Food/Kitchen - Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

Ch. 5 (Tabulations, Evolution, Sex Drive)

"Brought you fresh coffee and sandwiches," he said. "Cucumber, ham, and cheese. Hope that's all right." "Thanks. Couldn't ask for more," I said. "Want't'eat right away?" "No, after the next tab-cycle."

By the time the alarm went off, I'd finished laundering five of the seven pages of numeric data lists. One more push. I took a break, yawned, and turned my attention to food. There were enough sandwiches for a small crowd. I devoured more than half of them myself. Long-haul tabulations work up a mean appetite. Cucumber, ham, cheese, I tossed them down in order, washing the lot down with coffee. For every three I ate, the old man nibbled at one, looking like a terribly well-mannered cricket. "Have as many as you like," said the old man. "When you get't'my age, your eatin' declines. Can't eat as much, can't work as much. But a young person ought't'eat plenty. Eat plenty and fatten up plenty. People nowadays hate't'get fat, but if you ask me, they're looking at fat all wrong. They say it makes you unhealthy or ugly, but it'd never happen 'tall if you fatten up the right way. You live a fuller life, have more sex drive, sharpen your wits. I was good and fat when I was young. Wouldn't believe it't'look at me now. Ho-ho-ho." The old man could hardly contain his laughter. "How 'bout it? Terrific sandwiches, eh?" "Yes, indeed. Very tasty," I said. The sandwiches really were very tasty. And I'm as demanding a critic of sandwiches as I am of sofas. "My granddaughter made them. She's the one deserves your compliments," the old man said. "The child knows the finer points of making a sandwich." "She's definitely got it down. Chefs can't make sandwiches this good." "The child'd be overjoyed to hear that, I'm sure. We don't get many visitors, so there's hardly any chance't'make a meal for someone. Whenever the child cooks, it's just me and her eatin'."

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"Tell me, what's it like to be a Calcutec?" "We're normal ordinary people, just like everyone else." "Everyone may be ordinary, but they're not normal." "Yes, there is that school of thought," I said. "But there's normal and then there's normal. I mean the kind of normal that can sit down next to you on the train and you wouldn't even notice. Normal. We eat food, drink beer—oh, by the way, the sandwiches were great." "Really?" she said, beaming. "I don't often get good sandwiches like that. I practically ate them all myself." "How about the coffee?" "The coffee wasn't bad either." "Really? Would you like some now? That way we could sit and talk a little while longer."

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Ch. 6 (Shadow)

"Perhaps we should eat first," she says. "Once you begin to work, there will not be time." She brings out a pot of vegetable stew and warms it on the stove. The minestra simmers, filling the room with a wonderful aroma. She ladles it out into two bowls, slices walnut bread, and brings this simple fare to the table. We sit facing each other and speak not a word as we eat. The seasoning is unlike anything I have ever tasted, but good nonetheless. By the time I finish eating, I am warmed inside. Then she brings us cups of hot tea. It is an herbal infusion, slightly bitter and green.

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Ch. 7 (Skull, Lauren Bacall, Library)

I wound up my purchases and pulled into my convenient neighborhood fast-food restaurant. I ordered shrimp salad, onion rings, and a beer. The shrimp were straight out of the freezer, the onion rings soggy. Looking around the place, though, I failed to spot a single customer banging on a tray or complaining to a waitress. So I shut up and finished my food. Expect nothing, get nothing. From the restaurant window I could see the expressway, with cars of all makes, colors, and styles barrelling along. I remembered the jolly old man and his chubby granddaughter. No matter how much I liked them, I couldn't help thinking they had to be living in the outer limits. That inane elevator, the open pit in the back of a closet, INKlings, and sound removal—I wouldn't believe it in a novel. And then, they give me an animal skull as a memento.

