enforcement Park Ranger who pulled me over a couple months ago.
Maybe my luck isn't that bad.
2. Placer
I made it to my road without incident, but the challenge was ahead: the left turn on Elm, the climb up Placer, the uphill right turn to Antelope at the left sweeper with an outside bank.
I slid backwards down the turn on Elm, narrowly avoiding sliding sideways into the inside corner.
So I went around to Placer to take the straight shot and run the stop sign at the crossing of Elm.
I made it almost halfway up the hill before sliding backwards. Not going anywhere, even after multiple attempts.
After I slid backwards down the hill for what I decided would be the last time for a while, I checked the car--there was an odd sound from the back, like the suspension was stuck. Each bump bounced the spare tire in its compartment.
The rear wheel wells were frozen solid with sloppy crap I'd picked up in the 30 miles since South Lake.
After 20 minutes of chipping away the compacted slush and ice, I made it up Placer. But not the turn on Antelope.
3. Antelope
I made a few runs on the sweeping uphill left with the outside bank.
No luck.
One last go, after chipping the wheel wells clear.
No go.
Time to give up, park in an empty driveway, and walk. Wait until CalTrans guys get out sometime tomorrow--Old Faithful is rumbling.
4. Home stretch
It's been an hour and I'm frustrated beyond measure: I just want to get home, but I can't get up 200' of road, after which I'll be clear. But no luck, no way.
Fine. Fuck you all, I'll just park in someone's driveway and everyone else can just deal.
Driving down Antelope, nice, light snow was blowing up and over my hood.
Found an empty driveway and backed in as far as I could.
The damn rear wheels started to spin.
I hit the brakes, relieved to be parked and done.
I slid sideways out of the driveway, back into the road.
Happy May.
It was snowing without sticking when I left home. By the time I reached South Lake, it was dumping. Roads turned to slush and then started freezing under a few inches of whiteout-caliber snowfall.
I had lunch at the little Indian place. It's tasty, it's cheap, and eating there is like dropping coins in Old Faithful: you have an hour and a half until eruption.
1. Karmic payoff?
A CalTrans pickup passed me just as the road drops to two lanes. I figured the driver was one of the last guys still on call and enroute to close Emerald Bay.
I was half correct.
I complain about karma catching up in the form of ridiculous numbers of automotive encounters with law enforcement. Sometimes, I complain about my bad luck.
Cruising along at 15-25, I twice, fortunately while on straight stretches, found myself sideways in the opposite lane. It's one thing to spin out on a turn, while braking, while accelerating, but it's spooky to do so on the flat and level as you're trying to maintain speed.
The CalTrans truck was at the gate, getting ready to close Emerald Bay. But there was business to attend to: a Toyota pickup towing a Haulmark trailer had slid into a Dodge Dakota. The Dakota was crumpled through the rear wheels. The Toyota was pigeontoed and mashed through the doors.
The Dodge Dakota had a red and blue light bar and was driven by the law enforcement Park Ranger who pulled me over a couple months ago.
Maybe my luck isn't that bad.
2. Placer
I made it to my road without incident, but the challenge was ahead: the left turn on Elm, the climb up Placer, the uphill right turn to Antelope at the left sweeper with an outside bank.
I slid backwards down the turn on Elm, narrowly avoiding sliding sideways into the inside corner.
So I went around to Placer to take the straight shot and run the stop sign at the crossing of Elm.
I made it almost halfway up the hill before sliding backwards. Not going anywhere, even after multiple attempts.
After I slid backwards down the hill for what I decided would be the last time for a while, I checked the car--there was an odd sound from the back, like the suspension was stuck. Each bump bounced the spare tire in its compartment.
The rear wheel wells were frozen solid with sloppy crap I'd picked up in the 30 miles since South Lake.
After 20 minutes of chipping away the compacted slush and ice, I made it up Placer. But not the turn on Antelope.
3. Antelope
I made a few runs on the sweeping uphill left with the outside bank.
No luck.
One last go, after chipping the wheel wells clear.
No go.
Time to give up, park in an empty driveway, and walk. Wait until CalTrans guys get out sometime tomorrow--Old Faithful is rumbling.
4. Home stretch
It's been an hour and I'm frustrated beyond measure: I just want to get home, but I can't get up 200' of road, after which I'll be clear. But no luck, no way.
Fine. Fuck you all, I'll just park in someone's driveway and everyone else can just deal.
Driving down Antelope, nice, light snow was blowing up and over my hood.
Found an empty driveway and backed in as far as I could.
The damn rear wheels started to spin.
I hit the brakes, relieved to be parked and done.
I slid sideways out of the driveway, back into the road.
Happy May.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
On toilets
When I was ten and living with a freshly-divorced mom, I woke up one night to a screaming, "WE DO NOT LEAVE THE LID UP IN THIS HOUSE!"
