I like rituals - not routine but rituals. Sometimes a regular pattern serves as a ritual but it's a pattern with a purpose. In Vietnam our alarm goes off at 5am, we're out the door on our way to the gym at 5:45, walk in the morning heat to the espresso bar at 7 and on to the office at 8. It's not exactly the Holy Eucharist but it is a pattern that serves a purpose. It gets us organized and moving, helps us stay healthy, and while we sip our lattes we have some personal one-on-one time. At the end of the day, if there is not an event to attend, we go out to dinner. We almost never eat at home when we're in Vietnam. Latte's in the morning and dinner in the evening are the bookends that frame our days in Saigon.
In the States the pattern is much different. Latte's in the morning, yes. Dinner in the evening, yes. But, for the most part both meals take place at home. There is a completely different vibe that goes with them. At home, I make the coffee drinks, grab the papers, and we settle in the living room with our respective newspapers. I have the NY Times and Marilynn has the local rag. It's parallel play. At home the gym workout comes at the end of the day and dinner comes after, later than recommended and tired to boot. I think of Vietnam as ritual and home as routine. There is something to be said for eating out.
Eating out is not about the food, although we are both very interested in good food and its preparation. Eating out, at its best, is an event. It involves choices. What kind of food sounds good? What atmosphere do we want? Sports bar, bistro, ethnic, large, small, crowded, intimate? What's the right price point? Bargain or splurge? What's the other clientele likely to be? Young, old, hip, conservative, dressed up or tattered jeans? When we eat at home the choices are limited; it's about the food and how much energy we have to prepare it.
Last weekend we went out. What is really hip these days is a small place with hardly any signage, preferably in an old warehouse, loft or garage, with a polished cement floor, exposed brick walls and an open kitchen. The wait staff wears True Religion jeans and black T-shirts, and the men all have ponytails or shaved heads. It's cosmically chic to be seen there. Of course, we had to go.
The place is called Sitka & Spruce - homage to the Northwest. For several years it was located in a strip mall and was so small that it was almost impossible to get a seat at the communal table. There is something perversely appealing about a place that is so exclusive you can't ever get in. Of course, they didn't take reservations. That would spoil the vibe.
The new location is bigger. This time we managed to get in, but we were seated side by side on stools at a long shelf that runs the length of the restaurant. The good news is that there was a window also running the length and overlooking the alley below. Let there be light. At least we were in. That turned out to be the best part of the evening. It was 15 minutes before the black T-shirt and ponytail came by with menus, and the menus themselves offered only a few "small plates," one of the other tragically hip elements of trendy restaurants these days. Nevertheless, we ordered: she chose a simple garden greens salad and I ordered chicken liver pate on a baguette. We both ordered BIG glasses of wine, and it was a good thing we did. It was another half hour before the $16 salad of bare greenleaf lettuce, lightly dressed and too salty, arrived followed 15 minutes later by my baguette with charred edges.
When we have a bad restaurant experience we always replay a set piece. Marilynn starts by pointing out the obvious shortcomings, then I chime in and start defending the staff. They're really busy. We were the last to come in. The kitchen is backed up. The waiter is trying. Don't complain; it will only make things worse and besides the waiter can't do anything about it. Blah, Blah, Blah. As an ex-restaurant owner I have sympathy for the people on the other side. But - I need to get over it. This was bad service, marginal food, and an interminable wait for two entrees served 15 minutes apart. Did they have to kill the chickens, mince the livers, and mix the terrine in the kitchen while we watched the goings on in the alley? What other explanation could there be for an hour-long wait for pate?
We are suckers for trendy new restaurants, but I hate to waste my money when they don't deliver. We'll never go back to Sitka & Spruce. We'll keep trying the new places because they usually deserve the good hype, at least for awhile. The sad part here is that we go out to have a special intimate social experience. Food is the excuse, but these outings, unlike a play or a movie, are interactive. We go out to share ourselves with each other over a meal. Good restaurateurs know this and work hard to facilitate the experience. I feel cheated when I go home disappointed or angry. But, it's a little like love - you keep on looking until you find it.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Two Places - What is Real These Days?