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Ch. 9 (Appetite, Disappointment, Leningrad)

While I waited for her, I fixed supper. I mashed an umeboshi salt plum with mortar and pestle to make a sour-sweet dressing; I fried up a few sardines with abura-age tofu-puffs in grated yama-imo taro batter; I sauteed a celery-beef side dish. Not a bad little meal. There was time to spare, so I had a beer as I tossed together some soy-simmered myoga wild ginger and green beans with tofu-sesame sauce. After which I stretched out on my bed, gazed at the ceiling, and listened to old records. The hour was well past seven, and outside it was quite dark. But still no sign of her. Maybe she thought better of the whole proposition and decided not to come. Could I blame her? The reasonable thing would have been not to come. Yet, as I was choosing the next record, the doorbell rang. I checked through the fisheye lens, and there stood the woman from the library with an armload of books. I opened the door with the chain still in place. "See anyone milling around in the hall?" I asked. "Not a soul," she said. I undid the chain, let her in, and quickly relocked the door. "Something sure smells good," she said. "Mind if I peek in the kitchen?" "Go right ahead. But are you sure there weren't any strange characters hanging around the entrance? No one doing street repairs, or just sitting in a parked car?" "Nothing of the kind," she said, plunking the books down on the kitchen table. Then she lifted the lid of each pot on the range. "You make all this yourself?" "Sure thing. I can dish some up if you want. Pretty everyday fare, though." "Not at all. I'm wild about this sort of food."

I set out the dishes on the kitchen table.

We sat down to eat, and I watched awestruck as she, with casual aplomb, lay the entire spread to waste. She had a stunning appetite. I made myself a big Old Crow on the rocks, flash-broiled a block of atsu-age fried tofu, and topped it with grated daikon radish to go along with my drink. I offered her a drink, but she wasn't interested. "Could I have a bit of that atsu-age, though?" she asked. I pushed the remaining half-block over to her and just drank my bourbon. "There's rice, if you like. And I can whip up some miso soup in a jiff," I said. "Fabulous!" she exclaimed. I prepared a katsuobushi dried-bonito broth and added wakatne seaweed and scallions for the miso soup. I served it alongside a bowl of rice and umeboshi. Again she leveled it all in no time flat. All that remained was a couple of plum pits. Then she sighed with satisfaction. "Mmm, that was good. My compliments to the chef," she said. Never in my life had I seen such a slim nothing of a figure eat like such a terror. As the cook, I was gratified, and I had to hand it to her—she'd done the job with a certain all-consuming beauty. I was overwhelmed. And maybe a little disgusted, "Tell me, do you always eat this much?" I blurted out. "Why, yes. This is about normal for me," she said, unembarrassed. "But you're so thin." "Gastric dilation," she confessed. "It doesn't matter matter how much I eat. I don't gain weight." "Must run up quite a food bill," I said. Truth was, she'd gastrically dilated her way through tomorrow's dinner in one go- "It's frightening," she said. "Most of my salary disappears into my stomach." Once again, I offered her something to drink, and this time she agreed to a beer. I pulled one out from the refrigerator and, just in case, a double ration of frankfurter links, which I tossed into the frying pan. Incredible, but except for the two franks I fended for myself, she polished off the whole lot. A regular machine gun of a hunger, this girl! As a last resort, I set out ready-made potato salad, then dashed off a quick wakame-tuna. combo for good measure. Down they went with her second beer. "Boy, this is heaven!" she purred. I'd hardly touched a thing and was now on my third Old Crow on the rocks. "While you're at it, there's chocolate cake for dessert," I surrendered. Of course, she indulged. I watched in disbelief, almost seeing the food backing up in her throat.

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Ch. 13 (Frankfurt, Door, Independent Operants)

I replayed my usual fantasy of the joys of retirement from Calcutecdom. I'd have plenty of savings, more than enough for an easy life of cello and Greek. Stow the cello in the back of the car and head up to the mountains to practice. Maybe I'd have a mountain retreat, a pretty little cabin where I could read my books, listen to music, watch old movies on video, do some cooking… And it wouldn't be half bad if my longhaired librarian were there with me. I'd cook and she'd eat.

As the menus were unfolding, sleep descended. All at once, as if the sky had fallen. Cello and cabin and cooking now dust to the wind, abandoning me, alone again, asleep like a tuna.

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Ch. 15 (Whiskey, Torture, Turgenev)

Housewives filed past, leek and daikon radish tops sticking up from supermarket bags. I found myself envying them. They hadn't had their refrigerators raped or their bellies slashed. Leeks and daikon and the kids' grades—all was right with the world. No unicorn skulls or secret codes or consciousness transfers. This was normal, everyday life. I thought, of all things, about the frozen shrimp and beef and tomato sauce on the kitchen floor. Probably should eat the stuff before the day was out. Waste not, want not. Trouble was, I didn't want.

