July 28, 2004
Frisson
Bruce is one of the most expert waiters in San Francisco. He knows how to lay a 12-piece place setting, then clear it and re-set it for dessert before the guests have even noticed. He owns a gorgeous pearl-handled wine bottle opener which he carries to work as his professional tool. His resumé could get him a job, no questions asked, at any of the top restaurants here or in Manhattan or London. I'm very proud of Bruce!
Formerly at Elisabeth Daniel, he's been on haitus for six months while the restaurant relocated and morphed into Frisson. All week long, Bruce and three other master waiters are training the less experienced wait staff, explaining that rau ram is Vietnamese corriander and that the person you are serving should only see the inside of your arm, never the outside.
Even Bruce, seasoned by 20 years in the fanciest restaurants, is impressed by this new place. He says the interior is even more gorgeous than the Web site shows it to be. Every item on the menu is an exquisite plate of paradise, right down to the grilled cheese sandwich with "mountain gruyere" cheese. There's a dome that changes colors, a state-of-the art sound system and DJ booth that will host the top DJs from all over the US and Europe, a private courtyard for smoking and socializing, a glassed-in kitchen that opens directly onto the chef's table, a downstairs banquet room with a video screen and separate kitchen, a lounge that stays open until 3am, a unisex bathroom whose stall doors each have a little red light to indicate "occupied", and champagne bubbles projected onto the walls.
And that's hardly the half of it. It's already booked through October and is expected to become a cosmopolitan destination for international jet-setters. It'll make up its several-million-dollar budget overrun in one year.
It's very fun to have a peephole into the world of preposterously pricey, ultra-posh dining. Bruce makes it sound like a beautiful, mouth-watering dream. Truffles, caviar, exotic cheeses, delicate desserts—everything the cream of the crop, perfectly fresh, and graciously served. I intend to partake of a long period of foreplay during which I'll browse the menu and plead, "Tell me again about the Yellowtail Tartare, Bruce!" before I finally put on a hot outfit and a pair of eff-me shoes for a consummatory dinner.
This Tuesday, Frisson will quietly open. About a month later, the critics will be invited and an expensive advertising campaign will be launched. It'll be an appalling frenzy of conspicuous consumption and pretentious poseuring. But I suspect I'll be going there semi-regularly, if only for an appetizer and a cocktail. The first time I tasted a very fine wine, it was like a sunset in my mouth, and suddenly I understood how people can spend ridiculous amounts of money on gourmet food. Really, what's the point of living in San Francisco if you don't occasionally splash out on some of the famously spectacular food?
Wait. What was I saying, about being broke and enjoying cheap methods of amusement...? Heh.
July 26, 2004
The Cat Update
Thank you to everyone who's expressed their good wishes! I was especially touched when Matt, the dogs' owner, stopped by to check on Sasha and express his regrets. It's great to have nice neighbors, even if their dogs are very, very bad.
The cat is slowly recovering. Four out of five of his rubber drains have been removed, and he's much less leaky and blood-encrusted. He no longer smells like chewed-up cat-meat. At night, he now sleeps on top of the bed instead of under it. His appetite is almost back to normal. He purrs when petted. He can walk without falling over. Last night I removed his head-funnel, and that was the best thing that's happened to him since he got bitten; the tongue-bath that followed was so passionately thorough that I dubbed it The Lickening. All of this is a tremendous improvement over his former state! He'll be himself again in a couple more weeks.
He's not yet strong enough to jump into the bathtub by himself but still refuses to drink water from a bowl. Instead, he lies on the bathmat, waiting for me to give him a boost. After one of his typically long, contemplative drinks, he peeps appreciatively while I lift him back out of the tub.
Later this week, the vet will remove Sasha's stitches and the remaining drain. Then he'll be ready for short, supervised excursions into the garden. Buster will be happy when Sasha finally emerges; he's been camping out on our back stairs, watching the door expectantly.
July 26, 2004
Cheap Thrills
I make good money, but sometimes I'm broke. Right now, I'm broke as a result of having to pay the vet $800 to fix my dog-bitten cat. Being broke used to bother me a lot, but since then, I've developed an appreciation for inexpensive sources of pleasure. These are some cheap materials or activities that can provide hours and hours of enjoyment:
What other low-budget pleasures can you suggest?
