Friday, August 19, 2005

The relative madness of anchovies

Humor is the absolute essence of life. The chronology of drunkenness as time goes on is life. Is that I in the silhouette? The simultaneous equation of life is the living we do, as we expire into the saneness the paradigm hopes to file us into. The relative madness of typing coherently in a pitch black tomb of a bar, when you’re been bell rung eight times by successful fishermen in from the relative death of the seas, is too fantastic to mention , to the sober. The lists made under the influence spurred us into scientology, where the gods we worshiped were fine gain antennas they now disassemble, as the spirit found the path it always wandered, before it found itself.

I was out with a chef who utterly fascinated me, but I couldn’t remember a single thing he said. Oh, strike that ... I recall a lengthy conversation about anchovies, and all the ways they’re caught, packed and prepared. One tiny facet of food, and it was overwhelming. He too far outside my culinary experience base, but grabbing his apron, I struggled to say something coherent, and stay with him. Steam rose off the ice cubes, as the backlit bartender poured her wares, the scene was an ad man’s dream ... how many had woozily seen this moment, and sought to capture it for the company? Live fast, sell hard. What do you want?! NO! YES! The tension of opposites fulfil the requirements of life. I stop him mid-sentence, and weave to the bathroom around faces in various phases of inebriated, adumbrated with daily vices, where to my relief, I found the urinal brimming with crushed ice. Melting while pissing defeats the existential angst of nothing accomplished. On the return trip I stepped on Gandolf’s foot, and apologized profusely ... wizards are often the people you covet as friends of friends, or distant enemies. Incredibly, upon my return, the chef has more to say about anchovies. I can scarcely believe that so many ways have been devised to salt them. I feel the weight of my ignorance on the matter, scratching a line through the food, because I’d suffered the lower echelon of its historical refinement. I adjusted anchovies’ intensity, by removing them. The blatancy of the indicator never occurred to me before.

Correction: he was light years beyond my experience base. Grill that bitch up! Italian green olives not the Spanish ones, dry roast small chopped pork entendre-loin, scratch the grassy olive oil, mind you. We’re all The TV show of cooking from the subconscious/ as a dream sequence, of the motherfucker having to get up and go to work and toil like a Manic Ant rushing around a computer screen you’re mousing, as if it’s your cursor. You know what I mean? I guess. Fuck. I was shot out of a cannon at a stove, and he fried up the scrapple of what made it into the pan. The bartender has been drawn into the fray, and loses her professional edge, which makes her endearingly human again. Good bartenders are control freaks at heart, who find the monster within them, and occasionally let them rage. When the place shut we drank for eleven hours, she said. The lease said everyone had to be out Tuesday, when the demo squad came, we’d torn the place to bits. Every bottle was dry, and I suffered immensely, but I have to tell you, it was great. I elbowed the chef and said, That’s the work of a professional. He adroitly high-fives first me, then the bartender, jumps up and bellows, "Damn Right!"


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