28 May 2005

It’s almost midnight. I just got back from a twelve-hour day of catering in Napa. 110 miles round trip. Sometimes I beat myself up for being lazy and unproductive, but I think I make up for it on days like this. Last year, I worked six days a week until I started school, so I guess I’m not really lazy, except when I can be.

It was a rehearsal dinner for the wedding of a scion of the New England high mandariniat. I cannot tell you which institution his father heads, but it’s one of the oldest in the United States (founded at the outside edge of the 17th century). 132 guests at a winery that doesn’t, as a rule, deign to host weddings. We did most of the cooking outside, on the patio, on two long grills (oak and madrone wood) and two big restaurant stoves installed just for us, facing the vineyards and the hills between Napa and Sonoma. I spent the afternoon prepping under the shade of a gingko tree (how Goethe-ische, I know) and watching the afternoon light slope over the vineyards. The crew was all people who had worked together at the restaurant, so it was easy and efficient.

From here on down it’s all food, so come back tomorrow if you’re not interested. I’ve written this long description for two people in particular. The chef’s husband is a vegetable farmer. He has probably one of the best in farms California. Everything had been picked for her that morning by the farm hands, so it was fresh and abundant.

For hors d’oeuvres we made: three little toasts with squab livers & fresh porcini, or a green fava bean purée, or a baked sheep’s milk ricotta; and pizzas with nettles, peccorino, and green garlic; and a fritto misto of squid, Meyer lemon slices, green shallot tempura (like spring onions, only the shallot version), fried summer savory, and my favorite, brandade fritters (make your favorite brandade, and then mix it into a beer-batter (beer, cake flour, cornstarch, and b. powder), and drop by spoonfuls into the oil). (I was Fry Daddy).

Then the first course: platters of salumi; a fennel and artichoke salad with a lemon-anchovy vinaigrette; and an arugula salad with condimento balsamico and walnut oil.

Then the main course: grilled beef marinated in rosemary and garlic, served with a breadcrumb salsa verde; wild salmon baked in a fig leaf with nasturtium butter; baby potatoes (smaller than marbles) with new garlic and morels; and grilled asparagus.

Dessert (it couldn’t be a cake, so as not to upstage tomorrow’s meal) was an apricot tart with sabayon and fraises de bois, and bowls of cherries. Service went well, but I did have to bark a few times at the young waiters (not part of our crew) to step it up a little. We all had a glass of Bandol rosé before the long drive home.

The wedding reception tomorrow will be held at a famous institution in the Napa Valley — we couldn’t help but think how disappointed they’ll be in the food there (it will be prepared by “trained professionals” who will be showing off their overwrought “technique” rather than the food, which is perhaps for the best, since they won’t be starting off with raw ingredients half as good as we had, and the budget will be the real focus, not the food. Fifty-to-one odds that they'll pile all the food high on the plate in a "stack" set in a puddle of bright-colored "sauce" or an "emulsion" or an "unemulsified gastrique."

Since we had as much of everything that we wanted or needed — there was easily $100 worth of fraises de bois on the dessert alone — we could be generous, and we could let the food taste like itself.

Yes, I am an elitist. Yes, I am a snob about these things. But I am right to insist on the difference and the superiority of the genuine over the bogus, of the pure over the fake, of the simple over the overwrought. It’s much harder to achieve greatness in something that is simple in effect than in something fussy and bedazzled. Compare a Balenciaga gown with the messiness of Gautier or Steven Sprouse.

24 May 2005 – 10 PM

Much inanition today. I don’t know where the afternoon went. I would have gone back to the beach, but I’m still sunburnt. I’m avoiding writing my paper. I got an invitation to a Memorial Day barbeque (a whole wild salmon), for which I’m going to make a rhubarb tarte à la Parisienne: a short crust (baked blind), filled with pastry cream and little chunks of poached rhubarb, and a crispy meringue  (baked separately, of course), set on top. It’s a marvel: two types of crunch (buttery from the crust and crispy from the meringue), a sweet, creamy-custardy filling, and the bitter and acid tang of the rhubarb.  And Monday will be the Official Opening Day of Rosé Season. Clear some space in the fridge.

24 May 2005, 7:45 AM

I’m leaving early this morning to try to attend the oral argument before the California Supreme Court of the case I argued in my moot court class. The three consolidated cases all relate to lesbian parental rights, so I imagine there will be a big crowd for a small courtroom. Wish me luck in getting in.