I stayed true until I had my own place with two bathrooms and could leave the smaller, closer, less-used one for overnight peeing. It stayed open. And was flushed with great regularity.
Ordinarily, not turning on the light is not an issue. Electric light sends searing shards of consciousness through the pleasant veil of sleep, and it's far better to risk a few splatters on the rim than to risk falling into the conscious world until I either placate yourself with hot chocolate and reading or resign to rousing for the day. So, at night, I somnambulate in, do my thing, and stagger back to bed without breaching dream world.
But then another person--namely the selfsame mother--enters the picture. I know I consciously left the lid up for mid-slumber ease of peeing and have been sleeping without disruption--physical or aural--until Bladder started whining. I shuffle into the bathroom with eyes cracked the slightest sliver, and peek just long enough to see that I'm standing close enough to the wall to hit the bowl.
And then my feet get a shower that takes seven milliseconds to register as self-originating, and I'm jolted past the lucid dream state, past semi-consciousness, to dancing on the points of my heels while trying to pinch off and tuck in because someone got quietly up, let the yellow mellow, and closed the lid.
I guess it's a question of priority. Whose needs are more urgent, which is to say, whose mess will be harder to clean up?
Then again, when in history has, "No, we leave the lid UP!" ever been able to tread water?
I stayed true until I had my own place with two bathrooms and could leave the smaller, closer, less-used one for overnight peeing. It stayed open. And was flushed with great regularity.
Ordinarily, not turning on the light is not an issue. Electric light sends searing shards of consciousness through the pleasant veil of sleep, and it's far better to risk a few splatters on the rim than to risk falling into the conscious world until I either placate yourself with hot chocolate and reading or resign to rousing for the day. So, at night, I somnambulate in, do my thing, and stagger back to bed without breaching dream world.
But then another person--namely the selfsame mother--enters the picture. I know I consciously left the lid up for mid-slumber ease of peeing and have been sleeping without disruption--physical or aural--until Bladder started whining. I shuffle into the bathroom with eyes cracked the slightest sliver, and peek just long enough to see that I'm standing close enough to the wall to hit the bowl.
And then my feet get a shower that takes seven milliseconds to register as self-originating, and I'm jolted past the lucid dream state, past semi-consciousness, to dancing on the points of my heels while trying to pinch off and tuck in because someone got quietly up, let the yellow mellow, and closed the lid.
I guess it's a question of priority. Whose needs are more urgent, which is to say, whose mess will be harder to clean up?
Then again, when in history has, "No, we leave the lid UP!" ever been able to tread water?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dining a the Ritz
The EDR--Employee Dining Room--operates on a noxious schedule: hamburger on Saturday, meatloaf on Sunday, chicken stir fry or fajitas with chicken in barbecue sauce on Monday, sloppy joes on Tuesday, beef enchiladas on Wednesday, lasagna on Thursday, and on Friday either "steak" or beef stir fry. Side dishes consist of frozen veggies sauteed with a lot of butter and either no seasonings or a puckering amount of salt.
Sometimes, we're graced with "top shelf" food: hors d'oeuvres brought down from the private lounge or quick-grab market. These are generally fantastic--taboulli, cous cous, grilled veggie wraps, lobster croquettes, and a smattering of desserts ranging from divine cookies to tartlets that could almost stand up to those baked in the Alps, topped with gold leaf.
The only problem is that sometimes we get the chance to track our food from day to day. At least with the beef, you can pretend it's a different product from steak to burger to meatloaf to sloppy joe to beefy enchilada to "meat" lasagna. But when they do something special and it flops, we get to see it day after day wearing different disguises.
They once did a tortellini dish--tricolor tortellini with capers and chives or somesuch. It hit the top shelf and I was surprised by its quality: packaged noodles boiled in unsalted water in an ill fitting dressing. The next day, we had tortellini with red sauce on the steam line. Followed by "lasagna" made with tortellini in red sauce coated with colby jack cheese and baked until the edges crisped up. And then we had tortellini soup, and by the end of the day, the pasta was mainly dissolved into a glutinous slurry in the bottom of the tub.
Generally, the soups are the best part: whichever chef is allotted to EDR duty is given a bunch of leftovers and told to do something, so he gets to futz and tinker with the process and come up with something that tastes like someone wanted it to taste that way. (Meanwhile, the entrees bubble and rehydrate in hotel pans desperate for flavor.) But, as with the tortellini, sometimes the soups fail more spectacularly than any chef could rectify.
Last night, there was a duck and beef stew. Dubious at best, but it looked somewhere between a minestrone and a goulasch, and I had to try it. I was famished, and it had a pleasant bite with fairly discernible protein. I also had a hamburger, since it's about the last shot at EDR beef without a guaranteed caferia dash 45 minutes after eating.
