Last night I dreamed I was hanging out with culinary bad boy Anthony Bourdain. (He has is own blog, but that's not why we were hanging out.) All in all, we had a lovely time, roaming from New York to Santa Cruz to an apartment behind the French Laundry (which had been moved to Santa Cruz). We drove, both of us in the back, Tony simultaneously smoking (he kept coughing-- I asked him if he was going to live) and driving with his back against the steering wheel (I said, "Tony! Who's DRIVING?!" Silly, naive Californian-- apparently all New Yorkers know how to drive without looking.)
We explored city streets. Tony: "You are never going to get across the street in New York if you keep waiting until it's completely safe." (All sorts of implications there.)
Suddenly I realized that I didn't have a home. I said "Tony- I don't even know where I LIVE. I don't know if I have a home. I can't remember. I moved out of my apartment two weeks ago, but I don't remember if I moved into a new one yet. Want to see my old apartment?"
And with that, we were off through the streets of the entire rest of America, to the French Laundry. This time no one drove. (Edited here for propriety.) Tony is the Anti-Keller, but he was comfortable at the Laundry, unintimidated. I went around the back, up the wooden steps to the tiny apartment. On my way, I peeked in the back window of the restaurant's kitchen, where I saw a small asian woman (the sous chef of Le Bernardin in NY) wearing a small white cap and a chef's uniform--except it was completely see-through-- standing on a high ledge barking out orders to the staff. Apparently this was the "expediter"-- the most closely-held secret of the Laundry's success. Aha! Semi-naked expediting, I thought to myself. It all makes sense now.
My old apartment was full of baked goods. I was approached by a staff member dispatched to check me out, and explained my situation, then returned to the restaurant to meet up with my tall, chain-smoking consort. The restaurant was more like a 1900's club inside. All of the women were wearing long, straight dresses. The men were in tuxes. We got the hell out of there.
When I used to do improv, which I did in college for a couple of years, we talked about "leads". It's the point on a body that seems to be in charge of pulling the body forward. The lead does a lot to create character. Tony Bourdain seems to have a "knee lead". If you can picture the silhouette of him walking in the opening credits for "No Reservations" I think his knees break the front plane first, like a giraffe's or a camel's would. Check it out. Most people's knees do break first, but sometimes other parts of their bodies--chins, chests, pelvises, or bellies-- seem to be trying to beat them forward, creating the lead. If you want to try cracking yourself up, next time you are walking in front of a mirror or shop window (and you are all by yourself, because you are going to look pretty stupid) try changing your lead, as though a string is attached to whatever the body part is, pulling it forward. If you're short on laughs, you could also try what I think my mom called "walking stupid" which is swinging both arms forward at the same time. Kids crack up.
NOooooooooooo Reservationssssssssssah
1 comment:
Proof that your blog has an audience. I saw Tony speak at the UW bookstore. I loved that he is exactly as one would expect. He's snarky, irreverent, and all about experiencing food. I also appreciated that when asked by some granola-crunchy Seattlite if he would consider supporting organic/sustainable/local/green eating he replied, "no." Certain foods are never going to be available locally so if we want to enjoy them they have to be imported. OK. Fair enough. Said he would support the rights of illegal immigrant workers since the food industry would shut down without them. Have to respect a man true to his values regardless of his audience's values. Not that Seattle is against the rights of immigrant workers. Seattle is just sometimes nauseatingly green. To the (sometimes) exclusion of all else.
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