July 20, 2004
Dog Bites Cat!
Early this morning, Sasha left my bed. He often enjoys a romp in the garden before breakfast. I was still sleeping when the phone began to ring. I grabbed a bathrobe and gurgled deliriously, "Heghlo?"
It was Bruce. "Uhm, is Sasha with you?"
"No...." The pause that followed was terrifying.
"There's an injured cat in the neighbor's yard and we think it may be him."
Our neighbor, Matt, was on his deck when I came outside, pointing to a corner of his yard, the yard where his two medium-sized dogs run around and make hungry eyes at the neighboring cats. I couldn't see into the corner, but calling Sasha's name drew a woeful reply.
Bruce and I walked around the corner and were admitted to the yard through a side gate. Sasha was huddled in the corner, filthy and bloody. Seeing me, he attempted to stand but merely wobbled, fell over, and wailed. Shit. Carefully, I slid my hands underneath him, rolled him into my arms, and carried him home. The large puncture wounds on his limbs said he'd tempted those dogs one too many times, and this time, they'd caught him before he could climb the fence. My cat is a ten-year-old tubby, not as agile as he used to be.
I made an appointment with the vet, put the unhappy cat in the tub, sponged him off as well as he would allow, then did my best to make him comfortable while I got dressed. His breathing was shallow and he could barely walk a few steps before collapsing. Bruce helpfully offered to drive us to the vet.
The vet kept Sasha all day, anesthetizing him, taking x-rays, administering fluids, shaving and cleaning his wounds, and installing drains and sutures. She also monitored his breathing; there was a bruise near one of his lungs. But no organ damage or broken bones—lucky kitty! Bruce and I occupied ourselves as well as we could before finally collecting the patient at the end of the day.
For a mere $800, I now have a shredded, swollen, seeping, doped-up, funnel-headed friend. A little more than that, in fact, because I couldn't resist buying him a couple of get-well gifts from the neighborhood pet shop: some salmon treats and a bit of voodoo in the form of a dog-shaped catnip toy. He's not ready for either of those, though; painkillers and exhaustion have rendered him limp.
Curiously, this is the second time in Sasha's life that he's had little rubber drains installed under his velvety pink skin.
July 19, 2004
Big Duck Lake
Erin's dad, Lowell, has a goal: to see every lake in the Marble Mountains and the Russian Wilderness before he dies. That's over 100 lakes! I'm not sure how many lakes he's seen so far. In the few years that I've been included in the annual Mason father-daughter backpacking trip, we've seen Paynes Lake, Taylor Lake, Hancock Lake, and this year, Big Duck Lake. This lake is remarkably clear, delightful to swim in, and situated in a stark white marble cirque. We only had to share it with one other party. The first night, we heard them shouting incoherently. Later, they explained that they were trying to warn us that they had spotted a cougar in the dark.
One of our traditions is to read aloud to each other around the campfire. Here's what we read this year:
Even in the United States, there are still men who can live naked and tool-less in the woods and can tell by your footprint whether your stomach is empty or full.
The grass is always greener....
It's fun to read epic poetry in the majestic wilderness.
We all agreed that this trip was too short—only a day and a half at the lake itself. Even though my calves are tied in knots from this moderately steep, five-mile hike, I'm eager to do it again. Fortunately, Erin and I have planned another trip for two weeks from now!
July 14, 2004
Foods of The Future
Our backpacking trip to Klamath starts tomorrow. Though we're collaborating on all other meals, we're each responsible for our own lunches. The sophistication of our lunches depends on the length of the trip. For a long trip, lunch is very spare. For a relatively short trip like this one, we can afford to carry more elaborate lunches. Once we're out in the backcountry, we enjoy comparing lunches. Extra points go to anyone who brings a backpacking-compatible gourmet item, like a hunk of aged goat cheese or a handful of exotic dates.
