Annual Musings

Salutation

2005 Year in Review Letter

2005 was a whirlwind year! Love affairs, break-ups, catfights -- I don't even know where to begin.

Brangelina shook me up. My advice to you, *Jennifer: mandible up. Remember, Annette, Elissa, and I are here for you when you visit Chicago next and we promise to no longer stalk you at **Lawry's if you'll merely consent to us treating you to a cup of coffee and sympathy at Julius Meinl.

Then -- WHAM! -- TomKat pounced! That Katie -- I just want to shake her! Sister, if you're reading this letter right now -- and I bet you are -- turn away! Maybe you should have a chat with Renee Zellweger. I'm just sayin'.

There's more. I worried all year of the health of the LaShey/Simpson marriage, tried to reconcile the fact that Paris and Nicole may never transcend their differences, and attempted to follow Wilmar Valderama's lovelife. That boy has more girlfriends than Guidant has lawsuits. It's a shame -- he seems so nice on that tv show.

So you can see, as boring and superficial as my life may seem at first glance, it's actually quite rich and exciting!

*GQ's Woman of the Year

**The Prime Rib

I Shouldn't Have to Tell You

2005 Year in Review Letter (continued)

Welcome to my annual *Year in Review: 2005 (the 'year in review' part is annual -- the '2005' part is not. The '2005' part increases yearly by increments of one. Last year, for example, was Year in Review: 2004. And so on).

You know the rules. Kids tucked in and sound asleep? TV off? Have you poured yourself a drink? Bec -- oops, sorry -- Rebecca: still drinking Old Fashioneds? They're so...Central Wisconsin. You should switch to champagne if you're going to go by Rebecca. Mark: are you swirling a snifter of some sort of obscure apple liquer of German origin? Gut. Sjur and Briar: put down the quarter collection and indulge me: have a glass of wine. It won't kill you. I am, like, so not kidding on this point, my peeps -- if I'm going to devote hours writing a letter to you, the least that you can do is sit your ass down and share a drink with me. I enjoy your company. That, and, my writing is only amusing (to use the term loosely) if my readers are mildly intoxicated.

*Four pages of inane ramblings, inflicted each December

Cat-astrophe

2005 Year in Review Letter

Pat Mayer, that lame pun of a title is for you.

I began the year with good intentions. Determined to involve myself in a charity, I signed-up for fostering a family of kittens in my spare bedroom. Seems harmless enough, right?

Wrong. I should have asked my lawyer to accompany me to the shelter when I picked up Daphne and her brood of four. Before embarking on my good deed I was forced to sign several affidavits swearing to to the quality of care I would provide to my (homeless, abandoned, underpriviledged) boarders, including:

• A constant room temperature of 72 degrees (my condo is normally 67 during the day, and 60 at night)
• 24/7 music, preferably hip hop
• Designer cat food, available only at the Lincoln Park pet boutique Barker and Meowsky, at $1 per 4 ounce can (each kitten consumed approximately eight ounces daily)

Prior to the kitten arrival I purchased bedding for their corner of the room and invested in a gate to contain them there. I also provided a brand-new litterbox, which I soon learned would be an object of mirth and derision.

The kittens were cute for about five minutes. Then all hell broke loose. Osama, the ringleader, scaled the gate immediately, leading the way for the rest of the henchkitten, some of whom chased one another up my pantleg (did I mention their needle-fine claws?), across my back, off my shoulders, and onto the bed (with new coverlet) below.

Fido, my sensitive, neurotic, middle child, was traumatized by the invasion: he refused to eat, drink, or use the litter during the entire kitten taliban occupation of the guest quarters. I assumed he was reacting to the situation, but took him to the vet just to be safe -- she found nothing wrong with him.

And then there was the crapping. Those little furballs crapped with abandon. They were relentless. I was the Dunkin' Donuts guy, only instead of stumbling downstairs each morning at 4:00 a.m., half-asleep, mumbling "gotta make the donuts" I droned "gotta pick up the crap". I swathed the entire room in plastic wrap to no avail -- the endless waste removal was a Sisyphean task. I had nightmares of them crapping down the register, which I had to leave uncovered to keep the room at the required 72 degrees. Those kittens eventually won their little crap jihad against me and twelve days later, feeling like a COMPLETE loser, a quitter, and a terrible person, I returned them to the shelter. I was depressed for days.

All total, my expenses included: an ineffective cat gate ($100), a single-use boombox ($25), overpriced cat food ($100), additional petsitting fees ($45), soiled bedding ($100), an increase in my heating bill ($200), an untouched litter box ($60), futile plastic wrap ($10), and an unnecessary vet bill ($65): $705.

Next year I'll just make a donation.

Quebec: Comme ci, Comme ca

2005 Year in Review Letter

I longed to return to France this past spring, but I'm not allowed back into the country until the Taittingers remove the restraining order. So I settled for the next best thing: Quebec!