Bad, bad move.
Half an hour after eating, I was running for the john. At least once every fifteen minutes. For a good three hours.
By the end of service, I was dragging in a bad way--incredibly hungry and remarkably dehydrated.
At the end of service, as I was clearing plates from the kitchen, I saw one of the cooks holding a bizarre plate: one of the large oval platters (11X17), mounded with layers of fries and a thick gravy that looked like it had shortrib in it, under a dome of melted cheese.
"That, that... um... wow."
"It's a poutine," he said. "French for serious gut bomb."
"Is that shorty with cheese?"
"Yeah, I took some shortrib, cooked it down with a little of the red wine braising sauce and thickened it with the mac n cheez stock."
My eyes got wide, and there was enough noise to cover the sounds coming from my GI tract, so I'm sure he took it as a compliment.
He scraped--ladled, maybe?--a few plates for the kitchen guys, then took the platter to the back, where floor staff dove on it like hyenas on a holstein.
Meanwhile, as I sidestepped the frenzy, I saw a supervisor hanging out with Chef, who had been off the line and working a special chef's table for some time (chef's tables being something like $200/person events at which the chef creates one-off dishes after discussing taste preference with the guests, and this particular one being a $1000 4-top, plus wine). Chef was explaining the dishes--I had just missed the salmon.
"People eat this shit up. Salmon with bacon and eggs. They know it, but they feel challenged because it's not what they're used to, it's on lacinato kale with a meyer lemon beurre blanc. It's something any one of my guys out there could cook, and who hasn't done bacon and eggs? The difference is challenging people just enough but not so much that they loose their footing."
And I stepped up in time to try the roasted quail on lentils with upland cress and foie gras, followed by fillet with a roasted potato and black truffle jus.
Generally, I'm not a fan of fillet--it's like reading a story in a 6th grade reader: pleasant and sweet but without much depth or character. Frankly, I'd rather gnaw on an old mutton joint that's been boiling with scavenged roots; it might not be my favorite flavor, but at least it has character.
But this was fantastic--it had body and texture and tasted like grass and tannic soil in a way that made me realize most beef tastes like high-protein feed product.
And black truffle jus? It could probably make dog doo taste pretty damn good.
"Chef, how did you treat the fillet? I think this is the first I've met that seemed worth knowing."
He looked at me like I was speaking nonsense.
So did my supervisor.
"Well, usually fillet has no fat, no gristle, no character, no flavor but whatever it picks up from a marinade or sauce. This wasn't, well, boring."
"Product. All I did was trim the tenderloin, hit it with Maldon salt and pepper, and grill it properly. It all goes back to the product. It doesn't matter how much truffle oil you use, if your product's shit, that's what your bottom line will be."
And somehow I recognized this as something I knew but did not want to admit without external validation.
Which really makes me wonder: when it gets around to Wednesday or Thursday and there's the hotel pan of ground beefy byproduct, would I have the wherewithal to turn it into something not just caloric but enjoyable, or would I look at the week-old ground Grade C and think, "I was told to just follow the recipe, and doing otherwise will earn another lecture for keeping costs down and not wasting product, so I'll just follow the instructions and make the appropriate motions until it's time to go home."
I'd like to think I'd rise above doctrinal mediocrity, especially when feeding my friends and colleagues, but it's hard to say with the main kitchen. Most of the guys in it are work release inmates, which is nothing surprising in the culinary world, but they're the sort who actually miss the comradeship and respect they used to get from guys a helluva lot better than any of us prettied up Ritz Carlton gentlemen.
Hmm, that's not a bad idea: guaranteed the food would improve immeasurably if the cook responsible had to share a cell with me and the aftereffects of eating EDR food. Maybe I should propose that as a path to institutional harmony.
Sometimes, we're graced with "top shelf" food: hors d'oeuvres brought down from the private lounge or quick-grab market. These are generally fantastic--taboulli, cous cous, grilled veggie wraps, lobster croquettes, and a smattering of desserts ranging from divine cookies to tartlets that could almost stand up to those baked in the Alps, topped with gold leaf.
The only problem is that sometimes we get the chance to track our food from day to day. At least with the beef, you can pretend it's a different product from steak to burger to meatloaf to sloppy joe to beefy enchilada to "meat" lasagna. But when they do something special and it flops, we get to see it day after day wearing different disguises.
They once did a tortellini dish--tricolor tortellini with capers and chives or somesuch. It hit the top shelf and I was surprised by its quality: packaged noodles boiled in unsalted water in an ill fitting dressing. The next day, we had tortellini with red sauce on the steam line. Followed by "lasagna" made with tortellini in red sauce coated with colby jack cheese and baked until the edges crisped up. And then we had tortellini soup, and by the end of the day, the pasta was mainly dissolved into a glutinous slurry in the bottom of the tub.
