tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8078338903622167112024-03-21T13:41:45.156-04:00Balls In Your Coffeescraps under the dinner tableUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-1026383460526768742011-06-28T22:27:00.008-04:002011-06-28T22:37:43.259-04:00Smiling and nodding<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Baskerville Old Face', serif;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s a balmy 72 degrees out tonight, with a lazy breeze cooling burnt shoulders and ruffling sundresses on everyone walking by my windows, zonked out after a day wandering around in sun this city hasn’t seen since early May. I’ve just returned home after a day stint at The Shipyard, a shift full of the requisite tiring customers and endless chitchat, although with “A Sunday Kind of Love” crackling over my speakers, and cold homebrewed beers in the fridge, it all seems a bit farther away now.</span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And even though I’ll be back at The Shipyard bright and early for a morning shift in just a few hours, it’s hard not to breathe an indulgent sigh of relief at all the tattooed and painfully hip smokers on their porches, swinging in hammocks, reveling in a summery Tuesday evening free of responsibility. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Things have settled into a sluggish pace at the aforementioned grocery joint. Characteristic of the months between May and September, the city’s college-aged inhabitants flock to their respective hometowns and the city’s locals flock to the beach, leaving us to explain why all of our blueberries have seem to have molded or why those organic cashews have disappeared to a very specific subset of individuals.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQKOSyyhusCwTQfJB3BBXhyDe6f8qcRe1b0RXbhkPPDY3oa_XzYA8hH9DUN0UP-WR5WMAfhIA0_JCVDIL2gPw_8lKdaVM2_2mSdU4ZtyXe0XbAq_paV2aUjqFolPoGlm2q5A1GS7XLqM/s320/almonds-794733.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623464518666033266" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 284px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The strange ones.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One morning a few weeks ago, I was listlessly daydreaming on a register, the store empty with the exception of a handful of early bird regulars nattering on about their commute, their work schedules, their digestive problems. My eyes suddenly came back into focus, and fell upon a slow-moving elderly couple making their way to the dried fruit and nuts aisle a few feet away. The woman, a bleached blonde with neon blue eye shadow caked on her shriveled lids—and clearly the pants-wearer/proud owner of a driving license in the relationship—was dragging the cart and her shuffling husband behind her. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She came to a halt in front of the bagged almonds, where she proceeded to toss bags, one by one, into the carriage. Smack, smack, smack…smack…smack, smack…and suddenly I had glazed over and come back again and she was still throwing bags. The full-size cart was now ¾ full of our entire almond stock, and a small audience of crew members had assembled to watch, as her husband drooled and swayed a little next to her, as she cleaned out the entire shelf. I could sense my fellow coworkers on register praying she didn’t slam right up to them, forcing them to count out the number of salted, unsalted, 50% less salt, roasted and raw varieties. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Who eats this many almonds?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Can she still even eat almonds? </span></span></i><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">we wondered, eyeing her ancient jawline. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She then proceeded to stack eight jumbo bags of Kettle Corn on top of the nuts and proceed to checkout. As I watched the cursed cashier ring her up, I absentmindedly reached down to scan a pear my next customer had put down, not realizing who that customer was. I looked up just as my hand sunk into a half-eaten, spit-slimed half-pear to see another regular, an “offbeat” woman who always ate all of her purchases before paying for them. “Oh,” she said, pear juice dripping out of her mouth and catching in her chin hairs, “I started on that.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You don’t say.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">La Maison is beginning to have the similar stench of a slow death that The Martini once had, all those stormy slow and sleazy weekends ago. If there’s one thing I learned while manning the host stand and swatting away drunk and handsy paralegals, it’s when to make a classy and timely exit and save yourself from the large-scale failure of the place, but this time around may be trickier. Slinging steak frites to seemingly not-so-bad people who tip criminally low is not my idea of a fulfilling way to pay my rent. On the other hand, salsa dancing with the cooks while the dishwasher claps along before the one dinner rush we ever get isn’t so bad. So, once again, I am emotionally involved. A serial dying-restaurant loyalist…</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a good place to be.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While my quitting may not involve a </span></span></span><span><a href="http://ballsinyourcoffee.blogspot.com/2010/01/heres-to-one-of-our-own.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dunkin’ Donuts slushie and the police</span></span></a></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, it may just be imminent. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></div> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-57431002675704109212011-05-25T19:48:00.009-04:002011-05-26T08:44:49.075-04:00aaah, deez eez ze life, non?<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The table of fifteen well-to-do French women all turned to look at me with cool, unblinking stares, the table strewn with empty wine glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of a three and a half hour feast.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“We’d like to put this on 13 different cards,” one of them told me in clipped French, as she handed me the bill.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Split thirteen ways?” I asked.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Non, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">split individually.”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRhMyfn41sQQraTGSI0bXw5c-w0cSkYdH734a0ooVYyBqep7m6IDWQGIiX4iWFjRzvtNkuFA5_hL5R3GqvDm_Tyq91DmxY1JRv7eXCFKFdyjU0QO2ojq7yGeecke8nBY73cl0ZmB5B9w/s1600/43610010.JPG.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRhMyfn41sQQraTGSI0bXw5c-w0cSkYdH734a0ooVYyBqep7m6IDWQGIiX4iWFjRzvtNkuFA5_hL5R3GqvDm_Tyq91DmxY1JRv7eXCFKFdyjU0QO2ojq7yGeecke8nBY73cl0ZmB5B9w/s320/43610010.JPG.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610808697544058354" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px; " /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My fellow servers and manager at La Maison are watching the exchange with pained looks on their faces. The table is the last in the restaurant, it is a Friday night, and we cannot complete any further side-work until the table has left. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A half hour later, with the help of Marc, my manager, the tab has been settled (two women have attempted to pay by check) and the wives of the French Consulate sail out into the night. As they kiss each other’s cheeks and wave manicured hands goodbye, I scramble to count out my cash once more and swipe forgotten spoons and forks and emptied bowls of chocolate mousse off the long table. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This, my long-abandoned readers, is where I have been.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Almost four months! Four months since I have been here, a fact that I’m shocked and ashamed to be typing. Four months is a nice chunk of time for a lot of things; a full semester of school, a “serious” teenage relationship, and according to Yahoo Answers, twice the lifespan of the coral reef </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pygmy gobi </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">fish, to name a few. For me, it was just enough time get a little too familiar with midnight bus rides home from the Shipyard and midnight mopping sessions at La Maison. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, I’m back, bitches, and I apologize, from the very bottom of my customer-servicey heart. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Business at La Maison has been hit or miss lately, mostly due to the hit or miss Boston weathercasts that have been denying our fair city any sign of summer sunshine. A few weeks ago however, things were moving along quite nicely, and we were seeing a full house by 6:30 p.m. most weekends. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One such night, I had a full section, and was in a pleasantly stressful place, keeping up with my customers and staying focused. The kitchen was on fire that night, things were running somewhat smoothly, and I recognized a table of regulars being sat at my corner table. They’re nice enough folks, and good tippers, but the world’s slowest talkers, and by default, decision-makers, so I give my specials spiel nice and quick and flit off to bring a bottle of wine to another table. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I return, my book open and my pen at the ready, the three of them look up at me like a trio of turtles and smile apologetically. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Well, we just...can’t decide…on one thing,” the man in the group, a stunning Truman Capote sound-a-like, says.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I play along and help inch their decision on drinks and appetizers forward, when I happen to catch a glimpse of my left ring finger, clutching the bottom of my book. It’s covered in blood. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The table doesn’t seem to notice, and I quietly panic, unable to remember slicing myself in the last ten minutes. I take a mental stock of my clothes, apron and notepad; no blood. Now I am stuck at the table, my drink orders for other tables are piling up somewhere at the bar, and Capote and friends haven’t made a choice of wine yet. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After what seems like an eternity, they decide on a simple carafe of house red. I dash to the computers, slam in the order, and turn desperately to another server, Ivan. I examine the cut; a clean, deep gash running the length of the pad of my finger.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Can you run my drinks for me real quick?” I ask. His face is intently focused on the screen and he doesn’t look up, occupied with his own tables. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I can’t,” he replies. “I’m sorry, I’m really busy—”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Ivan!” I say abruptly and hold up my finger, which is now throbbing.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh my god! Go, go, go!” he says, eyes wide as he takes in the blood, shooing me toward the back. “I got the drinks!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I rifle through the First Aid kit tacked on the wall; nothing. I search out my manager Louis, a suave Frenchman working the host stand at the front of the restaurant. I explain the situation and hold out my finger, at which point he gives a small giggle and leads me to the office by my bleeding digit, fake lunging at members of the staff on the way. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We soon discover that there is not one Band-Aid, or anything similar, in the entire establishment. Finally, one of the cooks, Jose, a four-foot South American with diamond studs in each of his ears, shouts, “I know! I got it!” before running downstairs to his locker. He resurfaces with a large roll of gauze.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Louis giggles again and begins attempting to wrap my finger in gauze in the stairwell, without any way to fasten it. I can practically feel my tables fidgeting on the other side of the kitchen doors. “Wait! I ‘ave it!” he says suddenly, leaving me holding the tiny piece of surgical wrapping in place. He returns with a roll of masking tape.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two minutes later I am back on the floor, with a ridiculously bulbous ring finger as I continue to tend to my tables. A few diners eye it curiously, but no one comments. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When it’s all over, we make good money—enough to buy a brand-new box of Band-Aids, which never leaves the pocket of my purse. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-7378415952011751982011-02-23T12:46:00.006-05:002011-02-23T14:46:54.668-05:00From Ratatouille to the Rat Race<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 24px; font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alright boys and girls.</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I sincerely apologize for the uncharacteristic period of silence. Counting both the sluggishness of my employment status and the resulting sluggishness on behalf of my brain, it’s a miracle I still know how to type—even though some claim I do even that incorrectly. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After hemorrhaging euros like it was my job during my four-month lark with the Frogs, it’s been an adrenaline, panic and naïvely hope-filled second month. I’ve wiggled my way out of a preposterous lease contract and am currently re-packing piles of things, which only came out of boxes less than 60 days ago, to move two blocks down. I have also returned to The Shipyard, and—cue cries of excitement—am now working the midnight shifts as opposed to the sleepy, quiet morning ones I had become accustomed to. It’s rush hour in exotic grocery land, and in that special window of the few hours for the 9 to 5 crowd, claws come out and words are not minced for anyone. Lastly, I am entering employment with a new French restaurant across the street from my new humble abode, La Maison, where I will be required to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">parler français</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> with the homesick expats and experimenting university kids from down the street whilst serving up </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">moules frites </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and steak</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> tartare.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, in less than a full month, I have gone from a dispassionate professional sleeper and emailer, to someone who will very soon be able to kiss off any hint of a social existence. And yet, I can’t help but be a tiny bit thrilled. Why, you ask? You, the readers of this tiny little blog, are the sole benefactors from my nose-to-the-grindstoning, as the cringe-worthy and heartwarming stories from this two-pronged culinary underbelly I’m re-entering are the only guaranteed results of this whole endeavor.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But, where are my manners? I promised you Justin, who deserves some sort of introduction after a satisfactory Skype and letter-filled screening period, which began during the heady summer months with a tentative postcard from Mexico and a date involving kayaks and awkward life vests. A fellow Shipyard employee, Justin is foremost, three things: thanks to weekly hours spent on the rugby field, he is the owner of a fantastic backside that prompts slaps from approximately 82.4% of the staff, someone who can effortlessly recite every line from Arrested Development, How I Met Your Mother and 30 Rock, and will order a 5:1 ratio of sushi when we stay in. I’m the 1. He wanders around the apartment when he brushes his teeth like I do, and is one of two people on earth I know who likes to drink Kefir. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As one of the few with front-row seats to the massacre that was my checking account and resume re-compilation this month, a medal of some sort is in order for his unnerving amount of patience.