This weekend I was in Santa Monica. It’s a magical place; but there is something surreal about it. I think it’s because I can’t help comparing it to Vietnam and the contrast is so astonishing. Don’t get me wrong; Santa Monica is fabulous. This morning I grabbed a coffee and walked along the boardwalk, actually a paved multi-use walkway that borders the beach. On Sunday morning, probably every morning, the whole spectrum of humanity is there to feast on – runners, walkers, roller-bladers, cyclists, people in wheelchairs, little people, BIG people, tall bikini clad girls with after-market augmentation, children, Russian speakers, Spanish speakers, Arabic speakers, Asians, Africans, Europeans, gringos, dogs and a guy on a tricked out bike with a huge boombox broadcasting loud enough to carry from Malibu to Manhattan Beach. It’s a crazy wonderful kaleidoscopic visual treat. But I still think it’s a bit surreal.
I flew to LA on Saturday to help arrange an event that will honor a doctor who has been helping the people of Vietnam ever since he served there as a Navy doc 35 years ago. Peter is not a saint, but he does have a big heart and he wants to help reverse some impressions America left with the Vietnamese those long years ago. Not that he needs to do it for the Vietnamese, 65% of that population was born after the war and most of the others have forgiven us or moved on. I have never felt the least bit of resentment toward me as an American, even though America did terrible things to the people and the landscape. Vietnam is fresh in my mind. I’ve been back in the US about a month and I’m still involved with my office in Saigon on a daily basis. I work with my staff there early in the morning and late at night when it’s business hours there. I can almost see the traffic, hear the noise, feel the heat, and smell the smells as if I was actually there. I suppose that’s why Santa Monica seems surreal. It’s such a contrast.
I think the contrast is heightened because in the last 3 months I’ve read two Vietnam war novels; one just released and written by a former Marine platoon commander and the other a few years older by a former NVA soldier who left Hanoi in 1965 and spent the next 10 years in the jungle. Their stories are not that different – not nearly as different as the contrast between Santa Monica and Saigon. The American novel is called Matterhorn, and the author, Karl Marlantes, spent 30 years putting it together. The Vietnamese novel is The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh. It’s one of the most powerful novels I’ve ever read. Karl’s may be in the same category. I haven’t met Bao Ninh and probably never will but I had lunch with Karl Marlantes today. He lives just a few miles from me, and my friend, Kit Duane, edited his book.
I had lunch with another Vietnam vet recently and we agreed that the war in Vietnam, what the Vietnamese call the American War, was the single most important geopolitical event of our respective lifetimes. It has shaped and reshaped the thinking of my generation, My son, Doug, spent 9 months in Afghanistan in 2002 and it’s likely he’ll be there again in 2011. That will be his war. I don’t want him to go, but he’s a Special Forces warrior and it’s part of his contract if he does. Nobody wins these things. If you read Matterhorn or The Sorrow of War you get two sides of the same terrible story – carnage, death, misery, vanity, and a crippling sense of the futility of it all. Santa Monica seems like a dream, war is a nightmare. Saigon has emerged from the nightmare, but it has a long way to go before it feels like Santa Monica.
I flew to LA on Saturday to help arrange an event that will honor a doctor who has been helping the people of Vietnam ever since he served there as a Navy doc 35 years ago. Peter is not a saint, but he does have a big heart and he wants to help reverse some impressions America left with the Vietnamese those long years ago. Not that he needs to do it for the Vietnamese, 65% of that population was born after the war and most of the others have forgiven us or moved on. I have never felt the least bit of resentment toward me as an American, even though America did terrible things to the people and the landscape. Vietnam is fresh in my mind. I’ve been back in the US about a month and I’m still involved with my office in Saigon on a daily basis. I work with my staff there early in the morning and late at night when it’s business hours there. I can almost see the traffic, hear the noise, feel the heat, and smell the smells as if I was actually there. I suppose that’s why Santa Monica seems surreal. It’s such a contrast.
