Meanwhile, in sunny Talence, France, I decide to stroll the ten minutes or so to get a couple of pizzas at 4:30 p.m. on a Monday. It’s off Boulevard Georges V. There’s a Domino’s, which I’m not very fond of, but another place two doors down that calls itself “Artisanal” . . . that’s always promising. And putting your pizza place two doors down from a Domino’s is pure cojones.
But the place is firmly shuttered with one of those pointless roll-down metal shutters (I can’t see any rioting in this neighborhood in the near future) so I reluctantly decide to go to Domino’s.
Umm, not. It’s firmly closed as well. “18H, m’sieu” says a fellow sitting with a woman on the stoop outside. Hmm . . . he’s got a long wait.
The sign on the door says “Ouvert 7J/7”.
Reminds me of that Stephen Wright joke: man comes up to a store that says “Open 24 hours”. But the owner is locking it up. The man says “But your sign says you’re open 24 hours!”
And the owner says “Not in a row.”
Monday, October 22, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
More observations
Some more observations about the peculiarities of Bordeaux (at least to me): the stop signs all say “Stop”. “We don’t have a complex like they do in Quebec,” was the way it was explained to me. Indeed, the weekend is “le weekend” and “You’re welcome” is NEVER “Bienvenue” (which actually means “You are welcome to this space/house/place”) but “De rien/je vous en pris/c’est moi qui vous remercie (or just c’est moi . . .)” among other things that would never fly in Quebec.
The cars are all mini-to midsize here
(but not as small as the car pictured above) because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to fit on some of these streets. People park facing either way on the same side of the street. In the residential areas the sidewalks are about three feet/one meter wide here and are usually studded with people’s garbage containers, so it’s almost impossible to walk two abreast.
And it seems most streets, which are wide enough for one car, are two-way. At least Bordeaux is pretty flat, so you can see all the way down to the end of the streets, which seem to have no plan or pattern to them — they aren’t parallel at all but sometimes just come together at strange angles for no apparent reason and you get intersections of three streets or or even four streets . . .
Sundays everything shuts down after noon. Supermarkets close at 8 on weekdays.
Yesterday I got paid for a translation job: 1800 euros (about $2500). So I decided to go to the store for some beer and groceries, but I obviously didn’t want to take all that money with me so I grabbed a 50 from the wad. Got to the store, made my purchase, around nine euros and whipped out my fifty, which was a 500 . . . I blanched and so did the cashier. (I had no idea they’d have a 500-euro note here . . . it’s crazy! Lose that and you’re in big trouble.) Well, the store manager had to be called but everyone behind me in line was highly amused and I was duly given my change.
Other random notes: no one has screens on their windows. And I mean no one. And there is plenty of insect life . . . I have become newly reacquainted with that bane of my African-era existence, Anopheles latens and the extremely large Bordelaisian houseflies.
Yes, I highly recommend Bordeaux, the land where vegetables must be weighed . . .
The cars are all mini-to midsize here
(but not as small as the car pictured above) because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to fit on some of these streets. People park facing either way on the same side of the street. In the residential areas the sidewalks are about three feet/one meter wide here and are usually studded with people’s garbage containers, so it’s almost impossible to walk two abreast.
And it seems most streets, which are wide enough for one car, are two-way. At least Bordeaux is pretty flat, so you can see all the way down to the end of the streets, which seem to have no plan or pattern to them — they aren’t parallel at all but sometimes just come together at strange angles for no apparent reason and you get intersections of three streets or or even four streets . . .Sundays everything shuts down after noon. Supermarkets close at 8 on weekdays.
Yesterday I got paid for a translation job: 1800 euros (about $2500). So I decided to go to the store for some beer and groceries, but I obviously didn’t want to take all that money with me so I grabbed a 50 from the wad. Got to the store, made my purchase, around nine euros and whipped out my fifty, which was a 500 . . . I blanched and so did the cashier. (I had no idea they’d have a 500-euro note here . . . it’s crazy! Lose that and you’re in big trouble.) Well, the store manager had to be called but everyone behind me in line was highly amused and I was duly given my change.
Other random notes: no one has screens on their windows. And I mean no one. And there is plenty of insect life . . . I have become newly reacquainted with that bane of my African-era existence, Anopheles latens and the extremely large Bordelaisian houseflies.
Yes, I highly recommend Bordeaux, the land where vegetables must be weighed . . .
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Still here
Okay, I’m not sipping a Bordeaux, but I am in Bordeaux. This place is magical. Cool, in a way that Paris isn’t. Yesterday went to the wine country and walked around Smith Haut Lafitte winery — the perimeter, that is (you need reservations for a tour). It took a full hour.