</span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Mkf94inupbp7CiFO7ts422pPzyntlUCbQg-c_UPBU5-ZC0pXIec24MH2M8e4xZQNcPHpEMlJo86FcPMVdFbhMAJpK1PFki7mYxj0kSyDd0OnzlZvF6cxoWoUq4lBj1A30kMXIPCTC-I/s320/Boston_Toro_Chef_Jamie_Bissonette_Mixologist_Courtney_Bissonnette_AFB_2009-2.jpg_693_475_0_80_1_50_50.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576945442066930690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: 24px; font-size:x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal;font-size:16px;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">© Antoinette Bruno</span></div></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Speaking of patience, last weekend my uncle was in town visiting his Boston-based girlfriend and celebrating his 31</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">st</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> birthday. Justin suggested dinner at </span><a href="http://www.toro-restaurant.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Toro</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, a favorite tapas restaurant of ours—and, unfortunately, the rest of the city—that in an esteemed European tradition, takes no reservations. Having previously experienced an hour and a half wait, made survivable by two glasses of wine, we met my uncle, his girlfriend and her roommate an hour earlier to avoid our previous fate. Whatever strange logic we were working off of here clearly backfired—the wait was instead three hours. Unable to cram any further into the restaurant after putting our name on the ominous list, the five of us huddled by the front door, which opened and welcomed in a gust of ice wind every 5 minutes, in our puffy winter jackets. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After waving like a deranged soccer mom at the preoccupied bartender, I finally caught his attention and we settled in with our wine and the menu, eyeing the few bar stools with any chance of suddenly becoming available. A silent and deadly struggle had begun between our large party and the others near us, as we angled and positioned until the other diners were all but marooned in their barstool-less corners. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Forty-five minutes later, we had won a coveted bar spot by the window and had placed a few food orders, balancing the steaming plates on our knees and spare stool we snagged. Two hours after that, our name was called, and I hurried to close out the bar tab. I signed off for $38, a sum that to my slightly inebriated mind seemed fair, conveniently forgetting that we had just eaten three rounds of tapas along with a few rounds of drinks, which should have been upwards of $70 at least. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we enjoyed the new view from our long-awaited table, the confused bartenders approached us, thinking that we hadn’t signed off on our tab. Of course, we had, and I had the card and receipt to prove it. But wouldn’t you know, some poor soul’s last name in the crowded bar that night was very similar to my first, a very rare occurrence indeed. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thinking we had hit the jackpot, the five of us let out sinister giggles and clinked glasses. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sadly, Mr. Barkeep realized his mistake and righted the wrong before we had the chance to run. “Next time,” we promised. Next time. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-82189586894154037732011-01-31T12:38:00.009-05:002011-02-23T14:47:20.631-05:00Shiny pretty things<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoQgFJei8H_tMpEEI5lwP8JRgeH_k9S0lL91v7TnsdQO1eKswoaZ29KL2oPDftPKbi71eu7c1wawvMf47IuWk58gI1uEnC2O_mOZrotU1Ps9JBO4j0faiyrzqvqIrqVELPYCk2GShIWY/s1600/IMG_0752.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWoQgFJei8H_tMpEEI5lwP8JRgeH_k9S0lL91v7TnsdQO1eKswoaZ29KL2oPDftPKbi71eu7c1wawvMf47IuWk58gI1uEnC2O_mOZrotU1Ps9JBO4j0faiyrzqvqIrqVELPYCk2GShIWY/s320/IMG_0752.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568406165227467314" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sparkling, brand spanking new unemployment, or “freelancing,” as I call it, is a funny thing. While my apartment is now impeccably clean at all hours of the day, and I find myself planning dinner hours in advance, the truth is my life suddenly consists of trawling through job sites and watching reruns of How I Met Your Mother.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While I have had some early sporadic success selling myself in the form of 500-word blurbs to keep myself afloat, the stark contrast between my life of exactly one month ago and now does not escape me. On December 31</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">st</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, 2010, I was in Madrid, Spain, being serenaded by three opera singers in front of a sloshed crowd of elite Europeans. Today, January 31</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">st</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, 2011, there is a butt imprint on my designated job-hunting couch cushion and I think my milk may be past its expiration date. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let me rewind. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> While showing my family around Europe, it naturally became my duty to </span><a href="http://ballsinyourcoffee.blogspot.com/2010/12/bienvenue-to-ghetto.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">arrange restaurant reservations</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. When we crossed over into Spain, however, where my language skills held no value, it was somehow still my job to sniff out eateries that satisfied my family’s needs. With a vegetarian who will eat fish and a vegan who is only pretending to be vegetarian in order to not starve to death in Europe, the stakes were pretty high; New Year’s Eve was to be the highlight of our Madrid trip, so the restaurant that we found ourselves in when the clock struck midnight had to be perfect. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After an hour of searching online and reading jumbled translations of menus off Google Translate, I settled on La Capilla de La Bolsa, a restaurant near the Plaza del Sol, where the countdown would take place. I made a reservation for 9:30 pm after signing off on the simple and edible-for-all-parties menu, and called it a night.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByYeQ4mwZAn_J-ccgwORNSMJ5mmiA0sA_MdBiCE9-WMu44fIFUktg9E2ufQHtjM1pVn39xnXH5wKHClEeUPGcr9KuYGVElcTNd-QXnTAyX4s6eExQSTIbqVBo1k7wvPAeF84WL7rdk9M/s320/IMG_0755.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568406713206132098" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But, being silly Americans, we failed to take two things into account. 1) The streets of Madrid are a mess of twists and turns, and we left no time for getting a tiny bit lost, and 2) It was New Year’s Eve, which may as well be called Night of a Thousand Police Barricades no matter where you find yourself. These complications finally maneuvered around, we arrived at La Capilla around 20 minutes late for our reservation. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Upon entering the foyer, a small room of white draped satiny curtains, it is important to pause at this moment and explain an important part of this story. The slight detail of how fancy this place was may have escaped us as we prepared to leave the hotel. Luckily my sister and I had dresses on in some sort of semblance of dressed-up-ness, but my mother was mildly horrified because she had worn casual pants with a nice shirt, as had my stepfather. The hostess took our coats after I hurriedly explained our delay, and finally she dramatically swept aside the curtain and beckoned for us to follow. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Behind those curtains was one of the most impressively decadent and elegant rooms I have ever stepped into with my plebian, peasant feet. My dress may have turned into a potato sack upon entry, but I can’t be positive. A piano player was tickling the ivories above the whole scene, on a mini platform stage ascending from a golden spiral staircase, and a woman’s diamond necklace blinded me on the way to the table. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here is where my panic attack began. Though I like to think I can be very smooth, I don’t tend to do well in extravagant settings such as this. I suddenly got a sinking feeling in my growling stomach and as I grabbed the menu off the table that sinking feeling turned into a flight response level of adrenaline. It was a fixed menu, not one that I had seen on the website a night earlier. Half of it was meat. While I tried to take solace in the fact that we had done this in Paris and were thus experts with the ability to choose one plate from each starter, entrée and dessert course, cocktails and salmon caviar landed on the table without warning. I glanced down at the menu, and there they were at the very top, blueberry cocktail and salmon caviar. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Wait, wait, wait. Do we get </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">all </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">of this??” I was sweating in my potato sack. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Calm down, I’m sure we don’t get all of it,” my mother reassured me, glancing around for one of the waiters buzzing around the room like water skeeters on a pond. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Trying to digest the words swimming in front of my eyes, I had still not managed to see the final price listed at the bottom: 185 euros. Each. I think we all arrived there at the same moment, because when I looked up there were three jaws on the table. Well, two. My younger sister was busy eyeing her (normally contraband in the United States of Puritanism) cocktail. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Luckily, our waiter appeared and we were able to strike or replace a few items for vegetarian options. While they negotiated choices, I was still trying to comprehend how I was going to eat six or seven courses. We settled in after these initial hurdles, all inhaling deeply and me giggling nervously while I clutched my martini glass for dear life. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Suddenly, the piano music changed and a booming operatic baritone burst into the room, ricocheting off the domed ceilings and mosaic walls. A bald man in a tuxedo had begun circulating through the tables as people ate, belting out a well-known number from La Traviata. And wouldn’t you know it, he and his two opera singer companions—a woman in a Ferrari-red sequined dress with matching gloves up to her elbows and a shorter man—did this every half hour or so, with a new number every time. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Once the courses started flowing, so did the wine. Because the night was falling deeper and deeper into the last moments of 2010 and the servers were likely to be a little tipsy themselves, my glass never seemed to be less than ¾ full. Because of this, the night became the best night my peasant self had ever experienced, as I emphatically told my family repeatedly. (And not as eloquently. It was more attuned to this: “This is AWESOME. This is SO AWESOME!” as I clapped wildly and giggled when the tall bald baritone approached our table.)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the end, we ate (crazy things, like foie gras with gin and tonic gelée), we drank (I waxed poetic about the decorative lights in the street on the stumble back home) and of course, somewhere along the way the singers were tipped off that it would be my birthday when the clock struck 12 and I was treated to a rousing rendition of Feliz Cumpleanos right before the countdown. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we shoved 12 grapes in our mouths for 12 months of good luck along with the last 12 chimes of the year (a tradition that I will continue alone every year in the States, picking up weird looks along the way), I momentarily forgot that the meal cost more than my college education and learned to enjoy the decadence. I think somewhere in my heavily wine-saturated mind, I understood that in no time at all, I would be here, on my couch, emailing my resume over and over and devising a strange concoction for dinner with all the leftover ingredients I could find.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So congratulations on surviving the first month of 2011, plebs. Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I may just have to introduce Justin. Hang on to your potato sacks, ladies. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-17528066414521007962011-01-17T12:01:00.002-05:002011-01-17T12:03:07.402-05:00Reunited and it feels so good<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcesyC-49srvQnisqT8ik3ktidfvIc6xj-WewpKIYIU80QhZLLXHyvpDpiEYx8SUj3fTa1LVPzNtJZmarMvfUZS7leKfDqbL16H9LrimpTus8IapQ57gTgkkKcu0uabU6kP9b1xMf4r8/s1600/IMG_0821.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBcesyC-49srvQnisqT8ik3ktidfvIc6xj-WewpKIYIU80QhZLLXHyvpDpiEYx8SUj3fTa1LVPzNtJZmarMvfUZS7leKfDqbL16H9LrimpTus8IapQ57gTgkkKcu0uabU6kP9b1xMf4r8/s320/IMG_0821.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563201345922209010" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Miracle of miracles! I have emerged from the mountain of cardboard boxes I had unceremoniously crammed full of pens and pillows and books and kitchen pots and tossed into storage in August. I have almost discovered all the places my subletter hid cooking ingredients and Tupperware. A Comcast technician named Flavio with diamond studs and a Hahvahd Yahd accent has restored my lifeline to you, and I am back, baby.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yesterday, Jess, Christine and I arranged for a post-mortem on our return to the States and had agreed to meet at Second Cup, a café near my apartment. Upon arriving, we discovered that Second Cup, a respectable coffeehouse, is now home to “Pizza Days,” yet another classy joint in the college slum neighborhood we all know and kind of love. Zap, a new restaurant claiming to serve “European cuisine” was nestled right next door. Knowing that no self-respecting European would ever name anything “Zap,” we kept walking. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I realize it’s been quite a long time since my Christmas Eve feast in the 10</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, and like any other expat returning to the land of chili dogs and the Fourth of July, the reintegration has been jarring. Not only do I feel compelled to tap my Metro card on the T, which suddenly resembles a small toy train bumbling around a small toy track, but my belief that finally speaking English on a daily basis would make life easier was way off base. In a feeble attempt to print out some pictures at Kinko’s the other day, a clerk brusquely asked me what I was looking for. It took me only 5,346 minutes to explain myself, while my brain sputtered around like a dying car, wondering why he wasn’t asking me which kind of baguette I would like, and then finally spit out a very French “euuhhhh” conversation-stalling sound. The clerk was not amused. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As I am now fording the waters of unemployment, Oregon-Trail style, in the fragile period between the completion of college and the rest of life, the lazy lunch breaks and rosy glasses of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">kir </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">haunt me frequently. I also seem to curiously resemble an alcoholic, since wine is of course the beverage of Satan in the States, and only acceptable on special occasions. Obvious comparisons aside, it is nice to be back in a place where strikes are something far away in the Midwest that you read about every once in awhile, and grocery shopping doesn’t involve watching a Franprix checker blatantly ignore you and then hand you two handfuls of 20 centime pieces as change.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am in the process of jotting down an entry or two for Spain, as well as simultaneously negotiating my return to The Shipyard and carpet-bombing all of Boston with my resumé, but in the meantime, I felt I should check in and make sure you all survived the holiday season. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fingers crossed my oxen don’t drown crossing the river and no one in the wagon gets cholera. Now if only I could stop making that “euuhhh” sound. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-55462981544362984182010-12-26T13:09:00.006-05:002010-12-29T15:50:53.252-05:00Bienvenue to the ghetto<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVesveE_M5B-ypB4dh8ios3_QP5NVIXYyRfsXkfq6BpfkpzL5Cfo8-AUAc9Fo1Jzb8D3_ea9Q6cZTnM-6nGXqUX_pZUXUOC7Itc1pNlMZnzy-Tmf1c0QRhaO_mbzhKyTN6SEKLLhq_oQ/s1600/c3e026d5-0483-4b52-bbd6-b46509fd849d.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVesveE_M5B-ypB4dh8ios3_QP5NVIXYyRfsXkfq6BpfkpzL5Cfo8-AUAc9Fo1Jzb8D3_ea9Q6cZTnM-6nGXqUX_pZUXUOC7Itc1pNlMZnzy-Tmf1c0QRhaO_mbzhKyTN6SEKLLhq_oQ/s320/c3e026d5-0483-4b52-bbd6-b46509fd849d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555056719520731122" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, Christmas has come and gone, and I have officially left Paris. I’m currently speeding towards Lyon, the last place my French will be useful for quite some time and the second leg of this trip before we hit Spain and I become essentially mute. A gaggle of French children behind me are chirping </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Regarde Maman! Regarde Papa!” </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (Look Mom! Look Dad!) every five minutes and kicking the back of my chair, and I just finished the last of the macarons.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Playing tour guide is an exhausting task, and while I’m sad to see the City of Lights go, I’m looking forward to returning to a place where the only directions I ever need to give involve pointing in the direction of the pre-made sandwiches at The Shipyard. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Part of my duties as a semi-Parisian local included finding restaurants that were still open on Christmas Eve and Christmas, and subsequently booking reservations. I naturally waited as long as humanly possible before completing this task, but once I did, I was quite proud of myself. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After a delay of two days, the Charles de Gaulle monster spit my family out and Christmas Eve rolled around quick. The restaurant I had picked for the evening was </span></span><a href="http://www.floparis.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Brasserie Flo,</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> one in a chain of well-reviewed brasseries all over Paris; I chose one in the 10</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> arrondissement, based off the menu and assuming it would be a breeze to find since I had been working in the neighborhood </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">for the last few months.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like anything is ever that easy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><b><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Best Hidden Upscale Restaurant/ Best Way To Scare The Hell Out Of Your Mother In A Foreign City</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As I explained </span></span><a href="http://ballsinyourcoffee.blogspot.com/2010/12/have-pity-on-nubby-pigeons.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">before</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, the 10</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is a charming neighborhood. There’s always someone getting their weave on, even if it’s 11 at night, and the places where Jess and I grabbed lunch a few times a week are nestled next to places with dingy windows and names like Pizza City and King of Subs. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our reservation was for 8 p.m., and as we hopped off the Metro and I glanced at my crinkled and well-loved Paris Pratique map one last time, I felt confident. But, as the street continued on and on, and suddenly the stores were fewer and far between and lingering groups of 20 something guys with nothing better to do starting appearing on the corners, I could feel my mother panicking behind me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unwilling to appear lost or in the least bit confused, I powered on, my heels clacking over the day-old leftover snow on the sidewalks. Streetlamps began flickering. Homeless men with no teeth yelled unintelligible profanities and ramblings. After five minutes of turning around to see my mother’s dubious face growing worse by the block, I decided we might have missed a turn. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One nonchalant stolen glance at the map and one helpful street sign (posted by the restaurant, which is apparently used to it’s clientele wandering deeper and deeper into the ghetto in search of it’s doors) later, we found ourselves in a glorified alley, the burnt-out lights of Pizza City a stone’s throw away. And </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">voila,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Brasserie Flo. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I hauled open the unwieldy wooden doors and was greeted by not one cheery “Bonsoir!” but six. The staff was dressed to the nines and the coat check girl, who looked like she had just stepped off a runway, whisked away all of our coats, and we were soon led to our table by a penguin-suited maître’d. We took our seats, an </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">amuse bouche </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">starter</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and a round of champagne landed in front of each of us, a huge, very French menu gracefully appeared in our hands from nowhere and I began to panic like someone who, at least a few times in the last four months, has resorted to eating Nutella out of the jar to survive. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you’re wondering, Yoda-French definitely works in fine dining situations. Then again, our headwaiter was so charming and jolly, I could have been Molière for all I knew. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Hungry we were…SOO satisfying this meal was!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Very happy to hear that madame! Would you perhaps be desiring a coffee, or another round of champagne?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Another glass I couldn’t…coffee I can!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I did encounter something new, in translating the menu for my English-speaking family. In translation world, especially where a menu is concerned and the French like to get poetic and rambly, I am no longer a Jedi Master, but more of an ogre type creature, with a limited vocabulary who points a lot. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Meat...that. This...fish. With that. Ooh, ooh! Green beans there! That...meat?" </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A respectful three hours later, we spilled into the alley once more. This time, drunk as I was on the pure thrill of a Parisian-amazing-secret-discovery, I gave a little curtsy to the toothless man talking to his beanie. Merry Christmas, indeed. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Next up, I try to convince Lyon, the culinary capital of France, that I'm just not hungry anymore. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-74744939800354871092010-12-21T03:16:00.004-05:002011-02-24T10:46:52.205-05:00Baby, it's cold outside<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoD1lzbSSejwLukxM8xg44sfSohthf-CuiK4UAF8P3KSJMW0IHWU0ben3TPf-mVZtLxtlaaxEIDktRVabZ9u8WLxUyhGt1PUwCaRG1HW_OmH_51DsyoZHzKUV134vP8hgwamh4K8uZIpM/s1600/flickr-3103892205-image.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoD1lzbSSejwLukxM8xg44sfSohthf-CuiK4UAF8P3KSJMW0IHWU0ben3TPf-mVZtLxtlaaxEIDktRVabZ9u8WLxUyhGt1PUwCaRG1HW_OmH_51DsyoZHzKUV134vP8hgwamh4K8uZIpM/s320/flickr-3103892205-image.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553073932002441730" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Christmas is coming, Christmas is coming! And, like every single year, like clockwork: the airports are failing, the airports are failing!</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As far as holiday traditions go, I’m definitely a fan of the new ones I’ve adopted since being here; hot spiced wine, roasted chestnuts, catty roasted chestnut venders who scoff and yell at each other across the way and good-naturedly harangue passers-by…but most of all, the Code Orange This Is Not A Drill There Is Frozen Rain Coming From The Sky And We, The Airports Of The World, Are Not Equipped To Deal With This Sort Of National Disaster holiday news broadcasts. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Most years, I would be smack in the middle of this chaos, grumpily using my messenger bag as a pillow and swearing under my breath (just for the fun of being in a foul mood with everyone else—it’s a bonding experience!) as I spent seven euros on a stale [insert airport food of choice here]. However, this year, I am patiently waiting in a hotel for my family unit to arrive in one piece, while I watch French news correspondents with crazy eyes and ruffled French travelers who still look better than me on a good day, giving quotes like:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I’m just…this is just REALLY NOT OKAY,” and; </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“This is unbelieeeeeeevable! The flights are delayed, I am just in shock and no one is answering our questions and we will spend Christmas here I’m telling you because these stupid idiots here are unable to do ANYTHING, I will fly the plane, just show me where it is, I will fly it…” as if from a script.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><b><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Best Way To Wait For Your Family When All Of Europe Is Scared of Wet Snow</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><i><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Je vous arrête pour le meurtre…”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s Saturday night, and I’ve moved into a hotel room in the 6</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th </span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">arrondissement, across from restaurants cheerily dressed up for Christmas, with awnings covered in snow and menus with prices that make me snort with laughter as I stand outside, squinting at the posted lists of delicacies on the windows. One of my last friends left in Paris, Pete, and I meet up to attempt to ice skate in front of Hotel de Ville, but are thwarted by a flash snowstorm of big fat flakes that are piling up on the ice rink and blinding small children faster that we can keep up with. We duck into a café off a side road and spend a little over five hours with espressos, roast chicken with </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">gratin dauphinois</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and a bottle of red wine, while the French bar cat sits next to us in the booth, but shoots us judging French eyes if I try to pet her. Typical.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After navigating the Châtelet Metro station in a food coma back to my new home, I settle into bed and wind up watching dubbed reruns of Law & Order: Criminal Intent on French TV channel TF1. Except here, it’s “New York Division Criminelle,” and Vincent D’Onofrio as a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">costaud</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Frenchman puts a whole other spin on the series. I watch two episodes and am unable to decide whether the spidery suspenseful music hanging off of the jolly smart-alecky French accent we all know and love works for me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The terrible dubbing does make me feel better about some things, though. “You’re under arrest for the murder of so-and-so,” for example, becomes </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Je vous arrête pour le meurtre de…” </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Translated: “I stop you.” I can’t help but giggle, alone in the hotel room, at the politeness of it all. “Ahem, I’m uh, really very sorry about all this, but I’m going to have to stop you for this murder. My apologies, again.” The next day I watch Jurassic Park: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Le Monde Perdu.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (The Lost World. You go Jeff Goldblum.)</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After I sleep through free breakfast the first morning, I get my act together and lope downstairs like Eloise on Christmas at the Plaza—did anyone else but me read those books?— to enjoy a peacefully silent breakfast with free wifi that I don’t get in my room. On the second morning, I wise up and sneak an extra </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pain au chocolat</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and croissant back with me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Upon arrival, I called down to the reception desk to see if I needed a password for the wifi. There’s a pause while the receptionist, a man with hair like a French banker, looks up my room. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Trois cent neuf, c’est ça?” (Room 309, right?)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oui, c’est ça.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Il n’y a pas de wifi au troisième étage.” (There is no wifi on the third floor.)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh, okay. Merci.” (What the hell do you mean there’s no wifi just because I am mere feet above the second floor?? This is so typical France, man, I swear. I’m going to fight this, you hear me?? You hear me???)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I spend the next few days sitting in the stairwell a floor below checking my email to avoid sitting awkwardly in the lobby.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Paris has an odd, quiet and larger-than-life quality to it now that the wolf pack of ladies has disappeared back stateside. Before, with empty bottles of wine in hand as we skipped down Rue Mouffetard after a long evening, cackling like hyenas and guaranteed to miss the Metro, Paris seemed smaller and conquerable. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My first night in Paris, I was a day early than most people in the program, and I remember being terrified in my miniscule hotel room in the Opera district. Culture shock is a bitch, and it can show up out of nowhere—mine wasted no time, smacking me in the face at Charles de Gaulle. If I thought I had been taking French for the past 8 years of my life, I was wrong, it must have been Swahili judging by the way I flailed around for an hour, lost in the underbelly of French cruelty at it’s finest. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now it seems, alone again before my family arrives and I am tasked with carting three Americans behind me to all the monuments and France-isms I have come to know and love, Paris is mine for the observing. Except this time, I can expertly snack on falafel from Maoz in front of Notre Dame with a honed French scowl on my face, secretly enjoying the cold and the ignorant tourists schlepping overstuffed bags up and down the stairs at Denfert-Rochereau station. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The panic attacks of withdrawal are already beginning. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-16114333515005311982010-12-15T11:23:00.013-05:002010-12-15T15:17:23.097-05:00Have pity on the nubby pigeons<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 24px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A funny thing happened as Jess and I walked to work in the 10th this morning. The frigid cold forced me to bury my face in my scarf as I subconsciously counted all the barbershops, wig-shops, children’s clothing outlet stores with shady shipments being carted in every hour and Chinese restaurants nestled in between two more hair salons with names like “Courageuse” and “Amazon Princess,” and as the 9 a.m. winter sun lit up the rows of apartments, it finally dawned on me—my time in Paris is coming to an end.