I think the contrast is heightened because in the last 3 months I’ve read two Vietnam war novels; one just released and written by a former Marine platoon commander and the other a few years older by a former NVA soldier who left Hanoi in 1965 and spent the next 10 years in the jungle. Their stories are not that different – not nearly as different as the contrast between Santa Monica and Saigon. The American novel is called Matterhorn, and the author, Karl Marlantes, spent 30 years putting it together. The Vietnamese novel is The Sorrow of War by Bao Ninh. It’s one of the most powerful novels I’ve ever read. Karl’s may be in the same category. I haven’t met Bao Ninh and probably never will but I had lunch with Karl Marlantes today. He lives just a few miles from me, and my friend, Kit Duane, edited his book.
I had lunch with another Vietnam vet recently and we agreed that the war in Vietnam, what the Vietnamese call the American War, was the single most important geopolitical event of our respective lifetimes. It has shaped and reshaped the thinking of my generation, My son, Doug, spent 9 months in Afghanistan in 2002 and it’s likely he’ll be there again in 2011. That will be his war. I don’t want him to go, but he’s a Special Forces warrior and it’s part of his contract if he does. Nobody wins these things. If you read Matterhorn or The Sorrow of War you get two sides of the same terrible story – carnage, death, misery, vanity, and a crippling sense of the futility of it all. Santa Monica seems like a dream, war is a nightmare. Saigon has emerged from the nightmare, but it has a long way to go before it feels like Santa Monica.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Friendship
In 1962 I was in the entering class at UC Berkeley's Boalt Hall. There were 250 of us and we were divided into 3 classes sorted alphabetically. By the end of the year I knew almost everyone A-H.
Like all social organisms we also sorted ourselves - mostly by age and experience. When you're 25, three or four years can seem significant. That year I made friends with Dick Duane. Dick had spent a couple of years as a Naval officer and I was coming off a 4 year stint as a Marine Corps pilot. He was a swimmer and water polo player at Cal, so we often went down to the pool at Pauley Pavilion to swim laps. Dick did 3 to every 1 of mine.
When I think back on those years I don't remember spending much off-campus time with him - maybe an occasional beer at Larry Blake's or down College Avenue at McNally's, but he had his friends - and Kit, the girl he married - and I had another group that lived in a big house on Scenic Ave and drank beer and played music on the weekends. I think Dick was more serious than I was. As it turns out, he was also a better musician but I didn't find that out until years later. He was pretty quiet when it came to talking about himself.
For 3 years we continued our lunchtime swims and casual conversations. Those were heady days in Berkeley. During the summer of 1964 Dick went to rural Georgia to work on a civil rights project and that fall the Free Speech Movement took over the campus.
After graduation I went to Europe, then to Los Angeles where I found out that practicing law was not for me, and then on to New York when I took a job with Pan Am. Dick stayed in Berkeley. 45 years later he's still there.
Law school was formative, and I remember this incident clearly: Sometime in our first year Professor Jackson, a humorless straight-arrow Contracts teacher, gave us a piece of homespun advice. He told us that there was great satisfaction to be had in being a small town general practioner. Picture Abe Lincoln. We all thought he was demented. Everything in a major law school points to the large corporate law firm as the highest and best career path. I can tell you that for me life at Loeb & Loeb in LA was a mind-numbing experience. So much so that I never tried Professor Jackson's formula. Dick, however, did take that path. He's been handling small to medium size cases across a variety of disciplines for 45 years. He's still doing it, although his son Dan is getting tired of hearing that "This one is my last case."