I went shopping for lunch foods at Safeway tonight, and consequently my lunches are fairly plebeian. But shopping for camping food was particularly fun today due to the fact that the squeeze format, once only for Otter Pops, has finally taken hold. So many things come in soft tubes now! I got peanut butter in tubes and pudding in tubes, known in the packaging industry by the appetizing term "aseptic stick packs". They're designed for schoolchildren's sack lunches, but are also handy for outdoorspeople and military troops. Now I can squeeze my favorite food-goo directly into my mouth with only a sliver of plastic as waste!
My other new favorite space-food is the meat pouch. At last, an unrefrigerated meat that isn't jerky! Space foodsure is making might inroads into the supermarkets. I notice, however, that we're still stuck with aerosol cheese if we want a cheese-like experience that requires no refrigeration. I sure wish that space-packaging could be applied to stuff like cheddar or jack cheese. I haven't decided yet whether I can stoop to eating cheez-in-a-kan.
July 11, 2004
Bike Pals!
My pal Ert recently got a new apartment near mine—and a bicycle! Finally I have a pal who will bike around with me! I'm fairly certain we were adorable today, pedalling down Church Street together in the Sunday summer sunshine, in skirts and bare legs, with bulbous dork-helmets on our dainty heads.
When I'm riding by myself (which is almost always), I don't notice how hard I push myself to keep up with the traffic. I also take lots of risks, having spent six years getting used to the potential for gruesome injury or death. I always arrive at my destination sweaty, flushed, and breathless. I think it's because I was taught never to inconvenience anyone, so I'm reluctant to be the slowpoke who makes everyone wait for her granny ass. I overtake lots of other bikers, though I'm just as often overtaken myself, by stronger riders with faster bikes. The messengers, of course, smoke me every time.
Biking with other people is always a more leisurely ride, particularly with less experienced riders whom I don't want to terrify. Instead of gunning for a high-adrenalin workout, I can simply let the pedals turn lazily while my friend and I enjoy a chat. When Ert and I arrived at the movie theater at the foot of Market Street, I hadn't even broken a sweat. It could be like that every day if I didn't have such a fire under my ass to pedal harder.
July 9, 2004
Cat Trust
My cat has a semi-feral friend, Buster, who is usually fed by our downstairs neighbor, Bruce. Buster has learned that I'll sometimes provide a back-up source of food. In the almost-year that I've lived in this building, I've been very careful never to make a move toward Buster. He must have been an abused or neglected kitten; he rarely lets anyone touch him and has never been captured. He flees even when nobody's chasing him.
Bruce must have been sleeping late this morning, because Buster was mewing at my back door when I got up to feed Sasha. Usually, I simply deposit a small pile of cat food on the threshold and step back. This time, I gently beckoned Buster to enter, something he's done clandestinely many times but never at my invitation. I've caught glimpses of him fleeing the sunroom, leaving a warm indentation on the daybed. Or fleeing my room, leaving Sasha's catnip-infused scratcher mauled in the middle of the floor. Standing in the kitchen, I'd sometimes see him approaching Sasha's bowl in the next room, hoping for leftovers. "Hi, Buster," I'd say, then studiously ignore him to give an appearance of disinterest.
This morning he accepted my invitation to enter, and as he passed, I casually brushed my hand across his side—the first time I've ever managed to touch him. He stopped, looked uncertainly at me, then turned around and exited. I repeated my invitation, he promptly re-accepted, and again I lightly touched his side as he walked past me. Again he stopped and gave me a look, but then proceeded to where Sasha was enjoying his breakfast.
The two sniffed each other's heads all over and briefly shared the bowl before Sasha gave Buster a gentle swat and a "Meh!" Buster retreated to the threshold, and I gave him a small snack to tide him over until Bruce got up.
This makes me proud. One of my favorite things about cats is the challenge of earning and maintaining their trust and respect, things they don't give as readily as dogs do. Each cat makes and enforces its own boundaries, and friendship with the cat requires respecting its boundaries; they cannot be forced. Often, one must wait with tremendous patience for the cat to initiate friendship. The best I could do with Buster was to make no assertive move. I provided a few tokens of good faith in the form of little snacks and a standing invitation to make himself at home. After all, he's my cat's friend. Maybe now he'll be my friend too! Good kitty.
