30 August 2003

It started out OK (farmers’ market) and then went downhill. I came home and won a shouting match with the jackass yuppie neighbors (hint: don’t mess with a fag whose mother has just been diagnosed with congestive heart failure. I berated them into slack-jawed silence — just standing there with their mouths open like startled rodents. I haven’t done that in a while. So unlike me.), then a visit with dear mum in the hospital, and then I get home and couldn’t get into my building since the lock on the front door is busted. We can’t even get out that door now. I had to have a beer at Suppenküche (a Leffe Blonde, bitte) to gather my wits. I am almost strong enough to break the lock off in the door but thought better of it. B. took me in and gave me soup and sympathy until the neighbors got home.

And a sex club has opened just a block away. Might have to check it out.

28 August 2003

I thought I had a job, but now I don’t. I found out this morning that the future client is now thinking that he doesn’t need a private chef seven days a week, but only four or five, which his current cook can cover. I was going to work three days a week for him. He’s also changed the schedule for this weekend several times in last three days: first a dinner for two, then a dinner for twenty, then a dinner for 8-10, and now, no dinner at all: they’ll be gone. Oh well. Back to the poorhouse for your Cunégonde. Is this a job I should take or run from screaming?

27 August 2003

On a wall-sofa, crowned with flowers and aigrettes, sat Conca, Marchioness of Macarnudo.

“Que tal?"

“My joie de vivre is finished; still, it’s amazing how I go on!” the Marchioness answered, making a corner for the duchess. She had known her “dearest Luiza” since the summer melted the church bells and their rakish, pleasure-loving hearts had dissolved together. But this had not been yesterday; no; for the Marchioness was a grandmother now.

“Conca, Conca: one sees you’re in love.”

“He’s from Avila, dear – the footman.”

“What!”

“Nothing classic – but, oh!”

“Fresh and blond? I’ve seen him.”

“Such sep . . . ”

“Sanitago be praised!”

The Marchioness of Macarnudo plied her fan.

“Our hands first met at table. . . yes, dear; but what I always say is, one spark explodes the mine!” And with a sigh she glanced rhapsodically at her fingers, powdered and manicured and encrusted with rings. “Our hands first met at table,” she repeated.

“And … the rest?” the duchess gasped.

“I sometimes wish, though, I resembled by sister more, who cares only for amorous, ‘delicate’ men – the Claudes, so to speak. But there it is! And, anyway, dear,” the Marchioness dropped her voice, “he keeps me from thinking (ah perhaps more than I should) of my little grandson. Imagine, Luiza . . . Fifteen, white and vivid rose, and ink-black hair…” And the Marchioness cast a long, pencilled eye towards the world-famous Pietà above her head. “Queen of Heaven, defend a weak woman from that!” she besought.

---Ronald Firbank, Concerning the Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli

25 August 2003

One of the other cooks decided that we should make a short film together called “Busser Love” to document how cooks fall in love unrequitedly with bussers. He’s married, but he gets riled up by a slim Lolita who comes by to vacuum the dining room in the afternoon. He won’t talk to her because it’s too dangerous to his monogamy. As the final credits roll, we will have shots of one of the cooks who is successfully dating a busgirl.

I had my try-out dinner for the private chef job tonight. I think it went well enough, though it took me 20 minutes to light all of the candles. Eggplant sandwiches, marinated artichokes, and leeks à la vinaigrette; an iced cucumber soup with a halibut tartare; then salmon in a tomato-spinach sauce that my grandmother used to make; and then pluot tartlettes. I was busy. Lots of hand-washing of china and glasses. I wish I could show you the view from the patio.

It's hot again and I'm tan again. I wish I could show you a view of my tanline. All those Brazilian bathing suits have left a fine chiaroscuro effect.

22 August 2003

I grilled lamb tonight, with a chili-pepper and vinegar marinade à la Basquaise.  Yum.

I came out to little foxy J. about trade school. He’s applying this fall too, and is taking the same test I am in October. I’m envious because I think he has been scoring better than I did. I'm more competitive than I like to admit. He thought I was joking about school because he only knows me as a sweaty cook and not someone with the exalted title of “Chief Editor” in my other life, responsible for the functioning of a whole (but small) division of a company. I fed him scraps and confessed that he could have me wrapped around his little finger if he wanted. He’s applying to many of the same schools, so we might be classmates. Or roommates, or workout partners, or showermates…

I’ve got to join a new gym or at least quit trying to go in the evening. It’s crowded, unwelcoming, and antipathetical. It’s no longer one of Oldenburg’s Third Places for me. I don’t now have a third place (not home, not work) in San Francisco. The gym used to be the center of my social life: I saw almost all of my friends there, I met new friends there, I met lovers there, I worked out, I relaxed, I schmoozed, I cruised. Going there is the one constant in my daily life; I don’t have a set schedule most days; I don’t have the same schedule week to week, but I’m there most days, even if just to ride the bike and read the paper for thirty minutes. Time’s up.