Generally, the soups are the best part: whichever chef is allotted to EDR duty is given a bunch of leftovers and told to do something, so he gets to futz and tinker with the process and come up with something that tastes like someone wanted it to taste that way. (Meanwhile, the entrees bubble and rehydrate in hotel pans desperate for flavor.) But, as with the tortellini, sometimes the soups fail more spectacularly than any chef could rectify.
Last night, there was a duck and beef stew. Dubious at best, but it looked somewhere between a minestrone and a goulasch, and I had to try it. I was famished, and it had a pleasant bite with fairly discernible protein. I also had a hamburger, since it's about the last shot at EDR beef without a guaranteed caferia dash 45 minutes after eating.
Bad, bad move.
Half an hour after eating, I was running for the john. At least once every fifteen minutes. For a good three hours.
By the end of service, I was dragging in a bad way--incredibly hungry and remarkably dehydrated.
At the end of service, as I was clearing plates from the kitchen, I saw one of the cooks holding a bizarre plate: one of the large oval platters (11X17), mounded with layers of fries and a thick gravy that looked like it had shortrib in it, under a dome of melted cheese.
"That, that... um... wow."
"It's a poutine," he said. "French for serious gut bomb."
"Is that shorty with cheese?"
"Yeah, I took some shortrib, cooked it down with a little of the red wine braising sauce and thickened it with the mac n cheez stock."
My eyes got wide, and there was enough noise to cover the sounds coming from my GI tract, so I'm sure he took it as a compliment.
He scraped--ladled, maybe?--a few plates for the kitchen guys, then took the platter to the back, where floor staff dove on it like hyenas on a holstein.
Meanwhile, as I sidestepped the frenzy, I saw a supervisor hanging out with Chef, who had been off the line and working a special chef's table for some time (chef's tables being something like $200/person events at which the chef creates one-off dishes after discussing taste preference with the guests, and this particular one being a $1000 4-top, plus wine). Chef was explaining the dishes--I had just missed the salmon.
"People eat this shit up. Salmon with bacon and eggs. They know it, but they feel challenged because it's not what they're used to, it's on lacinato kale with a meyer lemon beurre blanc. It's something any one of my guys out there could cook, and who hasn't done bacon and eggs? The difference is challenging people just enough but not so much that they loose their footing."
And I stepped up in time to try the roasted quail on lentils with upland cress and foie gras, followed by fillet with a roasted potato and black truffle jus.
Generally, I'm not a fan of fillet--it's like reading a story in a 6th grade reader: pleasant and sweet but without much depth or character. Frankly, I'd rather gnaw on an old mutton joint that's been boiling with scavenged roots; it might not be my favorite flavor, but at least it has character.
But this was fantastic--it had body and texture and tasted like grass and tannic soil in a way that made me realize most beef tastes like high-protein feed product.
And black truffle jus? It could probably make dog doo taste pretty damn good.
"Chef, how did you treat the fillet? I think this is the first I've met that seemed worth knowing."
He looked at me like I was speaking nonsense.
So did my supervisor.
"Well, usually fillet has no fat, no gristle, no character, no flavor but whatever it picks up from a marinade or sauce. This wasn't, well, boring."
"Product. All I did was trim the tenderloin, hit it with Maldon salt and pepper, and grill it properly. It all goes back to the product. It doesn't matter how much truffle oil you use, if your product's shit, that's what your bottom line will be."
And somehow I recognized this as something I knew but did not want to admit without external validation.
Which really makes me wonder: when it gets around to Wednesday or Thursday and there's the hotel pan of ground beefy byproduct, would I have the wherewithal to turn it into something not just caloric but enjoyable, or would I look at the week-old ground Grade C and think, "I was told to just follow the recipe, and doing otherwise will earn another lecture for keeping costs down and not wasting product, so I'll just follow the instructions and make the appropriate motions until it's time to go home."
I'd like to think I'd rise above doctrinal mediocrity, especially when feeding my friends and colleagues, but it's hard to say with the main kitchen. Most of the guys in it are work release inmates, which is nothing surprising in the culinary world, but they're the sort who actually miss the comradeship and respect they used to get from guys a helluva lot better than any of us prettied up Ritz Carlton gentlemen.
Hmm, that's not a bad idea: guaranteed the food would improve immeasurably if the cook responsible had to share a cell with me and the aftereffects of eating EDR food. Maybe I should propose that as a path to institutional harmony.
California is a Scary Place
Let it be known that I anticipate from the following a karmic backlash in the form of multiple citations and moving violations, but I feel strongly that I have an argument to present that validates such retribution.
What with the budget shortfall and looming bankruptcy, California State employees have regular unpaid days off because the state just can't keep everything up and running, even if it's a school or library or desperately overwhelmed DMV office.