I’m still trying to figure things out. Grocery stores (maybe all stores?) close at noon on Sunday and are only open till 8 on weekdays. There are no 24-hour places here. The first time I went to the local grocery store (Atac, in Talence) I tried to get a cart but found that they were all chained together. Then I noticed that you had to put a euro in a slot on the handlebar to unlock the cart, so I did. Fair enough, thought I — a euro for a cart.
When I was done with it I left it outside so someone else could use it without paying a euro. The next time I came, a woman was wheeling her cart back to the cart place. I said, “Are you done with that?” She looked at me like I’d just stepped off a flying saucer. I said, “I’ll take it if you’re done with it.” She said, making an “O” with her thumb and forefinger, “You’ll take it if you have one of these.”
Puzzled, I held up a euro. “But I do,” I said, but she just rolled her eyes and kept pushing the cart. Turns out the euro is just to get the cart out, not to rent it. You get the euro back when you put the cart back. That’s two carts I left out with euros in them. They got a free cart plus a euro.
And then I went to the cash with my haul. Ten people behind me, and when he came to the first of my many vegetables he said “You have to weigh this before you come to the cash.” Huh? Turns out there’s a weighing machine that you put your vegetables on and buttons with each vegetable portrayed on a panel and you have to push the right button and it spits out a label with a barcode that he scans. Who knew. No vegetables that day.
Anyway, Bordeaux is great. Following are some pics that have no captions, as I don’t know how to make them. But check out the St. André's Cathedral, that makes the Oratory look like a shed behind your house.
I’m still trying to figure things out. Grocery stores (maybe all stores?) close at noon on Sunday and are only open till 8 on weekdays. There are no 24-hour places here. The first time I went to the local grocery store (Atac, in Talence) I tried to get a cart but found that they were all chained together. Then I noticed that you had to put a euro in a slot on the handlebar to unlock the cart, so I did. Fair enough, thought I — a euro for a cart.
When I was done with it I left it outside so someone else could use it without paying a euro. The next time I came, a woman was wheeling her cart back to the cart place. I said, “Are you done with that?” She looked at me like I’d just stepped off a flying saucer. I said, “I’ll take it if you’re done with it.” She said, making an “O” with her thumb and forefinger, “You’ll take it if you have one of these.”
Puzzled, I held up a euro. “But I do,” I said, but she just rolled her eyes and kept pushing the cart. Turns out the euro is just to get the cart out, not to rent it. You get the euro back when you put the cart back. That’s two carts I left out with euros in them. They got a free cart plus a euro.
And then I went to the cash with my haul. Ten people behind me, and when he came to the first of my many vegetables he said “You have to weigh this before you come to the cash.” Huh? Turns out there’s a weighing machine that you put your vegetables on and buttons with each vegetable portrayed on a panel and you have to push the right button and it spits out a label with a barcode that he scans. Who knew. No vegetables that day.
Anyway, Bordeaux is great. Following are some pics that have no captions, as I don’t know how to make them. But check out the St. André's Cathedral, that makes the Oratory look like a shed behind your house.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
That's All, Folks
At least from Montreal. I'm outta here tonight, not to be seen for at least . . . well, a while.
Next post will be from Bordeaux sipping a Bordeaux.
Ciao
Next post will be from Bordeaux sipping a Bordeaux.
Ciao
Make Way For Noddy
Make way for Noddy. Everyone does in his neighborhood, as he drives down Main street in Toyland Village in his delivery car, targeting the terrified citizens with his drug deals, accompanied by a scowling, unshaven Big Ears for backup muscle.
Watch as Jerky Clockwork Clown shoots up in an alleyway with HIV-positive Jimmy Giraffe, scanning the horizon nervously for Mr. Stumps, to whom he owes $36.
Then get ready for Tinky-Winky, the abused-as-a-child gang leader, as he extorts the villagers of Teletubbyland in various schemes, usually accompanied by his thuggish coterie, Dipsy, Laa-laa “Nails” Ianuzzi, and Po.
These are the twisted fantasies of a first-time parent, as I am forced to watch, along with my toddler, the inventions of an army of children’s programmers, day in, day out, ad infinukem.
I am hoping that the theme-song writer for Noddy sleeps well, because at three o’clock in the morning as I toss and turn, the words to “Make Way for Noddy” sear their way through my dendrites and axons, always punctuated with the sharp “Prrp-prrp-prrp” of the car horn and the tuneless bark of “Noddy!” that crops up every second line while my toddler always mindlessly chimes in with a parrot-fashion, semidemiquaver late “Noddy!” in response.
In this Sisyphusian world of children’s daytime programming I am forced to inhabit a twilight existence, continually pushing a boulder up a hill to the strains of the Barney Song, eternally suffering the wrath of Hades as I stumble and we all roll back to the bottom and do it all again.
Couldn’t these people have thought things through a little better? Just piping the Thomas The Tank Engine song repeatedly through a circular array of Bose DeepSound speakers to the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay would elicit scores of confessions within a smattering of hours, with many possibly offering personal jihad within minutes.
