The Moving Finger Writes...

I take my cup to the coffee shack* with the female harlequin mannequin out front, feeling virtuous for not consuming a paper cup. After I doctor it up with milk and cream, I realize it's lukewarm. I ask the woman behind the counter to microwave it. "Oh, you don't want to microwave that cup." She pours the brew into a paper cup, negating my environmentally friendly intentions.

"Why not?" I ask, thinking she might be afraid the Tupperware will melt. "I do it at home."

The two employees pause in unison, a gasp all but hovering in the air. "You never want to heat plastic! Very bad! Toxins leach out. More and more, they are realizing that using plastic in the first place was just a Bad Idea."

I have aquired the belief that plastic wrap has saved more food from spoiling than its environmental cost, and has been a net boon for mankind, er, humankind. So I ask, "Even plastic wrap?"

"Oh yes! Even #7 plastic, which is supposed to be leach-free. Those water bottles that advertise they don't leach? Studies now indicate that they do, and it's particularly bad, because it disrupts the endocrine system. In fact, clear plastic is more dangerous than colored plastic, because it doesn't block the sunlight, and the sunlight degrades the plastic."

She poured my nuked coffee back into the Tupperware cup, and handed it to me with a serious expression. "Here you are."

I held the cup dubiously. "Thank you."

- - -

* The coffee shack is associated with Fellini's, but don't eat at Fellini's, the pasta is always overcooked and the food is mediocre for the price.

Posted by Goddess at 08:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I had a great night.

Trisha was our evening coordinator. We visited Paul, and then had a respite at the Venetian restaurant Venezia, then back home where Trisha introduced me to Violent Femmes dance songs. Trisha dances wonderfully! We decided to go out dancing. I suggested music at the Starry Plough.

I brought a slinky. Just in case.

The Starry Plough has live music every night. Tonight was Irish Country Dancing. The steps were too complicated for the uninitiated, so we sat and watched. Trisha had been invited to a country dance in Ireland, but alas, her Mom wanted her not to go. But here we were, fate puts Irish dance in Trisha's way again! Coincidentally, she looked fetchingly Irish in her plaid wool tam.

An older woman walked past, did a double take, and backtracked to warn us about leaving our purses unattended on the bar. Especially since we were sitting right next to the open door. "They come in off the street, use the restroom, sweep by on their way out, and take your purse. I've seen it happen." She walked on, happy to have made a difference.

Later I chatted with the purse lady. She has been at the club for 33 years. She knows who is regular, on what nights, and at which tables. She was surrounded by a small crowd of groupies, men who doted on her and laughed at her jokes. She was the Duenna of the Starry Plough. I think we made a good impression on her.

Trisha developed curiosity about a moody-looking journal writer, pensively drinking his beer. She asked what he was doodling. Animated conversation ensued.

The dancing ended. Left to my own devices, I wandered up to the stage. After awhile, my slinky became the focal point, and I was introduced to Donald and Rebecca. Animated conversation ensued.

As we amused ourselves "walking downstairs" with the slinky, I noticed Donald was attentive and quirky, and had deep, clear green eyes. What was he doing here? Were the dancers all old friends? He had been dragged to an English Country Dance at RenFair by Rebecca, who immediately disappeared, but it was okay, he was already hooked on the music and movement. Rebecca dragged Donald to a succession of dances, this, that, contra, etc., but Irish dance was the best. He had heard the music before and quite liked it, but it never occurred to him that you could actually dance to it, until he saw people doing it.

Also, dancing forces him to be sociable, which was important "back then."

Donald seemed fascinated by the Quest for the Colored Soap Bubble, the problem of the lipid bilayer, the tendency of heavy dye molecules to sink to the bottom and form a colored dot, a dye discovery, the accolades of toy manufacturers for finding the "holy grail" of toys. But then the colored bubbles popped and left stains GASP! a patient wife, hundreds of thousands of dollars spent. A dye that didn't stain! Palmolive switched formulas, and his secret method tragically failed! Sadly, I had read only 7 pages out of 11, which left us both in suspense. Did the inventor get colored bubble to market? Was he still looking for the right detergent? Zubbles. Stay tuned for more...

At that point, Trisha wandered up, and we all chatted a bit.

Thinking of the warnings the Duenna gave us about purses, I asked if she had hers, thereby inadvertently triggering the universal "it's time to leave" function, and was abruptly swept out of the Starry Plough.

I might go back to learn Irish dancing.

Posted by Goddess at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I was celebrating my new book contract at La CoCo in Berkeley. And it was a bit of a fiasco.

On my first visit to LaCoco's, I ordered a favorite of mine, something for which I was particularly peckish: fettucini topped with 1/2 marinara and 1/2 alfredo sauce. The waiter would not take the order! "No, the chef will not do that, he will not mix the sauces." "Would he put them on the plate unmixed, so I could mix them myself? NO. "But I've never had trouble with this order anywhere else, I really want this dish!" In the face of my adamance, the waiter reluctantly retreated to the kitchen to ask the chef. He reported back. The answer was NO. I enquired whether I could order fettucini alfredo, and a side of marinara sauce. No, I could
not.

On top of that, the mushroom special my companion ordered was NOT available. I was astonished that a restaurant would run out of a special so early in the day. Lisa explained the odd behaviour was due to the dedicated chef, noting that she had once ordered the pizza special, and the chef had emerged from the kitchen to apologize. He was out of red onions, would she accept white onions on her pizza? She accepted, but a later and better experience with the proper allium convinced her that the chef knew his onions.

When the food arrived, it was delicious. Good enough that I returned a month later, to celebrate the book contract with Trisha.

We walked through the fragrant atmosphere, and were seated at a small table lit by the glow of a candle. We opened our menus. And there I saw it: Funghi Caroso. Well, I'd just met a Linux Wizard with the license plate Caroso, a 16th century Italian dancemaster. Funghi Caroso piqued my interest. Dancing mushrooms? So, despite the fact that neither Trisha nor I am overly fond of mushrooms, we ordered the dish, thinking that a few tablespoons of reduced mushrooms spread on bread might be a tasty treat. And after all, itw as a celebration.

When the mushrooms arrived, they came as a huge platter of almost-raw mushrooms sprinkled with parsley and bathed in a yellow, buttery sauce. We both stared at the plate aghast. There was just no way we could eat that dish! I gamely placed a few moshrooms on my plate. Trisha placed a few mushrooms on her plate. And we tried them. They were not very good.

I put my fork down. "I'm not eating the Funghi Caroso."

So Trisha decided to send the dish back.

The waiter was aghast. Send it back? "Did you try it?"

Yes we had both tried it. Trisha had trouble getting the waiter to remove the plate from our table, but finally succeeded. We smiled at each other over the candle. But our peace was short-lived. The chef appeared at the side of the table, brandishing the plate of Funghi Caroso!

He was dark and sported gold chains around his neck. He was passionate about the mushrooms. "Did you TRY them?" he demanded. "They are a specialty of the house. People come here JUST for the Funghi Caroso! You must get your bread in there and WORK it around, you must TRY the mushrooms!"

Despite our protests, and my declaration that I would be happy to PAY for the mushrooms if only he would take them away, despite our horrified expressions, he could not be dissuaded. "At this point I WILL NO charge you, I want only that you TRY the Funghi Caroso," and he LADLED mushrooms onto our plates.

Finally he left us in peace to stare at the heaps of pale fungi. We picked up our bread, WORKED it around in there, and ate the &#$%!! mushrooms. They weren't so bad, considering the alternative.

Posted by Goddess at 06:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)