At the same time, I've seen at least one county sheriff and one highway patrol on each leg of my commute, every day I've gone to work. Busy days, I'll see five of each.
I understand that these safety officers are out there to enforce laws, and that laws were designed to protect us. And such a police presence has made for the unprecedented experience of someone being stupid in my presence--i.e. passing on a corner during a blizzard--getting nailed in the act. But I also recognize that these public servants write tickets for people driving 40, 50, or 55. Yes, there are times it is not safe to drive 50 past crossroads. But there are also times 35 is too slow on a dry, wide, empty highway.
In light of the budget cuts, I can only surmise that these men and women more than pay for themselves with citations written. And it bugs the hell out of me.
When did traffic violations cross from punitive measures to maintain safety into state bankroll?
If maintaining safety has diverted into a quest for ducats, what message are we to draw from our leaders? What are we to teach our children--safety is good provided there's ot a more profitable pursuit?
To drive around here is to negotiate a squadron of safety officers itching to write citations for driving 6 over the speed limit. Nearby, an armada of automated cameras blankets intersections with traffic signals.
During a severe budget crunch, safety gets subsumed in the pursuit of profitability.
My real question is at what point the fear of punishment for unknowingly or unwittingly transgressing traffic code becomes a form of state sponsored terror?
What with the budget shortfall and looming bankruptcy, California State employees have regular unpaid days off because the state just can't keep everything up and running, even if it's a school or library or desperately overwhelmed DMV office.
At the same time, I've seen at least one county sheriff and one highway patrol on each leg of my commute, every day I've gone to work. Busy days, I'll see five of each.
I understand that these safety officers are out there to enforce laws, and that laws were designed to protect us. And such a police presence has made for the unprecedented experience of someone being stupid in my presence--i.e. passing on a corner during a blizzard--getting nailed in the act. But I also recognize that these public servants write tickets for people driving 40, 50, or 55. Yes, there are times it is not safe to drive 50 past crossroads. But there are also times 35 is too slow on a dry, wide, empty highway.
In light of the budget cuts, I can only surmise that these men and women more than pay for themselves with citations written. And it bugs the hell out of me.
When did traffic violations cross from punitive measures to maintain safety into state bankroll?
If maintaining safety has diverted into a quest for ducats, what message are we to draw from our leaders? What are we to teach our children--safety is good provided there's ot a more profitable pursuit?
To drive around here is to negotiate a squadron of safety officers itching to write citations for driving 6 over the speed limit. Nearby, an armada of automated cameras blankets intersections with traffic signals.
During a severe budget crunch, safety gets subsumed in the pursuit of profitability.
My real question is at what point the fear of punishment for unknowingly or unwittingly transgressing traffic code becomes a form of state sponsored terror?
Problem n^5-1 with American Society
Big Man (ironically named--he weighs half again as much as I do and comes up to the middle of my ribcage) showed up at 1:00, Expo showed up at 4, and the other two runners--the killer AM girl and myself--showed up at 5. By 6:30, Chef was expediting, so we were terrifically overstaffed: Expo and I, or the other runner and I, or Expo and the other runner could handle it quite easily, and the three of us had smooth sailing. With Big Man, who generally seems frantic to get things done in half again as much time as anyone else, we had time to chat up tables, gossip in the back, run Pepsi for the kitchen, and not fall behind in running duties.
Expo asked a supervisor if we could send Big Man home--we were overstaffed and he came in first, so he'd be the first to go--which of course we could, and the supervisor sent Big Man off.
Big Man went to our boss because it wasn't fair that he was being sent home early--that supervisor is always mean and sending him home early. So our boss told him he could stay.
Skip ahead 45 minutes: Big Man starts whining about having to open tomorrow. He keeps it up for 15 minutes before coming into the kitchen (I was pulling a stack of plates to run to the kitchen, incidentally Big Man's primary sidework, but he was nowhere to be found) saying, "it's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!" and walking up to our supervisor with, "I have to open tomorrow and now our boss won't let me go home!"
He kept it up for fifteen or twenty minutes more before he was sent home.
Here's what kills me about this culture: Not only do those who know the least know it the loudest, those whose bitching is most belligerent get not the well-deserved bitchslap but whatever will stop their bellyaching.
Expo asked a supervisor if we could send Big Man home--we were overstaffed and he came in first, so he'd be the first to go--which of course we could, and the supervisor sent Big Man off.
Big Man went to our boss because it wasn't fair that he was being sent home early--that supervisor is always mean and sending him home early. So our boss told him he could stay.
Skip ahead 45 minutes: Big Man starts whining about having to open tomorrow. He keeps it up for 15 minutes before coming into the kitchen (I was pulling a stack of plates to run to the kitchen, incidentally Big Man's primary sidework, but he was nowhere to be found) saying, "it's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair!" and walking up to our supervisor with, "I have to open tomorrow and now our boss won't let me go home!"