When one is forced to actually sit and watch every excruciating moment of “Between The Lions”, one’s nearness to God becomes much, much closer. Because if there happened to be a shotgun nearby, I would be Tinky-Winkying out of existence before even one bar of the theme song was over.
Even Bugs Bunny’s “Kill the Wabbit” would be sheer gold to the ears compared to some of the stuff churned out by contemporary kids’ show composers. One knows that the absolute bottom is reached when one hears some innocuous “educational” program’s theme song burst spontaneously into Rap, with that faux hip-hop charade that’s become all too familiar these days in promotions to packaging, minus of course the downward devil’s horn hand gestures and brutish mugging for the camera. Oh, and flying bullets.
It’s bad enough that we, as parents, should be forced to sit through this stuff. When I was a kid, waaay before that goddamn Sesame Street green frog burst like a blossoming Kudzu Triffid onto the world scene, I thrilled to the Donna Reed Show and Leave it To Beaver. Hell, Cerberus aside, that sly Leave it To Beaver theme song was positively life-affirming. I can summon it today again in a wink without a shred of horror.
If I were a kids’ show composer, I would try to mirror the reality of the world in which we now live. Say, for instance, instead of upbeat major chords and perky lyrics such as “I love you/You love me/We’re a great big family” of the Barney song, we would have “What is wrong with existence/When I and my son/Are forced to sit through/This crap every day”.
One can even find the hijacked original lyrics to the Barney “song” on the Internet: “This Old Man/number one/He played knick-knack on my thumb.” This simple line is several orders of magnitude more original than the hack ripoff “With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you/Won’t you say you love me to!” (sic)
If one bothers to extrapolate (as I often do, given the enormous blocks of time spent trying to concentrate on work while Barney jabbers in the background) one finds it extraordinary that a large, stuffed purple mannequin vaguely resembling a bowling pin can spew so much invective as he sweeps through Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, scything neighbors’ houses clean with rocket-propelled grenades and cluster bombs, also targeting . . . whoops, lost track for a moment.
“That’s Mr. Rogers!” I say, hopefully, to the toddler on my knee. “Taking off his sweater is totally normal, with no sexual undertones—really!”
Meanwhile, in my tired brain, the Sesame Street set is a scene of chaos, with Elmo senselessly stabbed in the groin by a jealous Count as Big Bird, Bert and Ernie look on in mute horror, and Mother Skittle frantically dials 911 only to get a busy signal.
Make way for Noddy.
Watch as Jerky Clockwork Clown shoots up in an alleyway with HIV-positive Jimmy Giraffe, scanning the horizon nervously for Mr. Stumps, to whom he owes $36.
Then get ready for Tinky-Winky, the abused-as-a-child gang leader, as he extorts the villagers of Teletubbyland in various schemes, usually accompanied by his thuggish coterie, Dipsy, Laa-laa “Nails” Ianuzzi, and Po.
These are the twisted fantasies of a first-time parent, as I am forced to watch, along with my toddler, the inventions of an army of children’s programmers, day in, day out, ad infinukem.
I am hoping that the theme-song writer for Noddy sleeps well, because at three o’clock in the morning as I toss and turn, the words to “Make Way for Noddy” sear their way through my dendrites and axons, always punctuated with the sharp “Prrp-prrp-prrp” of the car horn and the tuneless bark of “Noddy!” that crops up every second line while my toddler always mindlessly chimes in with a parrot-fashion, semidemiquaver late “Noddy!” in response.
In this Sisyphusian world of children’s daytime programming I am forced to inhabit a twilight existence, continually pushing a boulder up a hill to the strains of the Barney Song, eternally suffering the wrath of Hades as I stumble and we all roll back to the bottom and do it all again.
Couldn’t these people have thought things through a little better? Just piping the Thomas The Tank Engine song repeatedly through a circular array of Bose DeepSound speakers to the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay would elicit scores of confessions within a smattering of hours, with many possibly offering personal jihad within minutes.
When one is forced to actually sit and watch every excruciating moment of “Between The Lions”, one’s nearness to God becomes much, much closer. Because if there happened to be a shotgun nearby, I would be Tinky-Winkying out of existence before even one bar of the theme song was over.
Even Bugs Bunny’s “Kill the Wabbit” would be sheer gold to the ears compared to some of the stuff churned out by contemporary kids’ show composers. One knows that the absolute bottom is reached when one hears some innocuous “educational” program’s theme song burst spontaneously into Rap, with that faux hip-hop charade that’s become all too familiar these days in promotions to packaging, minus of course the downward devil’s horn hand gestures and brutish mugging for the camera. Oh, and flying bullets.