Dick and I have stayed friends and in touch over all those years, even though we have never lived in the same place and made different choices. Dick continued his practice, married Kit, had two children, became a rock climber (climbed El Capitan when he was 60) and developed a taste for vacations in France. Kit became an accomplished book editor and last year edited Karl Marlantes Vietnam war novel, Matterhorn , which Sebastian Junger says "may be the best novel of the Vietnam war - or any war for that matter." In short, they have led interesting and productive lives.
Dick and I talk on the phone every couple of months and Marilynn and I have had the good fortune to see them on visits when I have to work in Oakland. They've been married almost 50 years. They live in a small Berkeleyesque house on the unglamorous flats below Shattuck. They've been there 30 years. Their son, Dan, is an accomplished novelist and magazine writer and daughter Kelly is an award winning documentary film maker. Dick and Kit are great friends - and my heroes. They are perfectly ordinary in many ways and perfectly exceptional in many others. They are accomplished professionals at their work, they have two accomplished children who alternately love and hate them, they love their friends and go to the mat to celebrate each other's accomplishments.
Everyone has a story. I like theirs.
Like all social organisms we also sorted ourselves - mostly by age and experience. When you're 25, three or four years can seem significant. That year I made friends with Dick Duane. Dick had spent a couple of years as a Naval officer and I was coming off a 4 year stint as a Marine Corps pilot. He was a swimmer and water polo player at Cal, so we often went down to the pool at Pauley Pavilion to swim laps. Dick did 3 to every 1 of mine.
When I think back on those years I don't remember spending much off-campus time with him - maybe an occasional beer at Larry Blake's or down College Avenue at McNally's, but he had his friends - and Kit, the girl he married - and I had another group that lived in a big house on Scenic Ave and drank beer and played music on the weekends. I think Dick was more serious than I was. As it turns out, he was also a better musician but I didn't find that out until years later. He was pretty quiet when it came to talking about himself.
For 3 years we continued our lunchtime swims and casual conversations. Those were heady days in Berkeley. During the summer of 1964 Dick went to rural Georgia to work on a civil rights project and that fall the Free Speech Movement took over the campus.
After graduation I went to Europe, then to Los Angeles where I found out that practicing law was not for me, and then on to New York when I took a job with Pan Am. Dick stayed in Berkeley. 45 years later he's still there.
Law school was formative, and I remember this incident clearly: Sometime in our first year Professor Jackson, a humorless straight-arrow Contracts teacher, gave us a piece of homespun advice. He told us that there was great satisfaction to be had in being a small town general practioner. Picture Abe Lincoln. We all thought he was demented. Everything in a major law school points to the large corporate law firm as the highest and best career path. I can tell you that for me life at Loeb & Loeb in LA was a mind-numbing experience. So much so that I never tried Professor Jackson's formula. Dick, however, did take that path. He's been handling small to medium size cases across a variety of disciplines for 45 years. He's still doing it, although his son Dan is getting tired of hearing that "This one is my last case."
Dick and I have stayed friends and in touch over all those years, even though we have never lived in the same place and made different choices. Dick continued his practice, married Kit, had two children, became a rock climber (climbed El Capitan when he was 60) and developed a taste for vacations in France. Kit became an accomplished book editor and last year edited Karl Marlantes Vietnam war novel, Matterhorn , which Sebastian Junger says "may be the best novel of the Vietnam war - or any war for that matter." In short, they have led interesting and productive lives.
Dick and I talk on the phone every couple of months and Marilynn and I have had the good fortune to see them on visits when I have to work in Oakland. They've been married almost 50 years. They live in a small Berkeleyesque house on the unglamorous flats below Shattuck. They've been there 30 years. Their son, Dan, is an accomplished novelist and magazine writer and daughter Kelly is an award winning documentary film maker. Dick and Kit are great friends - and my heroes. They are perfectly ordinary in many ways and perfectly exceptional in many others. They are accomplished professionals at their work, they have two accomplished children who alternately love and hate them, they love their friends and go to the mat to celebrate each other's accomplishments.
Everyone has a story. I like theirs.
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