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Ch. 19 (Hamburgers, Skyline, Deadline)

"How about a hamburger? It'd be quick." "Fine." I pulled the car into the first drive-in burger place I saw. A waitress in a red micro-miniskirt fastened trays to our windows, then asked for our orders. "A double cheeseburger with french fries and a hot chocolate," said the chubby girl. "A regular burger and a beer," I said. "I'm sorry, but we don't serve beer," said the waitress. "A regular burger and a Coke," I corrected myself. What was I thinking? While we waited for the food to come, no cars entered the drive-in. Of course, if anyone were really tailing us, the last thing they'd do is drive into the same parking lot with us. They'd be somewhere out of sight, sitting tight, waiting for our next move. I turned my attention to the food that had arrived, and mechanically shovelled hamburger with its expressway-ticket-sized leaf of lettuce down the hatch. Miss Pink, on the other hand, relished each bite of her cheeseburger, while daintily picking at her fries and slurping her hot chocolate. "Care for some french fries?" she asked me. "No thanks," I said. The girl polished off everything on her tray. She savored the last sip of hot chocolate, licked the ketchup and mustard from her fingers, then wiped her hands and mouth with the napkin.

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Ch. 31 (Fares, Police, Detergent)

"Who remembers fares? Do you remember how much coffee costs at McDonald's?" "I don't drink McDonald's coffee," said the station attendant. "It's a waste of money." "Purely hypothetical," I said. "But you forget details like that."

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"What do we do now?" "First we get something hot to drink, then head home for a bath."

We went into a supermarket with the ubiquitous sandwich stand. The checker jumped when she saw us all covered in mud, but quickly recovered to take our orders. "That's two cream of corn soups and one ham and egg-salad sandwich, is that right, sir?" she confirmed.

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Ch. 33 (Rainy-Day Laundry, Car Rental, Bob Dylan)

I went into the kitchen. Faucet, gas water heater, ventilator fan, gas oven, various assorted pots and pans, refrigerator and toaster and cupboard and knife rack, a big Brooke Bond tea cannister, rice cooker, and everything else that goes into the single word "kitchen". Such order composed this world.

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It was still raining, but I was tired of looking at clothes, so I passed on the coat and instead went to a beer hall. It was almost empty. They were playing a Bruckner symphony. I couldn't tell which number, but who can? I ordered a draft and some oysters on the half shell.

I squeezed lemon over the oysters and ate them in clockwise order, the Bruckner romantic in the background. The giant wall-clock read five before three, the dial supporting two lions which spun around the mainspring. Bruckner came to an end, and the music shifted into Ravel's Bolero.

I ordered a second draft, when I was hit by the long overdue urge to relieve myself. And piss I did. How could one bladder hold so much? I was in no particular hurry, so I kept going for a whole two minutes—with Bolero building to its enormous crescendo. It made me feel as if I could piss forever.

Afterwards I could have sworn I'd been reborn. I washed my hands, looked at my face in the warped mirror, then returned to my beer at the table and lit up a cigarette.

Ch. 35 (Nail Clippers, Butter Sauce, Iron Vase) "Where shall we eat?"

"How about Italian?"

"Great."

"I know a place that's not too far and is really good.""Let's go. I'm so hungry I could eat screws."

"I'm hungry too," she said, ignoring the screws. "Hmm, nice shirt."

"Thanks."

The restaurant was a fifteen-minute drive from the library, dodging cyclists and pedestrians on winding residential streets. Midway up a hill, amid homes with tall pines and Himalayan cedars and high walls, appeared an Italian restaurant. A white woodframe Western-style house that now functioned as a trattoria. The sign was so small you could easily have missed the place if you didn't know it was there.

The restaurant was tiny—three tables and four counter seats. We were shown to the table furthest back, where a side window gave us a view of plum trees.

"Shall we have some wine?" she said

."Why don't you choose," I said. While she discussed the selection with the waiter, I gazed out at the plum tree. A plum tree growing at an Italian restaurant seemed somehow incongruous. But perhaps not. Maybe they had plum trees in Italy. Hell, they had otters in France.

Having settled on an aperitivo, we opened our menus. We took our time making our selections. First, for antipasti, we chose insalata di gamberetti alle fragole, ostriche al vivo, mortadella di fegato, sepie al nero, melanzane alia partni-giana, and wakasagi marinata. For primi, she decided on a spaghetti al pesto genovese, and I decided on a tagliateUe alia casa."How about splitting an extra maccheroni al sugo di pesce," she suggested.

"Sounds good to me," I said. "What is the fish of the day?" she turned to ask the waiter.