22 May 2005

The beach was just what I needed. The surf was high, it wasn’t too hot, too windy, or too crowded. The recent rains have kept the scrub brush bright green and bountiful, especially the poison oak. The little path down to the beach was nearly choked off by bushes in many places. Fortunately, poison oak doesn’t grown on the slippery section down the face the cliff (where I fell three times). A few more rock slides have occurred since the last time I was there. I set up my towel, and very carefully removed my jeans, turning them inside out so that I wouldn’t touch any of the poison oak oil that was now on them. I used sand and icy ocean water to try to wash off the places on my arms and ankles where I had been brushed by the pretty green-and-red poison oak leaves. I then went on a little walk. The only guys there were naked Captain Kangaroo impersonators, so headed over the rocks to the middle beach, which looked deserted. On the way over, I made the acquaintance of a hunky guy, mid-thirties, buzz cut, nice furry chest, tan, big arms (you can tell where this is going). At that point, we had the whole middle beach to ourselves, so one thing led to another. After, we talked for about two hours: life, boyfriends (he has one), jobs, monogamy in gay relationships, and so forth. Back at my own beach, I ran into a guy I met a few years ago, but this time we talked. He’s the brother of one of the vendors at the farmers’ market: now I know why he looks so familiar. How could I not like someone who brought a book on Brunelleschi’s dome to the beach?

Needless-to-say, I did not get much done on my writing project. I’m definitely ambivalent about it, but I know that I will regret not doing it if I slack off. I wish someone would come over and tie me to my chair in front of the computer.

19 May 2005

I finished my last final yesterday. Woohoo. I think it went well enough, but figuring out the new basis in like-kind exchanges is never going to be my thing. At least now I know enough about taxes to know when to refer my (future) clients to a tax attorney. The only thing left to do for this semester is the law-review write-on, which doesn’t begin until tomorrow. We celebrated yesterday morning (11:45 AM) with champagne and then bourbon.

This period always seems like the real end of the year to me. New Year’s Day should be June 1, with the whole summer ahead of us to start over again. Plans: dinner parties! the gym! the beach! the Yuba River! dating! A little holiday: Canada (Toronto and Montreal) or Brazil! And, most importantly, contacting a friend who has gone abroad, suddenly, and is possibly going astray. I just got a phone call from a mutual friend who is also worried about him. . . .

17 May 2005

So, the Canadian government didn’t fall today.

One more final to go. I had a little crisis yesterday when it seemed that I didn’t understand much of anything and that I had waited too long to try to grasp any income tax concepts. I’m feeling a little better today, but I’m not going to say that I’m “confident,” because that’s a sure way of landing yourself in trouble. Please send good vibes to your poor Cunégonde tomorrow as she struggles with Section 1031 transactions, etc., from 8:30 to 11:30 AM, PDT. She will send abundant gratitude your way.

Taxpayers can claim certain deductions if their property is lost in a fire, storm, or from other casualties. There are limitations, however. "When the taxpayer's Siamese cat destroyed a vase during a neurotic fit, a deduction for a casualty loss for the vase was denied, as the fit was not 'of the same character' as a fire, storm, or shipwreck." Dyer v. Commissioner, 20 T.C.M. 705 (1961).

I must be going to a very gay gym when one of the personal trainers, a tall, stocky, butch-looking chap, is wearing makeup! Not mascara, but foundation and just a hint of blush to accent his cheekbones.

And I also had the pleasure of being introduced to the boyfriend of the guy who was so friendly to me at the party on Saturday night. I didn’t say anything catty like “Oh! You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!” but I thought about it. It’s not the non-mahogany [I can’t say the other word] I object to, of course, it’s just the fact that he kept me in the dark.

15 May 2005

About Last Night.

So I’ve seen your handsome face around town for the last year. You always come over to talk to me – at the gym, in El Rio, on the street. I go to the birthday party last night knowing that 150 guys would be there, most of them very eligible and age-appropriate. After I talk to the hosts and get myself a drink, I press through the crowd on my way to the balcony. You’re talking with friends when you see me. You spin around, grab my arm and introduce me to your friends. You then blow them off to talk to me — the usual getting-to-know-you kind of conversation you might have with someone you want to know better. We soon discover that we have the same birthday(!), just one year apart. We talk about birthday plans, our jobs, our siblings, our plans for the summer. We split up for a bit because one of your friends needs to talk to you privately. I wander around, talk to a few guys, and so on.

You find me again, and again you ditch your friends to come talk to me. You start getting a little frisky. You want to leave early so that you can run the Bay-to-Piss-Breakers the next morning. You ask if I’m going to run it in the nude. When I say I’m too shy for that, you tell me that you’ve already seen me naked at the gym and that I don’t have anything to be shy about. By this point you have me hooked. Your friends squeeze over to talk to us as you’re hanging all over me. They want to stay; you’re ready to go, as am I, so I give you a ride home. You tell me that you’d love to hang out with me — go for a coffee or a drink or “something.” When we get to your place, we exchange numbers and a big, long kiss. You tell me you don’t want to invite me upstairs because you’re going to get up early in the morning and you need your sleep. That’s fine with me. I’m patient. So when I get home, I look you up on Friendster. I know we must have friends in common. Sure enough, I find your profile –  status: “in a relationship,” meaning a big dog and a boyfriend. Your boyfriend’s profile (recently updated) says that you two are “married” and describes how lucky he feels to have you in his life. There’s even a nice picture of the two of you with your dog.