</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With a scant 3 days before the end of the program, and 21 until my return to Beantown, it’s becoming difficult to walk down the street and not wonder how long it’ll be until I can grab a leisurely espresso for only a euro at a café counter again. How long before I’ll spend five minutes too many trying to sympathize with a one-footed pigeon that’s hobbling around on its nub, being cursed at by passing Parisians on the sidewalk in front of me? Before a jolly accordion player comes through the aisles of the Metro for tips after a morning commute cover of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">La Vie en Rose </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and everyone gracefully turns their head away? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The thought is almost too sad to ponder. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, in order to properly close out this saga in a few weeks, it’s time to begin the Balls in Your Coffee-style adieu to the City of Lights—the people, the food and the </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">bizarreries</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, which really should be a word in English. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A certain photo album that one of our friends, Lily, put together inspired the idea; she whittled down her archives of Paris photos to a succinct 44, each paired with a “Best Of” category. In any case, that’s the way Paris will be truly remembered—snapshots of moments. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In our case, it’s more like snapshots of awkwardness. Same thing.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7DcyUlcTgyW-bro9FmprktatVCd34ahEcu1b0sQTFH3m5QwW7_UZneP4vHLCn9cpbQbR6e3mYBpqJXR1ivNGVj31sJFz7gcccKJqAQUpXEyU03SSSaq_hBNjqPmQinRd8v7fx8UXd3o/s320/73103_1712686020548_1340070011_3170299_2468853_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550966533463763122" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Best Drink In Paris That Will Make You Forget Your Name:</span></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A few months into our stay here, we discovered a certain bar with a certain name that shall not be named, for selfish reasons—we shall call it Bar Voldemort—and began trooping to it’s worn wooden booths and collaged walls (good luck finding a bar in Paris that is </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> like this. Insert evil laugh here) once or twice a week. After a short while, we were bestowed with the best present an expat could ever receive: the cheek-kisses upon entry. Making it as regulars, and getting to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“faire la bise,”</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is like receiving a sparkly flying unicorn that stomps glitter out of it's hooves and does your homework for you for your 6</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> birthday, when all you wanted was a pony. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Anyway, at Bar Voldemort, there's this beautifully hefty cocktail list. On this list, there is a drink that when purchased and subsequently sipped, makes one believe first that there is no God, and then (after half the drink has been put away) that one </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">is </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">God. My one and only experience with said drink left me having this key conversation, yelling over the music, with a young French guy with slicked back hair and too much cologne.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“So, what are you all doing in Paris?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh, students! We are here for four months being students.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Nice. What are you studying?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Journalism! And French. Hahahahaha...ooooof course.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some time passes, I quietly work on my cocktail, and conversation flows around the table. We’re on fire, speaking French like mentally disabled locals, feeling good, ignoring the fact that our lips have gone numb. About a half-hour later, Cologne Man turns back to me. What he truly said, I can only guess at. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“So, the other night I was saying to my friend, this government is seriously out of control! Sarko thinks he </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">owns </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">us, man! And I’m like, yeah man, I just want to live my life, you know? Fuck this communist shit! Then he’s like, ‘Technically Sarko isn’t a communist.’ And I’m like, ‘Man, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">everyone </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">is a communist these days right?’ That’s what all Americans think right??"</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I reply, with a great big smile on my face:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“STUDENTS! We are here for four months being students.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“….right. Have you had a chance to see any good stuff around Paris?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I laugh heartily and slurp the rest of my Drink of Death:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Journalism! And French. Hahahahaha...ooooof course.”</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(*photo credit to a fellow Voldemort-going drunken comrade. We shall call her...N'Irelande.)</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-50013004461505353472010-12-09T07:58:00.005-05:002010-12-09T10:31:09.725-05:00Spoiled Brat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRXoYSEdnFMSAaCq8bkUyf8Zq_WbG3L5QxeswIZbUHAxLX85gATT7Yin1nsvsCUErvZ1v1dHzF4Fog2j1IKXtOjNKNuRQpwJlHcqjKUI_afJI2Lg_KNQbPeC6FPDCyYizXIv0lUp1SlU/s1600/354574634_d4a08e0a18.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRXoYSEdnFMSAaCq8bkUyf8Zq_WbG3L5QxeswIZbUHAxLX85gATT7Yin1nsvsCUErvZ1v1dHzF4Fog2j1IKXtOjNKNuRQpwJlHcqjKUI_afJI2Lg_KNQbPeC6FPDCyYizXIv0lUp1SlU/s320/354574634_d4a08e0a18.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548668434820907474" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am, of course, referring to my stomach.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I suppose I should have foreseen this development. After taking it with me to Paris for four months, I don’t know who I’d be to expect anything less than an acquired constant hunger from my formerly well-behaved stomach. And when I say well-behaved, I mean it. When I broke down after seven years of vegetarianism and crammed a slice of pepperoni pizza gleefully into my face, then embarked on an expansion of my culinary palate and cooking experience with New York sirloin steak and Thai-glazed chicken satay soon after, my stomach joyously went along with it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While the other stomachs of fallen vegetarians were busy rebelling, mine simply seemed to say, in a politely surprised way, “My, my! I haven’t had this in awhile. How delightful.” Like a proper Englishman out of a period drama really, with a dove-gray cravat and top hat and all. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we arrived in Paris, a small trial period of adventurousness ensued while we tried the local delicacies, with marvelous success—with the exception of real Roquefort cheese, which mysteriously tastes like dry-erase markers to us. After months of becoming accustomed to baguettes with dinner and croissants on the way to class and coffees all over the place and good wine and overwhelmingly amazing quiches, my stomach took to loudly notifying me when it was time to give it some love, in case I got distracted by the monuments or the street scenes or my work. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This quickly turned into a game of let’s-get-into-awkward-public-situations-and-have-some-real-fun. I’m not sure how. I told you it was a brat.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Au bureau</span></b></span></span></i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (at the office):</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's 9:45 a.m, office chit-chat has subsided and we've all settled in to start working. Stomach senses the time is right.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“PAIN….AU……CHOCOLAAAAAAAAT. Please.” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My coworker Elsa darted a glance up at me from her computer across from mine. I had been hoping that had gone unnoticed, but clearly, wishful thinking. I clenched my abs in a fruitless effort to silence him, like everyone does every time in a desperate attempt to stop the angry noises. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Nice going.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Pain au chocolat?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Nothing I can do right now.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Then I shall grumble for TWO MORE HOURS.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Fine. You’ll give it up eventually.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two hours later: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“TOLD YOU SO.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Elsa goes back to her typing and now pretends not to notice. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dans le Metro</span></b></span></span></i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (in the subway):</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One major difference between the public transportation in Paris and the rest of the cities I’ve lived in is the noise level. </span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Rg3hRYvJESY/TNeCP0Fq57I/AAAAAAAABr0/74efWF3w94c/s1600/23son.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here’s</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> the best way to describe it. This level change is noticeable all over the city for us loud Amuuricans, but on the Metro, where the wheels are made of rubber and don’t screech and only one out of 40 or so people is chatting on their cell phone (quietly, naturally), we may as well be sitting amongst monks. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I know you had a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">café au lait</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> this morning,” my stomach says in a hushed voice. “But guess what?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I know what’s coming, but ask anyway. : “...what?” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“NOOOOOOOT SUFFICIENT!!!!!!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">An older woman next to me gives me a pitying and knowing glance. I awkwardly smile back, and kind of shrug in a sad little way. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“DOES SHE have a BAGUETTE in….her PurSE?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No, I highly doubt she has a baguette in her purse. Knock it off.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Then she is of no interest to us. Move ALONg.”</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Parmi les bouquins</span></b></span></span></i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (among the books, at Shakespeare & Company):</span></b></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At Shakespeare & Company, the most charming little bookstore ever to burst forth from Paris, or the world, everyone mills around the cramped passageways, stacked high with books, in a reverent kind of hush. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“This sightseeing is kind of fun,” my stomach whispered, barely noticeable.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Distracted by the books and magical air of the place, I mindlessly replied, “Yeah it is, isn’t it.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“So nice here. So nice…we got up kind of early this morning, you know. I’m really trying to work out a sched—I AM GOING TO EAT ONE OF THESE BOOKS RIGHT NOW.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pretty sure ol' William himself woke up with that one. I chose to nonchalantly ignore my stomach and curiously glanced around with everyone else. Smooth per usual. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-35665771088825805592010-12-06T10:13:00.003-05:002010-12-06T10:21:11.906-05:00Topless time-waster<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnPobePgqQmYkkuafuuAYAKXLCB7h5RnAm6QBW64RBz0WBrYiB_cmwg1taD_91Zo1hcstX7KXe-iRvGxfVprWoU6lSnn3BzABSZptOy_0AvY9jSyM2_K3z9uFfvrt94jScRudKz-Yr2A/s1600/2435129566_3e271db657.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZnPobePgqQmYkkuafuuAYAKXLCB7h5RnAm6QBW64RBz0WBrYiB_cmwg1taD_91Zo1hcstX7KXe-iRvGxfVprWoU6lSnn3BzABSZptOy_0AvY9jSyM2_K3z9uFfvrt94jScRudKz-Yr2A/s320/2435129566_3e271db657.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547587967993796386" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I know what you’re thinking, some of you out there in the Internet wilderness. How could anything topless be a waste of time? Let me enlighten you, few scandalous-minded readers of mine, because you’ve obviously never been to the OFII medical office in Paris.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">OFII, the French office of immigration and integration, is one of those “necessary” evils an ex-pat must face in France in order to remain in good standing visa-wise, just in case you ever decide to skip on back to the land of wine and cheese and clammy Metro poles. For months now, we have been slowly (and I mean </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sloooowly)</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> completing this heinous process, aware that a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">visite medicale</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> was in our near future. As the appointments began trickling in, and we began to talk amongst ourselves, it was clear that this was not just any doctor’s visit. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“They stick you in a room topless!” girls cried in horror upon return from their visits. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“But why? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">WHY</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> would they do such a thing?” the crowd of anxious girls listening in would demand fretfully, brows furrowing and jaws dropping, many unconsciously clutching their chests in alarm. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently the answer was to determine whether or not you had tuberculosis. In which case, if I indeed had the famed disease of Nicole Kidman’s doomed damsel in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Moulin Rouge</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, by the time my appointment rolled around, I would have spent the last four months infecting all of Paris. Good timing, OFII. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mysterious topless TB tests looming in my future or not, I was required to appear at 9:30 this morning at an obscure office in the Bastille neighborhood. My friend Hannah and I, both having landed the same appointment time, set off early this morning, the light hazy rain making my hair stick up in strange ways. After laying down 55 euros for a stamp (an inconvenient substitute for a co-pay), we pushed open the doors of the inferno and were faced with two waiting rooms packed to the brim with sullen-looking foreigners, passports and stamps in hand. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">An hour passed. Hannah read off and on and I mindlessly flipped through a magazine I’d already read a few dozen times. Finally, our names were called—</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hallelujah!—</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and we were moved into the next room. Another hour passed. Our names rang out again, and we were shuffled into a small room with two doctors administering simple tests and checking measurements: height, weight, eyesight. Except, at no point was I asked to remove my two and half-inch heels, or my jacket. So, by Parisian record, I am about 5’8” and weigh about 10 kilos more than usual. Also, I'm pretty sure I said "C" on my left side when he pointed at "O" and I still passed with flying colors. Go figure. O isn't that important anyway.