18 August 2003

One of my biggest crushes, H., was at the gym with his new boyfriend. He has told people that the guy is 18 (H. is 32), but if the BF is a teenager, I’m 28. He has the build and the face of a handsome but grown man. At least H. has him while he’s fresh. He’ll look 50 in a few years. Meow.

Welcome to wrong-guy-weekend: H. spurns me for a con man, and chaps I have no interest in are overly familiar with me at El Rio. Herradura makes for a nicely consolatory margarita, though. Tears work as well as salt around the rim.

I went to Ikea and, thanks to my iron will, emerged with only one article. I now have a tiny half-round table in my kitchen, and I can finally eat sitting down. It’s time. I’ve had breakfast standing up every day for the last two years.  I thought at first that it would help me get going faster in the mornings, but the data from over 700 in situ observations suggest that my initial hypothesis had no merit. I put the kettle on, fill the tea strainer, dash downstairs en déshabille, get the papers, turn to the comics, wait for the water to come to a boil, make the tea (so far so good), and then read the paper until I'm no longer hungry or eat until I've finished reading.

16 August 2003

Up early and to the farmers’ market with J., a learned cook. I told him that I had been reading John Evelyn’s Diary, and he knew that Evelyn was also famous for Acetaria: a Discourse of Sallets (1699), one of the earliest books in English on salads.We got: quail, baby leeks, a flat of San Marzano tomatoes to split between us, basil, peppers, bread from Acme, Pink Pearl apples, a bit of pork for the sauce tonight, and, just to be showy, a glass of wine at 9AM in the new wine bar in the Ferry Building. To paraphrase R.W. Apple, Jr., I can testify that Alsatian Riesling makes an excellent breakfast wine.

And Happy Madonna’s Birthday, to those of you who still worship at that altar.

15 August 2003

Cooking tip of the day: don’t rub your eyes after you’ve cut up a bunch of hot peppers.

Darkness visible and tea lights: a great description of the blackout. 

13 August 2003

I got an unexpected call this morning offering me a part-time private chef job. I said I’d think about it for 24 hours. I will take the job if I can get the pay rate up to something reasonable. It would be a lot of work, and I’d have to learn to cook in a kosher kitchen. My partner the other four days a week would be someone I've cooked with before. He's hardworking, and we're on the same page. I'm afraid, though, that he was poorly represented by his agency and is underpaid. If I ask for more than he's making, it will be awkward.
Fuck it.
I don't want to be taken advantage of by some rich but cheap creep.

I will do a feng shui cure to activate the finance corner of my apartment tomorrow morning.

11 August 2003

It’s a warm night, the windows are open, and one of my neighbors is practicing the accordion at midnight.

What makes sex good? kissing, the devil in his eye, nice arms, good hair, a firm touch, and talking  —  either describing it  or spinning into fantasy. It’s such a marvel how you can intuit a stranger’s own fantasy and give it to him.

Of course, if your piggy bottom is getting all talkative and bossy, you can put him in back his place when you tell him: “Shut up. And don't touch your dick.” He’ll start to cum right then unless you slow down.

What do you do when someone says that he’s in a monogamous relationship but you know from personal experience that his boyfriend isn’t? Hey, I thought if the boyfriend was fooling around with me, he must be in an open relationship. I think I will just keep my mouth shut.

C. wasn’t with me at the farmers' market, so I didn’t stay long: walnuts from Sally, wild salmon, Faye Alberta peaches, dry-farmed tomatoes, and Hungarian wax peppers.

I’ve seen P. from my favorite grocery store two days in a row now. I’ve had a crush on him for about 10 years. We’re the same age, in analogous quandaries, back at jobs we once quit and are trying to plan a future; school or not school; employee or employer; stay or go. We had a nice talk about emigrating from the U.S. He already knows where he wants to go and what he'll do there. Leaving has been on my mind again. Our Leader is not making things better. One billion dollars a week in Iraq and almost nothing to show for it. I don’t want to be stuck here when it’s too late to flee.

Another long day of cooking (two hundred squash blossoms to stuff and two hundred quenelles to form, and then two hundred to roast and two hundred to poach), and little foxy J. wasn’t even there. Once he gave me the hint last night, I kept feeding him tidbits of grilled sweetbreads. Flirting with food (and flirting by eating someone's food). He has me wrapped around his little finger, and he knows I know that nothing will ever come of it.  I couldn’t date someone who didn’t like my cooking.