He kept it up for fifteen or twenty minutes more before he was sent home.
Here's what kills me about this culture: Not only do those who know the least know it the loudest, those whose bitching is most belligerent get not the well-deserved bitchslap but whatever will stop their bellyaching.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
On VIPs
From Management:
"In the wine cellar will be Barbara White, who booked the 300 person convention with three daily banquet meals for this entire long weekend. Treat her well."
"On 60, second seating, is a party of nine. Mr. Black owns a unit and has brought in three friends of equal means, any of whom is a potential buyer. Treat them well."
"Table 45: anniversary, so make sure they get the truffle plate.
"Table 72: birthday, same thing.
"Questions?"
From the Hostess:
"The General Manager just reminded me that the guy on 54 is the health inspector."
"I'm booking Patrick Dempsey on 50 for tonight, okay? VIP."
From Bar:
"Just a heads-up: that super-ammended burger I just put in is for Quentin Tarantino's sister while he talks with his ski coach."
From Chef:
"Table 77 wants WHAT?"
"Burger, gem lettuce salad for the bun, side of veg instead of fries. Charge what you will."
"Charge my ass!"
"Don't make me get medieval--it's for THE Tarantinos."
"Your medieval can suck it--Michael Bauer is on 41 [San Francisco food critic] and the couple on 43 are super close to Traci [de Jardin, celebrity chef owner of the restaurant]. My hands are kinda tied."
From another department:
"Hey, one of the most influential politicians in the 20th C and his wife decided not to eat in, so they'll be down. Look for a couple named Jones."
Sitting in the cold, dark table in the corner held by the inexperienced server.... Thought he looked familiar.
Welcome to the Ritz.
"In the wine cellar will be Barbara White, who booked the 300 person convention with three daily banquet meals for this entire long weekend. Treat her well."
"On 60, second seating, is a party of nine. Mr. Black owns a unit and has brought in three friends of equal means, any of whom is a potential buyer. Treat them well."
"Table 45: anniversary, so make sure they get the truffle plate.
"Table 72: birthday, same thing.
"Questions?"
From the Hostess:
"The General Manager just reminded me that the guy on 54 is the health inspector."
"I'm booking Patrick Dempsey on 50 for tonight, okay? VIP."
From Bar:
"Just a heads-up: that super-ammended burger I just put in is for Quentin Tarantino's sister while he talks with his ski coach."
From Chef:
"Table 77 wants WHAT?"
"Burger, gem lettuce salad for the bun, side of veg instead of fries. Charge what you will."
"Charge my ass!"
"Don't make me get medieval--it's for THE Tarantinos."
"Your medieval can suck it--Michael Bauer is on 41 [San Francisco food critic] and the couple on 43 are super close to Traci [de Jardin, celebrity chef owner of the restaurant]. My hands are kinda tied."
From another department:
"Hey, one of the most influential politicians in the 20th C and his wife decided not to eat in, so they'll be down. Look for a couple named Jones."
Sitting in the cold, dark table in the corner held by the inexperienced server.... Thought he looked familiar.
Welcome to the Ritz.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Restaurant stories
I just about exploded at one of the servers. It was nothing major--he had two tickets in for the same table where nobody happened to be sitting. I should have been more sympathetic, especially because the day before he marked one of his tables with ketchup and mustard before I dropped the burger.
And I'm far from perfect. A couple times a service I'll get the seat numbers backed around and try to give the wrong food to someone--"no, SHE had the burger, I had the duck meatballs," "I'm very sorry sir [I just figured that the 250 pound guy would go for the burger and his little mistress would get cute little duck meatballs in a mission fig reduction]." And once every service or two, I'll present a plate upside down as it's burning my hand--I refrain from saying more than, "red wine braised shortribs on horseradish whipped potatoes, careful hot plate" especially when the person touches it and yelps, but it bugs me to give an upside down presentation (protin facing away from the guest or at an odd angle). I once even delivered appetizers to the wrong table--right apps, but to the neighbors.
But a few of the imported waiters have issues with every ticket--"it's actually this table, not the one on the ticket" "number one is actually the lady sitting in number 8 because she wanted to order first" "what I meant by that add-on was..." "oh, we're not serving that? " "but I told her it would be alright because last week we had goat cheese."
These are the people from whom we get questions that take all the humor out of, "are the vegetables vegetarian?"
So one day, in the bussing station across the counter from the dish pit, I asked one, a stylish and trendy guy, "do they have Axe in South Africa?"
"Axe?"
"The man perfume?"
"yes, why?"
"Just wondering whether it's new and exciting or old and inured, because in the mornings, it overwhelms even the smell of bacon." I did not mention middle school locker rooms or adolescent attempts to alter pheromones. I did not mention anyone by name or my own eye-watering reaction or the possible effect on guests. I was maybe not as tactful as strictly possible, but I was proud of my resraint.