"Today we have fresh branzino—that's suzuki," pronounced the waiter, "which we steam in cartoccio and sprinkle with almonds." "I'll have that," she said. "Me, too," I said. "And for contorni, spinaci and risotto al funghi." "Verdure cotte and risotto alpomodoro for me." "I think you will find our risotti quite filling," the waiter spoke up, a bit uneasily. "Maybe so, but I've barely eaten in days, and she's got gastric dilation," I explained. "It's a regular black hole," she confirmed. "Very well," said the waiter. "For dessert, I'll have granita di uva, crema fredda, suffle al limone, and espresso," she added before he could get away. "Why not—me too," I said. After the waiter had at last finished writing down our order, she smiled at me.

"You didn't have to order so much just to keep pace with me, you know." "No, I really am famished," I said. "It's been ages since I've been this hungry." "Great," she said. "I never trust people with no appetite. It's like they're always holding something back on you, don't you think?"

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Several of the appetizers arrived, and for the next few minutes we ate in silence. The flavors were light, delicate, subtle. The shrimp were consummately fresh, the oysters kissed by the sea.

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The appetizers were cleared away and presently the entrees were served. My hunger had hardly subsided. Six plates of appetizers hadn't even put a dent in it. I shovelled a considerable volume of tagliatelle into my mouth in a relatively short period of time, then devoured half the macaroni. Having put that much under my belt, I could swear I saw faint lights looming up through darkness. After the pasta, we sipped wine until the bass came.

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"The fish was exquisite," she purred, after we'd finished off our entrees. "Especially the sauce."

"Butter sauce is an art," I said. "It takes time. You minced shallots into melted butter, then heat it over a very low flame. No short cuts." "Ah yes, you like to cook, don't you?" "Well, I used to. You need real dedication. Fresh ingredients, a discerning palate, an eye for presentation. It's not a modern art. Good cooking has hardly evolved since the nineteenth century." "The lemon souffle here is wonderful," she said, as the desserts arrived. "You still have room?" The grape ice was light, the souffle tart, the expresso rich and heady Once we'd finished, the chef came out to greet us. "Magnificent meal," we told him. "It is a joy to cook for guests who love to eat," said the chef. "Even in Italia, my family does not eat this much." "Why, thank you." We took it as a compliment. The chef returned to the kitchen and we ordered another espresso each. "You're the first person I've met who could match my appetite," she said. "I can still eat," I said. "I have some frozen pizza at home, and a bottle of Chivas." "Let's do it."

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Ch. 37 (Lights, Introspection, Cleanliness)

The sun shone brightly on the roofs of the neighboring houses, birds came and went. I could hear the sounds of TV News, hear someone starting a car. How many hours had I slept? I eased her head off my shoulder and went to the kitchen. I shut the door and turned the radio on low. An FM station on low, Roger Williams playing Autumn Leaves, that time of year.

Her kitchen resembled mine. The appliances, the layout, the utensils, the wear, everything was normal. There were knives for various purposes, but their sharpening left something to be desired. Very few women can sharpen knives properly.

I don't know why I was poking about in another person's kitchen. I didn't mean to be nosy, but everything seemed meaningful. Autumn in New York, by the Frank Chacksfield Orchestra, was next on the FM. I moved on to the shelves of pots and pans and spice bottles. The kitchen was a world unto itself.

Orchestral stylings over, the FM hostess floated her silken voice over the airwaves: "Yes, it's time to get out the sweaters." I could almost smell them. Images out of an Updike novel. Woody Herman swinging into Early Autumn. Seven-twenty-five by the clock-timer.

I put some water on to boil, took tomatoes from the refrigerator and blanched them to remove the skin. I chopped up a few vegetables and garlic, added the tomatoes, then stirred in some sausage to simmer. While that cooked down, I slivered some cabbage and peppers for a salad, dripped coffee. I sprinkled water on to a length of French bread, wrapped it in foil, and slid it into the toaster-oven. Once the meal was ready, I cleared away the empty bottles and glasses from the living room and woke her up.

"Mmm. Something smells good," she said.

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Ch. 39 (Popcorn, Lord Jim, Extinction)

I went to the kiosk and bought ten bags of popcorn. I scattered nine on the ground for the pigeons, and sat on a bench to eat the last bag myself. Enough pigeons descended upon the popcorn for a remake of the October Revolution.

It had been ages since I'd last eaten popcorn. It tasted good.