I began in Quebec City. The perpetual gray skies, omnipresent squalls, and occasional rain shower only added to the city's ambience, or so I kept telling myself. I may have missed something, but my impression of Quebec City is that it's more commercial and touristy than quaint and charming, although the Chateau Frontenac is impressive (albeit slighty imposing) and your time and Canadian dollar are well-spent enjoying a cocktail in the bar while taking in the St. Lawrence there.

I spent my remaining days in Montreal. Definitely an improvement over Quebec City -- it's possible to immerse yourself in the surroundings and forget for a moment that you're still in North America. I'd burst my own fantasy bubble, however, whenever I attempted to speak the language. Mustering every gram of confidence I possessed, I'd attempt to order a beer:

Waitperson:     "Bonjour, Madame. Qu'est-ce que vous voudrais?

Me:    "Mademoiselle. Je voudrais une biere, s'il vous plais."

Waitperson:     "You wanna Budweiser?"

Humiliating on multiple levels. I was tempted to reply to the waitpeople, "You know, you're not really living in Paris. Au contraire, Pierre. This is Montreal, not Paris, and you're in Quebec, not France. Pretend Paris, faux France. So lay off my French, d'accord?" It usually came out something like this:

Me:     "May I have another Budweiser, please? Thank you."

Intermission

2005 Year in Review Letter

I know that two pages are more than most of you are accustomed to reading in one sitting, so take a minute to stretch. Stand up. Breath deeply. Touch your feet. Now stand on your toes, raise your hands over your head, and lean to the right and left, back and forth, like a tree swaying in the breeze. You did what, JM?! You were supposed to let go of it first. Yes, you can pour yourself another. Dumbshit. The rest of you might as well refresh your drinks as well while we're at it. I'll wait, but hurry! The Soup is on in a couple minutes.

Next Post: El Bulli (I'm not worthy!)

El Bulli ("I'm Not Worthy!"), Part I

2005 Year in Review Letter

Ya know, despite vacationing in Quebec, nearly moving to Texas (shudder), and touring the Basque countryside, I'm really not a separatist.

About this time last year many of the magazines that I read (Highlights, Dynamite, Mad, Teen People, etc.) featured articles on the revolutionary cuisine served in the restaurants of Northern Spain -- most notably, El Bulli. The chef, Ferran Adria, graced the cover of nearly every pubication. According to one article, the restaurant receives over 400,000 reservation requests annually, of which only 8,000 are granted.

As usual, I had nothing better to do, so I hand-wrote letters, on personalized stationery, to Ferran and the owner, addressed to their restaurant in Roses and their laboratory in Barcelona. I may have mentioned being a single, female traveler, flying from Chicago to Spain for the sole purpose of experiencing their culinary magic. And that I had one year to live. And it would be a shame if I died a virgin.

Two weeks later I received an e-mail informing me that my request for a reservation was confirmed. I was so pissed later when Restaurant magazine (a UK publication), demoted El Bulli to merely the second-best restaurant in the world for 2005, runner-up to some dumb place (Homer: "stupid restaurant!") in England. Meanies.

El Bulli ("I'm Not Worthy!"), Part II

2005 Year in Review Letter

After 24 hours of fasting, three planes, a train, and a bus, I finally arrived in Roses. Took a nap, dressed for dinner, and met my car. No way was I driving. Not only is securing reservations un-heard of, reaching the restaurant itself is near-impossible. El Bulli is wedged into the side of a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. The approach consists of several blind, single-lane, hairpin curves that require drivers traveling in both directions to honk and flash their lights before risking the bends that they share.

I was granted a tour of the kitchen when I arrived -- every diner is -- but I did not spy Ferran, much to my dismay. My meal lasted from 8:00 p.m. (criminally early, by Spanish standards) to midnight and at no point was I bored. Granted, I had informed my sommelier to pair wine with each course as he deemed fit. All 31 courses.

The experience? A cross between Willy Wonka, 9 1/2 Weeks, The Jetsons, Dr. Seuss, and The Applegates vs. The Mullens: New Year's Eve circa 1975. A gustatory marathon? Scary, and exciting, and ultimately draining? As the guest/victim/audience/honoree, I was expected to relinquish control and succomb to the mad genius of Ferran.

El Bulli ("I'm Not Worthy!") Part III

2005 Year in Review Letter

The adventure began with a martini glass spilling over with cotton candy. My server drizzled a liquid over it, and the contents transformed into a pina colada. Yay! No sooner would I finish one dish than another, more bizarre number followed: itty-bitty spherical scoops of canteloupe impersonating caviar, served in a tin; foams extracted from rose petals; pine nut-infused snow; pitless green olives bulging with oil, served on coke spoons, that burst in my mouth; and a Slinky formed of spun sugar, presented in an elaborate box. The server ordered me to use my extended index finger as my sole utensil for the Slinky course, and of course I did so (looking like a complete dork).