It’s bad enough that we, as parents, should be forced to sit through this stuff. When I was a kid, waaay before that goddamn Sesame Street green frog burst like a blossoming Kudzu Triffid onto the world scene, I thrilled to the Donna Reed Show and Leave it To Beaver. Hell, Cerberus aside, that sly Leave it To Beaver theme song was positively life-affirming. I can summon it today again in a wink without a shred of horror.
If I were a kids’ show composer, I would try to mirror the reality of the world in which we now live. Say, for instance, instead of upbeat major chords and perky lyrics such as “I love you/You love me/We’re a great big family” of the Barney song, we would have “What is wrong with existence/When I and my son/Are forced to sit through/This crap every day”.
One can even find the hijacked original lyrics to the Barney “song” on the Internet: “This Old Man/number one/He played knick-knack on my thumb.” This simple line is several orders of magnitude more original than the hack ripoff “With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you/Won’t you say you love me to!” (sic)
If one bothers to extrapolate (as I often do, given the enormous blocks of time spent trying to concentrate on work while Barney jabbers in the background) one finds it extraordinary that a large, stuffed purple mannequin vaguely resembling a bowling pin can spew so much invective as he sweeps through Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, scything neighbors’ houses clean with rocket-propelled grenades and cluster bombs, also targeting . . . whoops, lost track for a moment.
“That’s Mr. Rogers!” I say, hopefully, to the toddler on my knee. “Taking off his sweater is totally normal, with no sexual undertones—really!”
Meanwhile, in my tired brain, the Sesame Street set is a scene of chaos, with Elmo senselessly stabbed in the groin by a jealous Count as Big Bird, Bert and Ernie look on in mute horror, and Mother Skittle frantically dials 911 only to get a busy signal.
Make way for Noddy.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Come Together
There are very few times in the history of humanity — admittedly, a short one, as these things go — that one finds a SuperBeing, someone who transcends the drudgery of being merely human and crosses into almost SuperHumanism.
And what’s funny is that said SuperHuman would be the first to deny, deny, deny. Not superhuman, just an ordinary bloke. And he’d deny it till the cows came home and the pubs were closed.
But John Lennon was that creature, a person perhaps many of you only have a vague memory of, of “Uh, yeah, he was in the Beatles?” and don’t feel the same pain as I when the world erupted on that December 8 as he was gunned down by some asshole with mental problems.
Mercurial and not without his controversies, John Lennon was a world-changing guy, and how many of us can write, say, Across The Universe?
I listen to the Beatles’ early catalogue and I marvel. Such talent will be a long time returning . . .
And what’s funny is that said SuperHuman would be the first to deny, deny, deny. Not superhuman, just an ordinary bloke. And he’d deny it till the cows came home and the pubs were closed.
But John Lennon was that creature, a person perhaps many of you only have a vague memory of, of “Uh, yeah, he was in the Beatles?” and don’t feel the same pain as I when the world erupted on that December 8 as he was gunned down by some asshole with mental problems.
Mercurial and not without his controversies, John Lennon was a world-changing guy, and how many of us can write, say, Across The Universe?
I listen to the Beatles’ early catalogue and I marvel. Such talent will be a long time returning . . .
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Ginger Beef
This is a great, very easy-to-make "Asian" dish — not sure where it comes from — that you can literally put together in 20 minutes. I garnish it with red serrano chilies from my balcony but then again I have a steel tongue.
Ingredients:
1/2 onion chopped in square slices as if for stir-fry
1 large chile (serrano, jalapeño, habanero or to taste,) diced
3 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons grated ginger
1/2 pound sliced Boston Steak (what they call it in Montreal), or good-quality sirloin--slice as for Stroganoff
Shiitake mushrooms, sliced (10-15 mushrooms)
1/2C chicken broth
Lemon juice
Mirin
Chinese chili sauce (Kum-kee chili-garlic comes to mind)
Stir-fry powder
Cornstarch (if needed)
Cilantro for garnish
Method:
Sauté steak in canola or peanut oil on high heat, 1 minute each side; set aside (add few shakes pepper + garlic salt while sautéing).
Add a little oil, sauté mushrooms until they lose all their water--they will first get very liquidy and then start to dry up. Set aside.
Add more oil. On high heat add onions, chile, ginger. Stir constantly, turn to medium high, 4-5 minutes. Add garlic, cook one minute.
Add 1/4 cup Mirin (Japanese sweet cooking rice wine), stir well. Add 1/2 cup chicken broth, stir in . Add splash Schezuan sauce (or other Chinese-style hot-pepper sauce) and a few shakes Chinese stir fry powder (or similar powder--thickens the sauce.) Add mushrooms, stir well. Add splash lemon juice. Now add beef, stir in, cover, simmer on low. Serve in 10 minutes.
If not thick enough, add 1 tsp. cornstarch. If too thick add a little chicken broth. Serve on long-grain rice with cilantro garnish.
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