July 6, 2004
Lost and Found
I love finding intimate notes discarded in public places. It's a little depressing, yet fascinating. This is a little 4-inch square canvas piece that someone had propped up on a ledge on the front of our building. A small photograph is pasted in the middle, a scene of a man and a dog on the beach, happy. The whole thing is washed over in orange watercolor paint, and on the paint someone has written with a fountain pen. I did my best to decipher the handwriting:
Maui little beach Trevor eye contact you rescued me from boredom and since then you have been nothing but good to me. I will always appreciate that about you. You are so not selfish and when I think you can do no more you surprise me somehow. I hope to do the same for you. This whole thing is an experiment for me, just like the time I spent with you. I had an idea and then I began to do it. A lot of this is free flow. I had no idea what I was going to write. Just know that you (and Trevor) have a special place in my heart. Merry xmas 2001. May our friendship continue to grow. Always, Kiet.
I suppose that Trevor might be the dog. It's a remarkably thoughtful gift, if a little shoddy and rambling. If it's true that it's the thought that counts, then there's no harm in discarding this gift once the loving thought has done its good work. Still, it's poignant to find such a special gift abandoned on the sidewalk, destined for oblivion. I feel a little sorry for it. I often feel sorry for inanimate objects!
July 4, 2004
Fourth of July
Erin and her dad, Lowell, have a tradition: Every year, they go backpacking in Klamath National Forest. Aram and I are privileged to go with them!
We are serious backpackers. We meet a couple of weeks before the trip to plan, shop, and pack. This year's packing meeting was especially mellow: Erin, Aram, and I arrived feeling sleepy from a heavy breakfast at Kate's Kitchen. Erin and I lolled upside-down on the couch for a long while, coaxing blood back into our brains.
Then we were off to REI, by far our favorite part of every trip. Here, we get to spend money on nifty outdoor gear, and we are snobs about it. Three of us own the Gregory Shasta pack, a trend that started the first year I joined the crew and aroused envy in my companions with their cumbersome old external-frame packs. Now, only Aram was still clinging to his old pack, chanting, "I'll just put on lots of moleskin!" His bony back rubs against his pack until it's bloody. The rest of us, now accustomed to the Cadillac of backpacks, find this unacceptable.
We herded Aram into the backpack section of REI and he reluctantly tried on several packs under the supervision of a smooth, blond, tan, young salesman who flirted and repeatedly called Aram by name. The guy knew nothing about the Shasta pack but plenty about backpacking, so Lowell enthusiastically explained its virtues: its versatility, its tidy profile, its adjustability, its large capacity, and its well-padded, ventilated, moisture-wicking comfort.
Meanwhile, I bought two new water bottles to replace ones I'd lost: a large off-brand bottle for around camp (I prefer a sippy bladder during the actual hike), and a small Nalgene for tooling around the City. Finally there are Nalgene knock-offs, much cheaper and lighter than the original! The Nalgene monopoly was becoming intolerable. Nevertheless, the only 16-ounce bottle in stock was the Nalgene; notice that it cost $2.25 more than the 1-liter knock-off.
Back at the house, we were still too groggy to get organized. A swim perked us up! Cold water, noisy splashing, barking dogs, and finally a poolside lunch of potstickers and Manhattans. Refreshed, we began to think that packing might be fun right about now. Our packs are relatively light this year; we'll only be out in the woods for three days. We didn't even bother to weigh our packs. Last year, packing for a six-day trip, we weighed and re-weighed, struggling to pare our loads down to 50 pounds each for the men and 40 pounds each for Erin and I.
I found some Scotch that was left over from last year's trip, and Lowell and I disposed of it, neat. Our packs all trussed up and stacked against the wall, Erin, Aram, and I said goodbye to Lowell and rushed off to catch Spiderman 2 at the new cinemamegaplex in Emeryville. Toby Maguire sure worked out for his role! Day-am. And suddenly I'm aware of Alfred Molina, after seeing him for years in many, many movies.
I watched the last of the fireworks from the BART platform, rode the train home, and fell into bed. Happy Fourth, Americans!