7 August 2003

I had my date with the redhead. I was too much for the poor thing. What possessed me to tell him that I didn’t care for children and couldn’t stand to be around them or even hear them? What was I thinking? I knew he was an elementary school teacher. We went to a new tea shop in the Castro that I will have to revisit when I’m not with someone who is content with iced hibiscus tea when he could choose from 6 kinds of pu erh or dozens of green teas, black teas, and white teas. Catch up, hunny. Besides, he has pale skin (I can’t go there).
And yes, a tan redhead would be double-f, double-r, e-a-k-y.

Work was hard. We got slammed. My stuffed tomatoes were a quite nice (just herbs, no breadcrumbs, 50 minutes at 400F), and the crispy potatoes were just what one wants. (Your cooking tip of the day: peel and cut the potatoes into even pieces and boil them very gently in salty water until the edges start to crumble. This last bit is key. The potatoes must be fully cooked. You will lose some of them. Scoop them out of the water and let them cool flat, in one layer. Don’t try to pour the potatoes out into a colander. If you’ve cooked them properly, dumping them out will only crush them. Fry in plenty of clarified butter, duck fat, lard, or olive oil. When they're nicely browned, drain and sprinkle with salt. Serve promptly.)  Little foxy J. was there, but I was working so hard I kept my head down and had no time to flirt or feed him potatoes on the sly.

And mulberries are in season! The best news of the day.

It’s spa week here in Hayes Valley. I had too many cupcakes for breakfast in Vancouver (note: see first entry this month for address) and too much beer. To that end, a visit to the gym last night as soon as I got home, a light dinner of tofu and broccoli with whole grains, a session with the trainer tomorrow, and yoga this evening. A new teacher for me, good-spirited and encouraging. She had us sweating and breathing loudly and tipping over within the first 10 minutes. Breathe. Plank and exhale. Inhale into upward dog. Exhale into downward dog. Breathe. I should have done this long ago. It’s so much better than massage for undoing the knots in my back and working out the kinks elsewhere. My groin is widely openable tonight, if you care to visualize that.

S&P Daddy walked into the showers just as I did. A Scorpio. My trainer filled me in: he has a boyfriend, a great job, and is maybe one year older than me, not seven or eight years older, as I had thought. Still… (it’s thick and fat, like a baby’s arm).

I met a spunky redhead in the Castro this afternoon as I was running errands. Gotta love that sleeveless Zara shirt I got in N.Y. He was a little bowled over by the number and breadth of the opinions I volunteered. My penchant for pontification (just like you, Dad) gets me in trouble again. A psychic once told me that I was a high official in the Catholic Church in a recent previous life. I hope I was the cardinal in charge of Propaganda Fides. The current holder of that office and his boss have done more to make Catholicism irrelevant than a even a Baptist mole could have. As Rimpoche said, only your bad habits get reincarnated with you. We’ll see if the redhead calls me to have coffee or if he thinks better of it.

Yet another friend is moving to L.A. He found a better job and will find a cheaper place to live than the thin-walled trapezoid he’s in now. He divides San Francisco fags into four camps: aging hippies, speed freaks, leather guys who've taken it too far, and a few young brats who are too busy drinking and watching Will ‘n’ Grace to be amusing or attractive.

One last impression of Vancouver: it’s what San Francisco could have been if we had planned better 20 years ago and hadn’t stayed so self-satisfied. 

More things I loved about Vancouver: the sweet and low-key parade; going to the rugby team’s beer bust on Sunday after the parade; meeting cute and friendly guys there (one of whom I slapped across the mouth when he introduced us as three guys from L.A.); the circuity party at the Armory (imagine: me, sober, and enjoying a circuit party); meeting only one guy with attitude (but when you’re that beautiful, perhaps you have to be standoffish);  the way that even muscular guys have skinny arms (so I fit right in); the many proudly butterball guys (I’m going to get me one of those chunksters the next time I visit); finding something I could wear at Zara on Robson Street; being asked a dozen times on Sunday, “So, are you going oat tonight?”; and huge blackberries. Dislikes or rather puzzlements: the “heritage” music played at every bar and club but the last (did the DJs stop buying records when NAFTA went into effect?), the lack of beer after the parade (WTF? The beer pen doesn’t count), state-run liquor stores (WTF?), the cheesy décor and poor lighting at all of the parties, and having to come back home.

What awaits: going to bed before 3AM; the job search, laundry, trade school application, therapy, a big thank-you note, and cooking.

3 August 2003