Did you really need to lead me along like that? It’s fine to flirt but couldn’t you have casually mentioned the word “we” as you talked about your life? I’ve lived here long enough to know that I should have asked the “San Francisco Question” (“So, are you single?”), but couldn’t you have at least dropped a hint that you aren’t available?

Thanks so much for the lovely evening.

11 May 2005

Thanks for the good vibes. I think the test went well enough. You never really know how well you did on an exam here – it’s all so capricious. I’m trying not to kick myself for the things I now know I missed – the things that woke me up from a bad dream, which was a combination of the hypo (involving a vicious dog), and other bad stuff.

A little touching to report: I’m not going to go into details, but it involved the S&P Daddy and the Silent Spaniard. Slightly tawdry, but in a good way, and just what the doctor ordered.

It’s warm and sunny, and I had waffles for breakfast, so it’s not all bad.

7 May 2005

Still no phone service or DSL at home. Daddy's getting cranky.

Farmers' market report: asparagus, strawberries, wild salmon (caught off Half Moon Bay), duck sausages, and rapini.

For lunch, I poached the salmon in a little puddle of white vermouth, water, olive oil; I reduced the liquid a little to make a sauce, sprinkled a little fleur de sel on top for crunch and seasoning.

Mostly studying. I slept over ten hours last night and feel much better for it.

Note to the gays: when a guy on Craigslist claims he has an "athletic build" but isn't "judgmental about body types," it means that he has put on a lot of chub since that picture was taken, and that you shouldn't be judgmental about it either.

5 May 05

Happy Boys' Day! Better than a palindromic date.

 Sorry for the silence. I don't have any phone service and thus no DSL., and thus almost no access to the internet. Fucking SBC (please go back to the Texas shithole that you came from and give us back our phone company) has a "major line problem." I and half my neighbors have had no phone service for a few days; the ETA on the repair is next week, May 10th, 8 p.m. No apologies; it's just fucked. The only way I can get on the internet is to hop on surreptitiously to some neighbor's wireless, but do to that, I have to hold my laptop up to the window at a very precise angle while keeping my fingers crossed.

First final was today. Did not go well. I'm fucked. Oh, well. Three more to go.

I did have a nice evening. I went to the local wine shop, which was holding a tasting of Loire wines that are imported by someone I trust. We tried ten: a Muscadet, a Quincy Blanc (sauvignon blanc), a Ménetou Salon Blanc (my favorite, and another sauvignon blanc, though completely different), a Vouvray (chenin blanc), a sparkling Vouvray (ditto), a Ménetou Salon Rouge (pinot noir), a Saumur Champigny (cabernet franc), a Bourgeuil (ditto), a Vouvray Demi-Sec, and a late-harvest Chenin Blanc.  All basically hand-made wines from small vineyards, and all made (or rather, allowed) to taste of where they're from (terroir), and not constructed to fit some preconceived "flavor profile."  I ran into friends there. We then headed off to Canteen for dinner, where we ran into even more friends. I loved Canteen. It's a small place; one cook (the owner-chef), maybe 20 seats. The food was great and just right. We split a bottle of rosé Champagne. A little amuse-guele of piquillo peppers and chorizo to start, and a spring vegetable salad (peas, fava bean puree, thin ribbons of asparagus, with a verjus sorbet—sounds much fussier than it was);  a  rillon de porc (imagine a confit of pork belly, sliced and browned) with a pickled onion and sultana salad and a mustard sauce; and then ravioli with peas and morels, and  wild salmon (the first of the season), with leeks, and a strawberry soufflé to finish. And homemade brioche.  It kept my mind off my future bad grade.

2 May 2005

Another palindromic date. How could I not post?

I've been tied to my desk, outlining and studying. I discovered a very cool new application, MindManager, that lets you map ideas instead of structuring them linearly, as in a traditional outline or a (god forbid) PowerPoint “presentation.”  Here’s a sample of my (unfinished) map of the criminal offense of Attempt.

I haven’t been enjoying the nice weather, but the air is very fresh and clear. When I leave the gym in the Castro, I can see all the way down Market Street to the Ferry Building’s clock tower and the East Bay hills beyond.

And I’m worried about poor Chad Fox. I hope he’s OK.