Dominatrices by day; servers by night. At times the waitstaff commanded me: "It is very important that you eat this in one bite" and then they'd present me with a ball of dough the size of a grown man's fist. They frequently barked, "It is very important that you eat this now." I was pathetically compliant. For example, at their urging, I popped an amber capsule (topped with edible gold foil) into my mouth, unwittingly causing the liquid center to bypass my teeth and squirt across my table in a graceful arc. And I wonder why I can't get a date.

About half-way through the meal, one of the servers practically apologized to me, "The menu gets interesting now." Well, thank God, I was becoming so. Bored. I won't even attempt to describe the courses that followed.

I stumbled out of the restaurant at midnight, in a gluttonous daze, to await my driver. It was a little dizzy out that evening, so I perched on the steps. Quite by accident I gazed down through the windows at my side into the kitchen and directly over Ferran's shoulder as he paged through a magazine at his desk. I was so close that I followed along with him. A couple minutes passed, he intuited that he was being observed, and he turned around. Ferran stared straight at me (busted!) and smiled. I smiled back.

As if El Bulli wasn't plenty surreal, the next day I hopped a bus to Figueres and visited the Salvador Dali museum. The building wasn't difficult to locate, what with the two-story-tall eggs lining the perimeter of the roof. Silly, yet brilliant stuff. The Dali Museum inFigueres is now my all-time favorite museum, after The Runestone Museum, of course.

Bilbao

2005 Year in Review Letter

Bilbao: thumbs down. The Guggenheim: two thumbs and one index finger up. The virtual tour-guide informed us, in an over-the-top English accent (much like the invisible lady who directs you through the Minneapolis airport) that the titanium surface is the thickness of toilet paper. And that every panel is computer-generated and differs from the next. He advised us to "refresh our spirits from the demands of contemporary art" by stroking the structure's carp-like scales. Damned if half the people in the room weren't carressing the walls, mouths agape.

Some of the art was good -- there was a Lichtenstein or two -- but the inevitable "crap thinly-disguised as modern art" graced the occasional gallery. I will never be convinced that the unfolded cardboard box draped in string and stapled to the wall is art.

The Billionaires Beside Me

2005 Year in Review Letter

I continued on to San Sebastian, a charming seaside town (Quebec City could learn a thing or two from it) known for its preserved turn-of-the-century architecture and devotion to tapas. Every evening around 8:00, the entire population materialized and roamed the decrepit alleyways, migrating from one tapas bar to the another. I just followed the crowds, pointing at, and eating, what they ate. I especially loved the little cliques of octogenarian women with back-combed hair who stolled the streets arm-in-arm in their formal clothes and sturdy heels.

I pre-booked a lunch reservation at Arzak, generally considered the second-best restaurant in Spain. I did my homework over the internet in advance so I knew that Arzak was buddies with Ferran and that he had retired and passed the role of chef on to his daugher, Elena, who was filling his cooking clogs with aplomb.

Once seated, I opened my little notebook, ready to take notes. Apparently the folks at Arzak are unaccustomed to single women diners taking notes. In fact, Elena abandoned her post in the kitchen specifically to speak with me. She casually asked if I was a restaurant reviewer. I replied no, that I was either a Market Development Manager or a Fellow Program Manager -- I wasn't quite sure which. She was attentive, friendly, and obviously didn't believe me.

I don't usually consume a 14-course meal for lunch -- I typically eat a microwaved wiener (with my fingers). Sometimes I garnish it with Pringles. But as I was dining at ARZAK, I opted for the entire tasting menu. The middle-aged couple from Sydney seated next to me were amused by my gumption (stupidity). We chatted.

By the third course I learned that they owned a home in Aspen. By the fourth I knew that their jet had been custom-built. By the fifth I had discovered that they owned yachts on three continents. And by the seventh course -- by the seventh course I was miserably full. I ate half of my rape, a tasty (albeit misfortunately-named) fish that is popular in Europe, and set aside the remainder of the dish.

As soon as my plate was cleared Elena appeared, overwrought. I explained to her that I don't even eat entrees as a rule, let alone 14 courses. After that, I assured my server repeatedly "Me gusto! Me gusta!" (I didn't know the correct conjugation) whenever she removed an unfinished course.

The Howells were amused. They invited me to join them and their crew, THE AUSTRALIAN OLYMPIC SAILING TEAM, at the Chicago Regatta in three weeks. And, on my way out of Arzak, I was the only diner granted a private kitchen tour. Not a bad lunch.

P.s. I googled The Howells as soon as I had internet access. They're worth between $750 million and $1 billion. But that's merely Australian dollars...