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After this lovely jaunt—my male doctor gruffly asked me if I was pregnant. Hannah’s patted her stomach and cheerily asked, “</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pas de bébé? Pas de bébé?”</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (No baby? No baby?)—we took our seats once again. We figured the toplessness had to be next. Had to be. And what do you know, we were right.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">By the time another half-hour had passed, I was finally up for my x-rays. Four of us stood in front of three doors, marked like a shoddy "aaaand Bachelor #1!" type show. A tiny French nurse explained that I was to enter the room, take off my shirt and put my hair up. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sounds good, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I thought, pleased that I had understood my directions. It wasn’t until I was in the tiny closet-like room with my shirt off that I realized I had no idea what to do next.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There I was, standing fully clothed from the waist down, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and wondering why they had chosen such a bright yellow to paint the walls. Then, out of nowhere, an adjoining door was yanked open and a grumbly x-ray tech, (also a very small French woman. I’m sensing a theme…) bustled me out of my closet. Before I knew what was happening, I had managed to wind up pressed up against a large machine, both of the two nurses were animatedly telling me to breathe deeply, and then I was shooed right back into door #1. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After redressing myself, I burst out of the closet into the hallway I started from, looking mildly flustered along with my fellow visa-seekers, only to take a seat for another half-hour. Hannah soon plopped into a seat next to mine, and we waited to see a new doctor who would cluck about how good our x-rays looked and take our blood pressure before sending us on our way. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Almost four hours after we’d walked through the door this morning, we watched yet another employee land a glorified sticker in our passports, declaring us fit to return, TB-free. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thanks, OFII. Don’t know what I’d do without you.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-14121818491936709852010-11-26T05:41:00.004-05:002010-11-26T05:52:47.095-05:00Zanksgeeving<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 24px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">American holidays, especially ones of the family-recipe-fueled-gastronomical-goodness varieties, are always tough when you’re yanked out of the traditional comfort zone and dropped in a foreign country. This year, in an effort to preemptively ease the holiday homesickness, the group of us ex-pats was invited to a tiny restaurant in the first arrondissement, Oh Mon Cake, for a “Thanksgiving cocktail.” (And yes, we all realized the words “Thanksgiving” and “cocktail” presented a bit of an oxymoronic situation.)</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Whether or not we were aware of it, many of us woke up yesterday morning dreaming of stuffing and slow-cooked turkeys with gravy and homemade cranberry sauce simmering on the stovetop. Instead of sleeping in, shimmying into a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt and rolling up to Grandma’s house in undeniable I’m-ready-to-gain-15-pounds style, I took the Metro to work with the rest of the blurry-eyed commuters, and spent my morning explaining this picture to my coworkers:</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRxmtRtE-y1eNkN9usJGDWkID5paez0C3VMNEdPDTWdLPTig1zjIZN_iDjRboX5qYBUiWcZmu-deif2YacMmRBywwnAVdvPFIyVt8nYOepO-r6kzt-1rJ5cZipGwNWm2FZ7T2gOnrT2I/s320/57864986.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543807196518199250" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 210px; " /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"But...</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">why</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">?" was the most frequently asked question. "That, I know nothing," my sage French self replied solemnly.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Zanksgeeving,” is a subject of simultaneous fascination and confusion for the French, as I soon discovered, which is perhaps why we ended up at a place serving Thanksgiving-type fare in the form of cakey breads and shot glasses of soup. Not quite American, not quite French.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Though I’m sure we were for the most part expecting the worst, the homage to our turkey slaughtering ancestors from across the pond was surprisingly edible and not as comical as expected. What was comical was cramming about 35 of us in a small upstairs room and watching everyone try to determine if this was a French cocktail party, where guzzling your drink first thing and hunting around for a napkin to fill up with a stash of peanuts or chips or </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">something</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is a faux-pas, or an American one, where toting around a bottle of champagne for yourself is acceptable after a few rounds. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The confusion lasted for a respectable five minutes, and then disintegrated into a free for all. Five minutes after that, the conversations had ratcheted back to a standard American 8.9 on the Richter scale. Slices of the turkey cake-bread, corn bread with </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">lardons</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">fromage blanc</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> with cucumbers and tomatoes and small shooters of chocolate mousse were snatched off platters (Snatched! Who knew?), the whole thing passed quickly and the holiday was over before I knew it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even though there’s a small hole in my heart today where a leftover turkey sandwich usually goes, here’s to the French Thanksgiving. And to Apple and Cider, the pardoned turkeys</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Paris is just bursting with semi-confused happiness for you. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bring on the hot wine, roasted chestnuts and Mariah Carey singles—Paris doesn't mess around for Christmas. </span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-75913572218858528552010-11-21T23:58:00.007-05:002010-12-05T15:47:03.677-05:00Pretty lights, big rats and an anniversary<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUTxJG_gd9KmgpxCbgSYYvXMZh2MZANj6qCFt0maVtMar7FWTXgC8-l04lcg2IMu9YHyBWrkCVuuAfR7egK7ZdTLE6GFvxVEJRAFfTSyLeIUcQSTUV84hF-cRzkeXa7qyWlI9PCPzEfw/s1600/3094300153_065b39a3d8.jpg" style="text-decoration: none; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUTxJG_gd9KmgpxCbgSYYvXMZh2MZANj6qCFt0maVtMar7FWTXgC8-l04lcg2IMu9YHyBWrkCVuuAfR7egK7ZdTLE6GFvxVEJRAFfTSyLeIUcQSTUV84hF-cRzkeXa7qyWlI9PCPzEfw/s320/3094300153_065b39a3d8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542007176937721778" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "></span></span></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUTxJG_gd9KmgpxCbgSYYvXMZh2MZANj6qCFt0maVtMar7FWTXgC8-l04lcg2IMu9YHyBWrkCVuuAfR7egK7ZdTLE6GFvxVEJRAFfTSyLeIUcQSTUV84hF-cRzkeXa7qyWlI9PCPzEfw/s1600/3094300153_065b39a3d8.jpg" style="text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); line-height: 24px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, well, well, boys and girls, would you look at that? Balls In Your Coffee turns one year old today.</span></span></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s been quite the long haul; for those of you who have been here since the beginning, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and for those who have jumped on board during the past year, it is for you I keep writing these shenanigans down.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We’ve escaped The Martini, entered the world of organic groceries, and skipped off to another continent together, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Here’s to many happy returns for this little blog with big dreams and a dubious name.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As this Monday finds me slumped at my work desk, sharing YouTube clips with my coworkers and counting down the minutes until lunch, here’s a tidbit from last weekend.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Saturday night we were huddled along the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower in the foreground casting a subtle golden glow over the grass, the temperature dropping to a wintery chill. We had stuffed our purses with the basics; a bottle of Bordeaux, a mammoth bunch of grapes the size of a two-month old child, 99 centime brie, baguettes and a packet of Milanos, intent on picnicking </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">à la française </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">for the last time before the snow arrives.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During the winter months, the grass in Paris is legally in “hibernation,” which means that our picnic was relegated to the cold benches lining the lawns as we watched the rats romp and frolic on the tourist-free green pastures to their rodent hearts content. I know endearing scenes from </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ratatouille</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> are currently replaying in your heads, and I hesitate before stomping on those fantasies, but I’m positive that none of these rats could make little rat-sized omelets or render a horrendous sweetbread recipe edible.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like the real rebels we are, we passed the wine back and forth, despite the so-called police disapproval of open bottles in public spaces. We even put on nonchalant, very French faces as we were approached by three </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">flics</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> making their nightly rounds. The open Bordeaux sat on the ground in between us, and as the three cops sauntered by, we nodded, chimed “Bonsoir!” and smiled, my leg slowly moving to cover the wine.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we sat together, sharing the brie and the Milanos, my hands going numb from the cold, the clock struck 8 p.m. and the Eiffel Tower burst into life, glittering as it does every hour of every night. Despite the regularity of this routine, it never fails to evoke a reaction from the milling crowd beneath the pillars or the starry-eyed tourists strolling along the paths of the Champ de Mars; it’s almost a shock every time the sparkling begins, as if you weren’t </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">really </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sure it was going to happen after all. Everyone claps and whistles and screams like it’s a sign that yes, the world will indeed continue to turn and yes, Santa Claus DOES exist and that yes, this contraption of metal and lights and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hauteur</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> will continue to blow minds for years to come.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we lapsed into silence and watched the shimmering Tower for a minute or two, I turned my head and caught a rat crouched a few feet behind our bench. Maybe he was waiting for us to drop some baguette, or waiting to pounce and infect all of us with a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">28 Days Later-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">esque </span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">strain of rabies, but for a second, it almost seemed like he was watching the twinkling lights like the rest of the crowd.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; "><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, alright, perhaps mini-gourmet chef rats exist. It is Paris after all.</span></span></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-11468418651213471242010-11-16T16:39:00.005-05:002010-11-16T17:16:15.670-05:00Puttin' on the Ritz<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ4zqEIuWmOjKSOY5KWVlPFa0p6OLb1Es6Pck6rvVdnTUs6PdS5DYrB2nzWCX0TFsXKzXjTu1FyOtzn7Ki3S3CcgharNhZyJbDe0crn4sp1BB0uKNB1P0TbHcnsQGJFR7lE-Pa6MeyXU/s1600/idees-restaurant-paris-moins-25-euros.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZ4zqEIuWmOjKSOY5KWVlPFa0p6OLb1Es6Pck6rvVdnTUs6PdS5DYrB2nzWCX0TFsXKzXjTu1FyOtzn7Ki3S3CcgharNhZyJbDe0crn4sp1BB0uKNB1P0TbHcnsQGJFR7lE-Pa6MeyXU/s320/idees-restaurant-paris-moins-25-euros.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540274838258861202" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">As many of you know, the French Lunch, clearly deserving of two capital letters and internationally famous for its leisurely pace, is nothing to sneeze at. It is something that is at once beautiful to withhold, precariously difficult to execute correctly, and entirely worth working all day long for.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">On most days, Jess (of the aforementioned </span></span><a href="http://ballsinyourcoffee.blogspot.com/2010/11/this-one-takes-spacecake.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Spacecake</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> experience) and I take an hour and a half or so and pick a petit bistro, eat like sloths—whilst dreading the return to the American “oh, no thanks I’ll just eat this granola bar at my desk” lunch break—and then waddle contentedly back down the street to the office. However, every once in awhile, the evil twin of the French Lunch, the French Franprix Run, rears its ugly head with mixed results.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Franprix, a Safeway or Shaws-esque type grocery chain, is home to a sad and convenient array of culinary mockeries. Comté cheese that squishes between your fingers (wrong, I tell you!) and prepacked cold chicken salad dare desperate lunchers to waste a few euros rather than die of starvation from the shelves. At most, one expects fluorescent lighting, antsy checkers, and cheap wine from any Franprix worth its salt.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I’ve never been exceptionally skilled at packing a lunch and toting it to work, so when Jess had some work to finish up at the office a few days ago and our midday date was canceled, I made a French Franprix Run (poor decisions are always influenced by lack of breakfast) to avoid eating my keyboard at my desk.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Twenty minutes later, I emerged with a small box of Ritz crackers, an overpriced carton of raspberries, and a bunch of bananas. Clearly the Nutrition Fairy didn’t make an influential stop at my childhood. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Despite this haggard sounding meal, my growling stomach had decided to settle for it. I trotted back to the office, and was immediately faced with my two colleagues, back from their lunches, sitting at their desks across from mine, silently working away in that determined French way of theirs. It was this moment that I realized just how loud the Ritz crackers in my hand were about to become.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">After attempting to open the package as quickly and soundlessly as I could (obviously failing), I bit down on a Ritz. I think I can say, in good faith, that I have never eaten anything louder in my life. So, doing what many people faced with a deathly quiet room and particularly crunchy food items do, I stopped chewing and self-consciously let the cracker get soggy and silent and chewed as noiselessly as I could. Compounded with my overwhelming hunger, I had no choice.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Now, of course, we all think we are being incredibly sly when we do this. The reality is, unfortunately, that it is very obvious to everyone around you that you are trying to avoid an uncomfortable chewing situation by holding your food in your mouth like a squirrel stopped in the middle of the road, hoping not to be seen. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">This means it took me about 3 hours to eat approximately 5.5 standard-sized Ritz crackers. Not only that, the overpriced raspberries were covered in mold and the bananas, upon reaching my desk, inhaled deeply and ripened suddenly to a depressing brown and spotty state. My lovely coworkers managed not to comment on my seemingly bizarre eating habits, and most likely created a pool to see how many I got down before I bolted out the door at six o’clock and stood outside, eating whole crackers and crunching like a maniac. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I have learned my lesson. In the afternoons since then, Jess and I have taken refuge under the downy wing of the French Lunch, and I hereby promise to reserve the French Franprix Run for the apocalypse. And maybe cheap wine. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="Times New Roman"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US" style="Times New Roman"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-79387097606181044362010-11-08T08:09:00.007-05:002010-11-08T16:12:45.387-05:00No never means yes, except in France<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TKNIIzUdNyPq2a_BWDclX8uxH1rUGMRP5yuu01Jm4aPxFmbY_3EtRxfqYuNvuZVm0vfjtdiiK0eCe0kd9ezvdhGAyrRGo0btopJ-N65JbA3npEZIa4ueljyLI1m1ajpbuMxbQMc6qF8/s1600/autumnleaves15.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TKNIIzUdNyPq2a_BWDclX8uxH1rUGMRP5yuu01Jm4aPxFmbY_3EtRxfqYuNvuZVm0vfjtdiiK0eCe0kd9ezvdhGAyrRGo0btopJ-N65JbA3npEZIa4ueljyLI1m1ajpbuMxbQMc6qF8/s320/autumnleaves15.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537165730207825474" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, that was quick. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Crisp, smoky Paris with all its red and yellow leaves artistically scattered on the sidewalks has given way to rainy, chilly Paris, with the aforementioned leaves now acting as sludgy, hazardous land-mines waiting to clump on the bottom of your shoe and send you, flailing and awkwardly trying to right yourself, skidding to the ground in a very un-French manner.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This all means that flopping out of bed on any given morning to join the cramped Metro commuters journey into the real world is doubly as difficult, that lunch breaks are longer and cozier and that piping hot café crèmes are numerous throughout the day. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My umbrella—a flimsy, three euro contraption that would probably constantly break down in asthma attacks if it could breathe and backs down from a fight with a big bad rainstorm quicker than a schoolyard wimp faced with the 160 pound bully looking for lunch money—is not helping. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After powering through the first week of November in the Parisian workforce, I’ve learned two important things: First and most useful, the three no’s, one yes rule. Second, smoking can improve your life. Also, always say yes to coffee. So, three important things. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Really, the only thing you need to know about the smoking thing is that it buys you a break every 10 minutes, approximately. Take a phone call, take a smoke break. Write a paragraph, take a smoke break. I can’t help but be envious as I watch them effortlessly roll their cigs with one hand and stand outside, quietly pondering their next move.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, in a warped, slightly manipulative sense of politeness, the French have an unspoken rule regarding the acceptance of small things; a coffee, a cookie, anything that in a normal red-blooded American setting would be wolfed down without a second thought. In following with this custom, the French usually refuse about three times, before giving in and accepting whatever it is you’re offering.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve heard it said that the American willingness to say yes upon the first round of this game is often shocking to our baguette-wielding allies. This has been in the back of my head for quite some time now, and naturally, my first week of interaction with my coworkers proved that even if I’m prepared for these rules, I will still trip over my feet and metaphorically make an ass of myself, wet-leaves-on-shoe style. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Case file #1</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">: I return from my lunch break with a packet of Fig Newton-style cookies. Looking to be friendly and non-piggish, I cheerily offer them to my colleagues. Translated accurately, of course, with my language barriers intact.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: “Anyone want fig cookie?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworker1: “Oh no, no, that’s okay, thanks.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworker2: “I’m good, thanks though!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Here I remember the rule and think with a Yoda-style intuition, “Aaaahh yes, lying they are. Cookies they want…”)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: “You sure? (shake of the cookie package) Big deal it’s not. I can’t eat all!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworker1: “No, no, I couldn’t.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworker2: “I just ate, really.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: "It's not serious. I have lots."</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworker1: (hesitant) "Well....no, no."</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: (third time’s the charm) “Have cookie…”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Coworkers1 and 2: “We’d love one!!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Honestly. Same situation, in an American office:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Anyone want a cookie?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Cookies? Oh </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hell</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> yes.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">End of story. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-65157684900930552032010-11-01T12:40:00.004-04:002010-11-01T12:52:42.315-04:00This one takes the Spacecake<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 24px; font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am now about mid-way through my stay in the City of Lights, and while everything has of course been magnificent and enchanting and eye opening, it has also been…expensive. So, in lieu of dining out every few nights or attempting to be creatively gourmet in my small dorm room with its shabby communal kitchen, there’s been a lot of yogurt with muesli. And pasta. Loads of pasta. So much pasta that I might have to abstain from it for a few months upon my return.</span></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This means that I’m pathetically short on any entertaining dining-with-the-Frenchies stories. All I’ve got is me, often in sweats, standing over the stove watching a) my water boil, or b) my instant falafel mix slowly cook. This one is usually followed by me packing up the falafel to take back the room and mindlessly dumping hot oil into the sink, scaring the crap out of anyone in the kitchen and guaranteeing tiny oil burns on my hands. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Part of the reason my wallet is currently feuding with me however, is a very good reason. Its name is Amsterdam. And we recently spent four lovely, lovely days and three hazy nights together. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yes, yes, Amsterdam. Land of weed and hookers and waffles and happy Dutch people with clogs and bikes. We’d all be fooling ourselves if I said we paid good money for a three hour train ride with no intention of sampling the famous local ganja. Consider it our out-of-country way of supporting the legalization of Mary Jane in good ol’ California. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, being a recent college grad, I may have had a few magical brownies in my time. So when the five of us waltzed up to a tiny coffee shop near the Red Light District, where we had been sent by a friendly waitress for the best edibles in the city, I was feeling confident of my ability to handle myself.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fast forward a few hours, and I am face down in my hot chocolate. Whipped cream has just spurted out of my nose and I can’t move I’m laughing so hard. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let’s back up.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We landed ourselves a table at The Speakeasy, tucked in between a restaurant and a sex shop, right alongside the canal. One of the girls, Jess, approached the guy behind the bar, intent on buying us four slices of this so-called Spacecake business we'd heard so much about, wolfing it, and heading back out into the rain-slicked streets for some sight-seeing. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After asking for four slices, a look of pure incredulity set into this guys face. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Four??” he asked, holding up four fingers and looking past Jess to make sure he had understood these crazy-eyed Americans correctly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yes?” Jess replied, confused.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Four.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yes.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“No. Three.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This lovely man soon explained that we were nuts for thinking we could handle that much Spacecake. Because there were five of us, he sold us three slices of something that looked like my mother’s zucchini bread and a little slip of paper with instructions. We were only to take a fifth at a time, separated by 45 minutes, then 2 hours and then 3 hours. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We nonchalantly accepted his instructions and divided the first little slice into fifths with my i.d. card. No biggie. It tasted like a dry piece of cake, nothing very sweet or weed-y. We hopped off our stools and sailed off into the streets.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first 45 minutes passed pretty innocuously. None of us felt particularly stoned, and the hour of the second piece came quickly. The second little fifth tasted like I had just bit into a marijuana plant. During this period of a few hours, we proceeded to take a large handful of pictures (that none of us really recall taking) and bought obscene amounts of waffles—frosted and otherwise. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here's a picture I don't remember taking. That guy knows what we've been into.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFAnPj5cEPyirfk_y4LzOTkQdy5v6M0WUbd0mOnXOt1Qto-zZ32lNKDUs9rWIC-NtxCtS05kbZm8l-7M_w9S3BpJ5WVFig1FcTTrpj4OYdd9vNuOCRAEPXbRqemUwSJtgtvUgwWnnwAg/s320/37920_489791388486_766363486_7016849_6525751_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534623986906081218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We also saw a double rainbow. I am near positive that we were the picture of non-smoothness, as all five of us stood in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes skyward, gasping and smiling like the glassy-eyed idiots we were.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After the hot chocolate incident that soon followed, the day of the Spacecake ends. All I know is we finished those suckers, for better or worse. And that next time, I will only order one. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-82849254816103645482010-10-04T17:32:00.000-04:002010-10-04T17:36:24.317-04:00Oh pho he didn't<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First of all, let me preface this long-awaited, much overdue entry by saying that I absolutely did not forget about you, loyal readers, wherever you are. I promise. It’s just that, quite honestly, Paris has completely devoured me whole. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a good way, of course, and in the way that Paris usually tends to do, but also in a way that has left me with too many things to tell you. I found myself habitually staring at this poor empty little blog space for about 10 minutes a day, and then running to the nearest </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">boulangerie</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> to seek refuge. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For example, I could have definitely told you about the Algerian restaurant owners who couldn’t get over my Californian roots and spent the entire evening impersonating Arnold Schwarzenegger and asking about the seaside, before inviting us to dance around the restaurant to traditional music once all the rest of the tables had emptied. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I could have further mentioned the fact that food, and the experience surrounding it, is better when you have to work to acquire it in a different language. It usually goes something like this:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What I hear myself saying: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yes, I would like to have the beef bourguignon please, and if you could perhaps bring out another bottle of wine? That would be lovely, yes, thank you. Everything is definitely to our liking, of course! This is the best restaurant we’ve tried in Paris so far!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What I am most likely saying:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yeeeesss, the beef bourguignon good. Wine more? Good, thank you kindly. We like it all! Best Paris food we eat!”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Regardless of the things I should’ve told you, there is one, and only one, night that fits the Balls in Your Coffee litmus test of awkwardness: the night of the doggie bag.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was a dark and stormy night, and a group of six of us girls had braced the gale force winds and torrential Parisian rain in search of…Chinese food. Don’t get me wrong, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">poulet rôti</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> is good any day of the week, but some nights deserve a steaming bowl of sweet and sour soup, broccoli beef or chow mein. This was one of those nights. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After wandering in the dark along a road spotted with signs in Chinese (which surprise, surprise, are </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> all restaurants. Ask the pharmacy owner who watched us huddle around a window searching for a menu), we caved to our growling stomachs and ducked into the first brightly lit and welcoming eatery we saw, which turned out to be a Thai/Vietnamese combo joint. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We took approximately 37 minutes to leaf through the Biblically ginormous menus and place our orders, and settled in, giggling about our American-in-Paris-picturesque adventures to date and eagerly plotting our upcoming weekend. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We ate, we passed plates, the food was delightful, we all made “Oh, now, would you look at this?? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">French</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Chinese food!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> What a riot!” faces, ignoring the fact that American Chinese food as a concept is technically just as far-flung. I was enjoying my pho—a savory broth soup with strips of beef, bean sprouts and thick noodles, topped off with lemon and mint—so much, I decided to pack up half and save it for lunch the next day. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I politely asked our smiley waiter if I could take it </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">à emporter</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, to go</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He gave me a quizzical look, and I half jokingly said, “<i>D</i></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ans une doggie-bag!” </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">giggling at my friend across from me. I had seen a French movie in the previous weeks and heard the term “doggie-bag,” thus it obviously was kosher to use in this setting. I felt very in-the-know. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our table was situated along the edge of the open kitchen, so I casually turned to watch the waiter take my soup to the counter and look at it for a second, a small furrow forming in his brow. Before I knew what he could possibly be doing, he picked up a clear, plastic to-go bag, slipped it over the soup bowl and slopped the remaining pho into the bag before twisting it, tying it off and plunking it down in front of me on the table, wrapped in another plastic grocery bag.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All six of us stared at the sack of lukewarm noodles and bean sprouts sitting in front of me, like one of the fish in the bags you win at the fair, before erupting into laughter and getting up to leave before we attracted too much attention. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And that’s how I wound up wandering the rainy streets of Paris carrying a bag of Vietnamese soup. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-18801871579950322232010-08-20T23:55:00.000-04:002010-08-21T00:47:40.672-04:00Packing and unpacking<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was definitely not my intention to let almost two whole months go by without so much as a measly “overheard in the produce section” post, I promise. It was quite the sweaty, summer blitz at The Shipyard, and almost every shift, something Balls-in-Your-Coffee-worthy would indeed happen to me, or near me, but after every shift I would slump lazily into my couch and promptly fall asleep, forgetting all about it. And then, after a few months of dragging myself out of bed at 4 am and learning to ignore my feeble alarm clock, I found myself packing up my apartment into cardboard boxes snatched from our morning frozen shipments and flying back across the country to California for some much needed R&R.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now that August is finally dovetailing into autumn, there’s something you should know: as of next week, Balls in Your Coffee is going international. For the next few months, I will be digging around in a much, much bigger culinary scene: Paris, baby. I can’t help but snort a little laugh every time I see </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Testicules dans Votre Café</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">–it somehow looks dirtier </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">en français</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, doesn’t it? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve been digging around in my brain for Shipyard yarns this past week, but the looming promise of baguettes, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">coq au vin</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, €3 house wines and never-ending opportunities for me to make an ass out of myself (and become that tiresome foreign shopper I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at and feel sorry for at the same time) has completely dominated my brain space. Because so much of life across the pond is consumed by the art of…well, consuming, I figure most experiences over there are fair game for you to read about here, so I’ve decided to pack you all up in my carry-on and take you along.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So there it is, in front of you. Hopefully now I can sort through my memories of exploding wine boxes, working the sample station and the drama of employee section communication logs that makes an episode of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gossip Girl</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> look tame in comparison. And I promised you a scientific study.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It seems I have my work cut out for me. If only my bags would pack themselves. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-77085080104596988112010-06-28T15:25:00.000-04:002010-06-28T15:31:34.867-04:00A matter of word choice<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From a customer today who was looking to find individual servings of iced tea, but found only our quart and gallon sizes:</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Flustered tea-drinker: "I looked over by the tea and I only saw the big jugs you guys have. That's it? No smaller sizes?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: "Yes. That's it...just the big jugs."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">FTD: "Yeah, I don't really need the big jugs right now."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: "Fair enough. Sorry to disappoint."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-5491875418264618032010-06-23T18:48:00.000-04:002010-06-23T20:14:03.624-04:00Full moons at ten this morning<!--StartFragment--> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Summer has officially settled over Boston with a heavy, muggy, thunderstormy sigh, and while it first inspires five-minute cooling breaks hiding in The Shipyard’s walk-in freezer, it also inspires a carefree sense of warm-weather abandon in the city’s residents. Case in point: early this morning, two tiny, blond-haired, blue-eyed, Dennis the Menace lookalike boys strolled past the front windows of the store with their nannies as I stood at my register. Some classic rock song that makes the rounds at bar mitzvahs and weddings everywhere was playing softly overhead and I absentmindedly bopped along, quietly tapping my fingers and watching the T trundle by while I waited for another customer. Suddenly, I realized that two Dennis the Menace butts were staring right back at me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just yesterday, I watched some teenager plant ubiquitous flowers around each of the trees near our store, sweating furiously as he planted those damn pansies in earnest for his seven bucks an hour. Today, I was watching two little boys pee all over them. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The nannies were surreptitiously glancing up and down the street like that camper who just spread a layer of toothpaste all over the camp toilet seats, and I realized that </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">they</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> were the ones who had suggested this venue for the boys to take a leak. Cars were whizzing by, pedestrians were maneuvering around them, and the whole bizarre thing seemed to last for an eternity. </span></span></span></p><p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fast forward about a billion minutes, and I’m helping two pruny and fuzzy sweater-wrapped (in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">heat!) grandmothers use the credit card touch screen while I bag slimy packets of smoked salmon and almond biscotti. They’re giggling away and chattering to each other, completely oblivious to this display in the window, ten feet to their right. Out of the corner of my eye, I note that the boys have now hiked up their mini cargo pants and the group has strolled right into the store. Clearly our bathroom ambiance doesn’t hold a candle to the great outdoors. I’m still hoping it was some kind of political statement about city maintenance in the not-so-humble suburb where The Shipyard makes its home. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Housekeeping: All you folks out there who are jonesin’ for a good scientific study on this site, to elevate this collection of tales to a medical/world-saving/most prestigious of the prestigious research journal level, your time has come. I will soon be unveiling an analysis of—wait for it—the categories of shopper, distinguished by their behavior at the register. (A very highfalutin' study paid for by your tax dollars and insistance on organic brown rice bread, naturally.) Are you a self-bagger? God, Allah and Chuck Norris bless you, I should give you all the Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons I just received in the mail. Daydreamer? Fine, I sympathize, but please wake the hell up for two minutes and press "no" for cash-back. If, however, you like watching your 32,437 items pile into an amusing likeness of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and then adore following my every movement with a bemused twinkle in your eye as I bag every last bit of it, you may not want to tune in next week. </span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-23348404200059896132010-05-24T22:15:00.000-04:002010-05-24T22:25:35.656-04:00Show me the money!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Big news, people. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Martini Shaker, home to so many shameful evenings and questionable ethics, has been sold. After a good year or so of sliding down the cliff side of bankruptcy and poor management, the venue has folded its hand and given in. It means a new name, a new menu, a new look—but most importantly, it means that all the dirty little secrets that went unpublished thus far (for fear of the health inspector or the Boston Police Department coming down on our heads) are fair game. We shall begin our trip down memory lane with a classic relic of full-scale disgrace in the Martini’s recent history: Halloween 2009.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The evening began innocuously enough. Alice and I showed up early to help tape the tacky Bacardi-sponsored decorations to walls and mirrors and begrudgingly shove ourselves into our mandatory costumes, the DJ arrived with his equipment, and all the dining room tables were whisked away to any spare space in the building. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We opened the doors, the usual refuse poured in decked out in his-and-hers costumes and skanked out variations on anything and everything, tossing the twenty-dollar covers at us faster than we could slap on wristbands. For five straight hours we saw nothing but the occasional bad dance move as we looked up from taking cash, counting it, and handing off wads of it to a manager when the feeble moneybox started to overflow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the end of the night drew near, the crowd thinned and my makeshift coat-hanger-wrapped-in-saran-wrap fairy wings were beginning to seriously pinch my shoulder blades. Last call came and went, and I stayed, helping clean up as I sipped a monster rum and coke from the bar. I left with the rest of the staff around 2 am, and we competed on the crowded downtown street for cabs—an impressive feat on that particular night of the year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It wasn’t until the next morning when, nursing a rum and coke headache and lying in bed, that my phone buzzed on the nightstand and it became the most momentous Halloween of them all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was Alice, working the brunch shift. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After we had all left for the night, the post-Halloween dawn breaking and my body glitter glinting off of all of my clothes, we had been robbed. Not just angry-employee-siphoning-off-funds robbed, but good, old-fashioned, held at gunpoint robbed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The story came together in bits and pieces, but here was the general gist we managed to cobble together: Jared, a manager at the time, had been downstairs in the office counting the nights money and locking it away in the safe at around 3:30 or 4 am. Suddenly, a man in fatigues and a ski mask burst into the room (through the locked doors upstairs, and the door to the basement that is supposed to be locked, and the actual door to the office) and demanded that Jared hand over the dough. The way it was told, the masked gunman was quite the sweetheart, apologizing and shaking during the entire encounter, and only tied Jared up for good measure before bounding into the night. Oh, that is, after he disabled our security camera system. Undoubtedly a straight-A student in burglary school. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, this was all well and good as it spread like wildfire along the Martini grapevine, and tales of the ligature marks on Jared’s wrists and his two-week vacation soon after were all accepted with nary a whisper of doubt. The original sum the staff understood to be stolen—after harassing the other managers nonstop for information—was a petty $1,600. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The truth? Try adding another zero. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the elaborate robbery began to make some sense. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Weeks passed and no progress was made on the case. Jared began spontaneously offering a clean-cut version of the story without being prompted, and soon the familiar Martini theories began to emerge. Wouldn’t it make sense for our penny-pinching owner Jack </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bugiardini to orchestrate the robbery, allowing him to take a profit under the table while insurance paid for the theft? Wouldn’t involving Jared, a single father with bills to pay and a financially colorful past be a simple way to up the authenticity?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Why yes, yes it would. Even stranger was Bugiardini's uncharacteristically stoic response to the robbery. </span></span></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s likely that we’ll never know whether or not Jack Bugiardini managed to rob his own establishment that night, with the help of someone on the payroll. But for those of us who have seen enough </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">CSI </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">reruns to guess that the ligature marks on Jared’s wrists were in the right spot to be self-inflicted, it set the Martini soaring to new heights of sleazy.</span></span></o:p></span></p> <p style="line-height:150%;background:white"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And that, as Sherlock Holmes once mused, was the curious incident of All Hallows Eve 2009. Or something like that. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-33900681119129648692010-05-16T09:01:00.000-04:002010-05-16T09:06:16.913-04:00Persian cucumbers or bust<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My first month or so at The Shipyard now behind me, there are a few things I have learned.</span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Working the early morning shift means two things, primarily: I never, ever will have time to down a cup of coffee before sprinting to catch the bus at 5:45am. Second, the customers who arrive promptly when the store opens are, for the most part, on the ripe side of 60 and tend to pay in exact change that’s plucked from a tired looking Ziploc baggie. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They are also the decorated veterans of grocery shopping. They know what they’re looking for, how they would like their things bagged (“in a plastic bag, inside of a paper, and then inside of this reusable one I brought please.”) and they know that you will never completely understand what they mean. “I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">know </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this cereal is here,” one woman told me, a determined and flustered cloud settling over her head. “I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">always </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">get it here.”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, this is probably true. She looks like she has her wits about her, and her nails are long and pink and sharp looking. Her earrings tell me she has money, and people with money are always right when it comes to things like cereal, right? This is when we smile and nod and offer to check in the back to see if the item is </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">temporarily out of stock</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Magic words, people. Now, I’m not insinuating that I want the search for a specific kind of cereal to be unsuccessful, not at all. However, I’ve found that helping people in this setting gives you about .003 seconds to determine if the customer is going to be difficult. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The other day I was working in the produce section, unloading cartons of strawberries onto the shelf, when a confused looking elderly gentleman approached me. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“The smaller cucumbers,” he says. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I give him my best quizzical customer service eyebrows and put down the box of strawberries. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“They are…smaller. Than these.” He points disgustedly at the normal sized cucumbers nestled innocently next to the broccoli and zucchini. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, the Persian cucumbers?” I ask. “They should be right over…” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I turn to where these lovely varietals usually sit, and find nothing. “You know what? It looks like we might be out of them for today,” I tell him. “But we might have some more coming out. Would you like me to check in the back?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He says nothing, just stares for a second. He turns and walks away. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Aaand that’s a no,” I mutter as I return to my strawberries. Chef, a coworker next to me putting up another box, snorts out a laugh and we went back to work. No more than five minutes later, the gentleman was escorted back to us by another coworker, who informed us he was looking for Persian cucumbers. Apparently the man had taken it upon himself to search the back stockroom himself for this salad staple and had been promptly redirected back onto the floor. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">By this point, Chef had a box of standard cucumbers in front of him, and was stacking them a few at a time. The man hovered over his shoulder for a second, huffing a few open-mouthed breaths, then, seeing the cucumber he wanted in Chef’s box, reached down over him and snapped it from the pile. He tossed the cucumber in his basket and shuffled away. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, to be clear, I love the customers who come through the Shipyard. But this is mostly standard behavior, it seems, and to be expected if you’re putting up something like a box of new green bananas. People expect the very best produce, and will sniff it out faster than sharks in blood-infested waters. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When it comes to feeding ourselves, we take no prisoners. And absolutely nothing is going to prevent us from finding that cereal that we <i>know</i> is there. <i>Nothing</i>, you hear me?</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-76573204571233986352010-04-14T22:33:00.000-04:002010-04-14T22:44:38.501-04:00Ch-ch-ch-changes<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, readers, wherever you are, I have some news. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After countless weekend evenings moving amongst the city’s scuzziest cocktail-swirling bar frequenters and serenading them with the same top 40s mix every night past ten o'clock, I have left the Martini for another sector of the food industry: a very well-respected and groovy grocery outlet. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, I know some of you may see this as an interesting move, considering the positively overflowing wealth of story material that presented itself during each shift at the Martini. Don’t get me wrong: I do miss the dysfunction dearly. Probably too much. But, every writer needs a new muse every now and again, and it seems it was time for me to get my ass kicked by hauling around boxes of bananas instead of chirping into the phone like a Chihuahua and assuring the guy on the other end that yes, there is a dress code. Sneakers are ok to wear. No, baseball hats are not. Yes, we have valet parking. No, I cannot stash your gym bag, suitcase, jacket or laptop behind the host stand. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Restaurants are very good at revealing very specific aspects of a person, or a family. Who we are when we eat out is a distinct version of ourselves, and it plays off whatever mood our meal companions happen to set. Diners, perhaps unrealistically, often expect a private experience in a public place. “We’d like a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">private</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> booth so we can talk,” a grabby and slobbering couple will beam at us hostesses, but everyone knows that eating out is, in effect, a performance. Some are better at it than others—the grumpy older man who can’t read his menu because the lights are too dim and probably wishes he was home instead comes to mind—but we’re all aware of it, subconsciously or not. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, watching grocery shoppers up close is something very different indeed. Already into my second week (with…for our purposes, I’ll call it The Shipyard), I’ve noticed a radically different affect among the customers. When we shop for ourselves, we’re preparing for an extremely private experience: a dinner at home. Our decision-making process is honed, specific, written down on slips of paper. We’re mostly reluctant to stand out. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What that means for me here at Balls in Your Coffee is a new set of lifestyles to accommodate—no longer the young banker wanting to get as plastered as possible as quick as possible, but more eco-conscious twenty-somethings with ear gauges, energetic screaming children, stubborn elderly Russian women in colorful scarves, and bright-eyed couples playing house by going domestic and buying bagged arugula and french bread together.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And there are neon mesh shopping-cart-collecting vests. Oh yes.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let the games begin.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-77792061744810483902010-04-14T21:41:00.000-04:002010-04-14T21:50:09.503-04:00Customers say the darndest things<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">“Our party consists of three elderly people with limited mobility. One of them cannot eat garlic and has a server allergy.”—recent OpenTable reservation note. </span></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Server allergy</i> (noun): a sweeping pandemic affecting a subset of diners that often accompanies an economic depression or self-entitled douchebag-ism. Common reactions include sneezing, watery and itchy eyes, headaches, bad tipping, dissatisfaction with anything coming from the kitchen, lack of patience, a dangerous disdain for those handling your food, and stuffy, awkward dinner conversation, making it impossible for a server to interject or announce their presence. </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-57528832393066926252010-03-14T23:12:00.000-04:002010-03-14T23:29:46.675-04:00Of storms, slow days and nights and Sports Center<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Goodness, it’s been a long time, and I apologize. To be completely honest, my time at The Martini these past few weeks has left me so drained that the thought of typing out anything remotely concerning the place activated my gag reflex quicker than the dead mouse smell that briefly wafted around the upstairs bar last night.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Granted, mine is not the most battered soul currently employed by The Martini, by any means. My job as hostess is relatively easy; not only do I get paid to watch mind-numbing ESPN Sports Center by the hour, all the customers with bad attitudes only occupy my attention for 3 minutes, max. I don’t have to tip anyone out and walk with less money than I came in with. But lord, let me tell you, staring at the front door and shifting my weight from foot to foot every 10 minutes praying that something will happen or a customer will at least walk in is </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">torture</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. On a night shift earlier this week, I finished an entire book, start to finish. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Business has not been good for us lately. Whether it’s the weather (which never seems to affect the restaurants around us) or the economy, a curse has befallen the eatery. I’m not sure it can even be attributed to plain old karma anymore. While working a double yesterday, one plagued by chilly and torrential rain, we entertained a mild rush around lunchtime, then watched the place clear out for hours. I watched the door, chimed “Stay dry!” cheerfully at each customer as they left, and perused the Open Table website, making a mental list of possible new employers. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Around 4 pm or so, the evening shift servers began to arrive, all damp from the rain and looking flustered. Tom walked in, umbrella-less and soaked to the skin. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“You know there’s a pile of vomit outside, right?” he told the manager as he passed the host stand. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The daytime manager, a petite Brazilian woman who once shrieked at a to-go container with a few sugar packets in it when she was told it was an entrapped mouse, dashed to the doors to peek outside and investigate. There it was. No wonder no one was coming in. Moments later, she had a busboy dumping a bucket of water over the vomit, encouraging it to find its way to the gutter. I could not for the life of me remember anyone having too many brunch cocktails and staggering out to puke in our doorway. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The evening progressed without much fanfare, although the storm provided a small amount of amusement. We watched as hapless umbrellas whipped around in the gusts of wind, getting caught in tree branches and leaving their owners looking both amused and embarrassed as they fought to right the flimsy wire spindles in the sheets of rain.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While I'd like to tell you a witty story about some customer who made an outrageous scene and was thrown out by the bouncers, or who fell asleep in the bathroom, that would mean that customers would have to be in the restaurant. And this, hopeful readers, was just not the week for it. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But! Fret not! For this upcoming week is Restaurant Week, The Holy Grail of all server's nightmares. For one week, we shall offer meals at a flat price all over the city, encouraging diners to try new things and widen their horizons. Restaurant Week brings out the best in everybody, and I will be taking notes.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-807833890362216711.post-48013495950543703032010-01-31T13:05:00.000-05:002010-01-31T13:09:29.963-05:00The not-quite-so-Biblical flood<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This past Saturday, I braced the wind as I exited the T station, about to finish another weekend shift, complete with all of our type-A customers and their culinary needs. As I made to cross the street, flashing red lights down the street ahead of me caught my eye. Two fire trucks were double parked in front of a restaurant, and it looked very possible that the restaurant was The Martini. Could it be? An impromptu night off? I sped up my walk to a near skip and booked it to work.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Times;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Courier New', serif;"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I would be lying if I told you I walked into work with a concerned look on my face, staying out of everyone’s way and asking no questions. I’m pretty sure I was grinning like a kid at their first fireworks show, implicitly understanding that fire trucks at The Martini mean two very awesome things: firemen,</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirYIbqJx7q-etu2vRMz1TS9xZ8_rxFIVvYfNOrlYvW15I-2ky85yu2N24qFqvTVA_Yfl7SSgbNtiuPFr7CosuC8lmEtWLs2hWRT859gbs8xExf5Fd66g2Lc89mAzzP3sLxEdNHN-4AFvE/s320/firemen.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432967064214896914" style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 315px; " /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">...and a great story.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I made a beeline straight for the other hostess, Alice, who I work most of my shifts with. We’ve been employed about the same time, and so we both share a tired disdain of most of the customer antics on display and both enjoy a good-natured but scathing review of the outfits that walk through the door. She too was grinning as she held the phone to her ear. By the look in her eye I knew this was big.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently, at around 4:15 pm, the chef noticed a leak coming from the ceiling above the dishwashing area. The steady drip soon turned into a stream…and then, lo and behold, a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">deluge.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> We’re talking waterfall from the ceiling. And not just a one-and-done deal, oh no. Dinner reservation for a one El Nino, 5 pm. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The building manager for the condos and apartments above the restaurant soon appeared and we learned we were just one eatery in a handful that was having “issues” on the biggest sales night of the week. In a Bruce Willis movie turn of events, the icy temperatures of late January were bursting frozen pipes and shutting down restaurants all over the city. We were number three on the shit list, right behind two fires. We had no choice but to remain in limbo, waiting. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was pretty clear that not only was half of the kitchen now a probable health hazard, but dinner service was not going to be resuming anytime soon. Alice and I began calling the full book of reservations to inform them of our…misfortune, and the whole staff sat around and fiddled our thumbs for hours while we turned people away. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In an attempt to make some kind of Saturday evening profit, the manager made the call to keep the bars open. We also had six private parties (now appetizer-less parties) crowding the upstairs bar all night. It’s amazing what a glitch like a burst pipe can do to clientele who expect an evening of smooth sailing. The thought of one of us hacking away at a pipe in the ceiling in a last-ditch attempt to have a Saturday night off is of course amusing, but lets be honest folks, not likely. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The rolling eyes and scoffs kept coming all night from the engagement party planners and the birthday party crowd. “Riiiight. The pipe burst all by itself. I paid for mini spanakopitas you assholes.” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It didn’t help matters much when, after a mad dash to the supermarket for cubed cheese and fruit platters, the kitchen was patched up only enough to provide the bare minimum of appetizers. Back the groceries go to the store. The parties, who had been informed of the pipe problem and had gone out for dinner before they settled in at their designated party areas at The Martini, were now faced with appetizers they didn’t know they could have. “Are we paying for this?? I thought you said…” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The hour or two of mild adrenaline had left the staff a bit weary and the demands of the blissfully unaware customers bounced off of most of us like 3rd</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> grade spitballs. Our newest manager, who in her first weeks has witnessed some of The Martini’s finer charms in quick succession, summed it up best around 9 pm, when the excitement had died down.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“My god. What </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">is </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this place??” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Courier New', serif;"></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0