Still, it was not enough.
""Well, what do YOU wear?" quite affronted. "Hugo Boss? CK One?"
Blan stare, slowly shaking head.
"Hovan musk? Guess? "
Wide-eyed blank stare. These brands make deodorant?
He started to get wide-eyed. "Bulgari? Alfani?"
Break a minute: how do I come across as someone who smears my pits with stuff made by designer names I purposefully avoid for the sheer weight of the social statement they embody?
Okay, there was the incident in the Roma Termini when I bought a pair of Bulova glasses to replace my three year old pair for the cost of a Lens Crafter's frame, but don't hold it against me. I was chasing a cute girl who had a thing for pink D&G frames....
"No," I said. "None of that. I use soap."
"Soap?" somewhat surprised. "What brand?"
"I dunno, but it comes in a box of five dozen and it'll burn a hole in your skin if you don't rinse well."
And that was that.
But then I almost blew up at one, and my supervisor caught it.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
I explained another wrong table number, another backwards order with bizarre modifications.
"I know your frustration," he said. "Believe me. Really. I know it too well. I've been shoveling the shit they leave behind every day for the last three weeks. It's like you said [yesterday while I was talking with the other supervisor who covers dinner with the help of a sommelier and our mutual boss], my job is running around with a fire extinguisher and a cork and making sure that we can still serve food. At night, they get four tables an hour. We get the full restaurant in four minutes and then again an hour later, and instead of training, I'm just trying to keep people from getting too livid.
"Cut these guys some slack, okay? They've never worked in restaurants before. A couple of them haven't even had real jobs before. This is big, okay?"
"Here's my problem," I replied. "I can understand having patience for the first week, but with a four table section, how hard is it to know table numbers? And after a month of escalating reminders, how hard is it to mark a table with ketchup and soup spoons?
"And here's the real problem: why are these folks making significant digits more than I am while I train them and do half their jobs? Granted, I only have seven years serving tables and fifteen bussing, but it seems like things might work a little more smoothly if I were holding the sundry responsibilities of serving while they were directed as runners."
I got the 'oh shit' face. "You can serve? You'd be interested in serving?"
"Well, yeah, it's what I applied for...."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" the vein started going.
"It's what I applied for; I figured you'd be in the loop."
"Are you kidding? That kind of communication, here at the Ritz? Buddy, that's not how we roll. Even so, I could've used you so bad you'd be lookin like a ten day old tampon."
So maybe it's a cue to be grateful for underestimation. After a month of running, I already feel about that well.
"Hmm, thanks for the warning, maybe I DON'T want to serve."
"Ha! Think again. This is the Ritz Carlton. There's no way to de-volunteer yourself now, buddy."
I guess I should count my blessings. I'm just not sure which.
And I'm far from perfect. A couple times a service I'll get the seat numbers backed around and try to give the wrong food to someone--"no, SHE had the burger, I had the duck meatballs," "I'm very sorry sir [I just figured that the 250 pound guy would go for the burger and his little mistress would get cute little duck meatballs in a mission fig reduction]." And once every service or two, I'll present a plate upside down as it's burning my hand--I refrain from saying more than, "red wine braised shortribs on horseradish whipped potatoes, careful hot plate" especially when the person touches it and yelps, but it bugs me to give an upside down presentation (protin facing away from the guest or at an odd angle). I once even delivered appetizers to the wrong table--right apps, but to the neighbors.
But a few of the imported waiters have issues with every ticket--"it's actually this table, not the one on the ticket" "number one is actually the lady sitting in number 8 because she wanted to order first" "what I meant by that add-on was..." "oh, we're not serving that? " "but I told her it would be alright because last week we had goat cheese."
These are the people from whom we get questions that take all the humor out of, "are the vegetables vegetarian?"
So one day, in the bussing station across the counter from the dish pit, I asked one, a stylish and trendy guy, "do they have Axe in South Africa?"
"Axe?"
"The man perfume?"
"yes, why?"
"Just wondering whether it's new and exciting or old and inured, because in the mornings, it overwhelms even the smell of bacon." I did not mention middle school locker rooms or adolescent attempts to alter pheromones. I did not mention anyone by name or my own eye-watering reaction or the possible effect on guests. I was maybe not as tactful as strictly possible, but I was proud of my resraint.
Still, it was not enough.
""Well, what do YOU wear?" quite affronted. "Hugo Boss? CK One?"
Blan stare, slowly shaking head.
"Hovan musk? Guess? "
Wide-eyed blank stare. These brands make deodorant?
He started to get wide-eyed. "Bulgari? Alfani?"
Break a minute: how do I come across as someone who smears my pits with stuff made by designer names I purposefully avoid for the sheer weight of the social statement they embody?
Okay, there was the incident in the Roma Termini when I bought a pair of Bulova glasses to replace my three year old pair for the cost of a Lens Crafter's frame, but don't hold it against me. I was chasing a cute girl who had a thing for pink D&G frames....
"No," I said. "None of that. I use soap."
"Soap?" somewhat surprised. "What brand?"
"I dunno, but it comes in a box of five dozen and it'll burn a hole in your skin if you don't rinse well."
And that was that.
But then I almost blew up at one, and my supervisor caught it.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
I explained another wrong table number, another backwards order with bizarre modifications.
"I know your frustration," he said. "Believe me. Really. I know it too well. I've been shoveling the shit they leave behind every day for the last three weeks. It's like you said [yesterday while I was talking with the other supervisor who covers dinner with the help of a sommelier and our mutual boss], my job is running around with a fire extinguisher and a cork and making sure that we can still serve food. At night, they get four tables an hour. We get the full restaurant in four minutes and then again an hour later, and instead of training, I'm just trying to keep people from getting too livid.
"Cut these guys some slack, okay? They've never worked in restaurants before. A couple of them haven't even had real jobs before. This is big, okay?"
"Here's my problem," I replied. "I can understand having patience for the first week, but with a four table section, how hard is it to know table numbers? And after a month of escalating reminders, how hard is it to mark a table with ketchup and soup spoons?
"And here's the real problem: why are these folks making significant digits more than I am while I train them and do half their jobs? Granted, I only have seven years serving tables and fifteen bussing, but it seems like things might work a little more smoothly if I were holding the sundry responsibilities of serving while they were directed as runners."
I got the 'oh shit' face. "You can serve? You'd be interested in serving?"
"Well, yeah, it's what I applied for...."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" the vein started going.
"It's what I applied for; I figured you'd be in the loop."
"Are you kidding? That kind of communication, here at the Ritz? Buddy, that's not how we roll. Even so, I could've used you so bad you'd be lookin like a ten day old tampon."
So maybe it's a cue to be grateful for underestimation. After a month of running, I already feel about that well.
"Hmm, thanks for the warning, maybe I DON'T want to serve."
"Ha! Think again. This is the Ritz Carlton. There's no way to de-volunteer yourself now, buddy."
I guess I should count my blessings. I'm just not sure which.
Is it vacation yet?
Eventually, some sins of the industry become unremarkable: baking hamburgers because people are afraid of carcinogens in the grill marks; microwaving the well done steak a guy wants to eat before his appointment in 20 minutes (really? you're coming out half an hour before your meeting?); deep frying the bacon that wasn't crispy enough. Getting all worked up (caring) involves more energy output than I have after a month of 80-100 hour weeks, and I have it easier than the salaried chefs who do the actual cooking.
So today, when a waiter walked up and said, "Are the vegetables vegetarian?" I couldn't help but take it seriously--they could be cooked in butter, or maybe the saffron sauce is finished with butter or even cooked in protein stock. Both the chef and I looked at him with the slightly wide-eyed exasperation of not enough sleep encountering another damn thing to take care of.
I should have known. Yesterday's question was, "Can you cook a hamburger patty in the tuna presentation?"
See, they do a tuna confit with traditional tuna conserva-style albacore fillets: dredge through salt and pepper, fennel and celery seed, then cook in 120 degree California olive oil until it's cooked all the way through (leave it in the oil and out of the sun and it'll keep through the summer). I'm trying to picture this--the hamburger patty slow cooking on one of the sideshoot induction burners, and chef says, "WHAT do they want?" with the intensity of, "WHAT did you just step in and smear on my new white carpet?"
"You know, like a confit burger patty on the white beans and baby greens?"
Just as the vein was starting to explode, the waiter laughed.
It's been a very long month.
So today, when a waiter walked up and said, "Are the vegetables vegetarian?" I couldn't help but take it seriously--they could be cooked in butter, or maybe the saffron sauce is finished with butter or even cooked in protein stock. Both the chef and I looked at him with the slightly wide-eyed exasperation of not enough sleep encountering another damn thing to take care of.
I should have known. Yesterday's question was, "Can you cook a hamburger patty in the tuna presentation?"
See, they do a tuna confit with traditional tuna conserva-style albacore fillets: dredge through salt and pepper, fennel and celery seed, then cook in 120 degree California olive oil until it's cooked all the way through (leave it in the oil and out of the sun and it'll keep through the summer). I'm trying to picture this--the hamburger patty slow cooking on one of the sideshoot induction burners, and chef says, "WHAT do they want?" with the intensity of, "WHAT did you just step in and smear on my new white carpet?"
"You know, like a confit burger patty on the white beans and baby greens?"
Just as the vein was starting to explode, the waiter laughed.
It's been a very long month.
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