An Epicurean Argument

Boy, do I love going out to eat. "An expensive habit," people always tell me. Sure. But art appreciation is usually expensive in any form. There are festivals of food, museums of a sort, where streets are lined with cabinets offering a peek at their curios for a pittance, but such is not the ideal environment for taking in true culinary works of art.

The gastronomic art may differ from its brethren on this count, but then again it may not. Its works are literally to be taken in, and therefore cannot be had by many all at once as a fine statue might. But perhaps the spice added by the private possession of the work, which is eventually an ingredient in any gastro-creation, could enhance even a piece of visual art, if one had the chance to examine the piece at leisure, in private, from many angles and distances. Prying eyes, not to mention guard-rails and the ominous, omnipotent presence of security in a museum, create a sort of distance from anything placed in their midst, a political element that gathers around it like a mist. Is it really real, what I am seeing? I see all the others seeing it, but no doubt they too are wondering, and we can't all come up and touch it, setting our noses up close to the brush strokes, or caressing the contours of the marble. The greatest pieces of visual art themselves are layered thick with Importance, which even without all that other fluff would remain a formidable barrier.

Some foods are wrapped in their share of reputation--certainly wine has succumbed to this new bottling process--but taste is such a powerful and personal sense that it eventually cuts through this layer and finds the meat of the matter. Even in a restaurant where every customer is given the same dish at the same time, each tongue is in private session. This is not absent at an outdoor food festival, but leisure is often lacking there--too many other sensual experiences butt in on the lingual, from jostling to the odors of the street, cans filled with flies and paper plates left to fester in the sun.

The ideal forum for food appreciation is the room closest to the food's own kitchen. So certainly, someone might object, no restaurant is needed at all--the best food is enjoyed alone in one's kitchen, without nosy waiters or busy bills. Indeed, if I had been Michelangelo, perhaps I wouldn't have let David out of my sitting room. But not only was I not--I suppose that all artists enjoy much more the act of production than the product, and intend (or relinquish) the product for the eyes of those who did not create it. Likewise, the receiver of art is in a special position. It is I, the non-artist, who am allowed the unique experience of the thing itself, a mysterious whole to be grasped in wonder. I know nothing of the stone from which the man was drawn, and even less about the man who drew him forth. I know only the miracle, not the work, of art. A fickle artist is pestered by the thought, "More salt!" He is still creating, he is recreating. But a good restaurant does not even put salt on the table. There is no chisel left next to David.

Perhaps my metaphor is getting out of hand. (Less salt!) Surely any restaurant that I can afford is no house of Michelangelo. And surely many aren't worth their salt. But New Orleans is a food town. The number of restaurants worth the price on the bill is cumulatively more than I could afford in a year, given other costs of living. And I am not an artist of taste--I cannot come close even to middling chefs. A finely prepared cut of meat, or delicately balanced spices, academic to journeymen, is a treat for me. There is also the thrill of the gamble--a menu promising an unusual combination of personal favorites piques the interest, and could turn out to be wildly successful, or fall flat, but I hedge by picking something somewhat familiar, and hope for the big score, the meal that knocks me off my chair. And that kind of exhilaration is heightened by its transience. The most remarkable difference between the gastronomic and the other arts is temporal. A dish is made for now, right now, and as I experience it, the artwork disappears into me, and the moment into my memory.

Get it while it's hot.

Carnival For Couples

Now that the moderation of Lent is in full swing here in Christendom, we may reflect on those soggy days between Twelfth Night and Ash Wednesday during which, to say goodbye to (figurative) meat, good Christians gorged on (figurative) meat. They call it Carnival, and in a few Southern cities the oldest and richest families indulge their fellow citizens with public revelry in honor of the season. Their intention is to increase happiness, inducing a kind of pan-eudaimonium, but in practice, the second prefix is elided, and the result is just pandemonium, albeit controlled.

As in other less-than lawful contexts (the wild west, prison, inner-city streets), the easiest way to survive and enjoy oneself is to join a gang. You're bound to knock into other people in the close quarters along any parade route, in the shuffle for throws and a view, and it is best for everyone if that isn't your first introduction. If it must be, it helps to have numbers behind you.

Also, it is safer to drink more in greater numbers, and a strong argument could be made that intoxication is a necessary condition for enjoying a Carnival parade.

It should be clear that it is not ideal to go to a parade on a date, or with your partner only, because the result will be that you get bumped into, spilled on, and kept away from the parade route, with no recourse to either friends or liquor.

The ideal way to spend Carnival with your partner is with a bottle of champagne and your own house. That is, I assume, why parades are also televised. The ideal way to spend Carnival at all is by feasting on literal meat, king cakes, and other feast-worthy morsels, and not to go to parades. But be aware of the interference to your route to the grocery offered by parades, and plan ahead.

Buying Flowers

It's a man's job to buy flowers on Valentine's Day. But we do not go to work grudgingly.

I had to hustle after two and some hours of Kant today, to do my duty. I had planned a nice meal, and of course, flowers. And lest you misinterpret this: Buying flowers at the last minute is not the sign of forgetfulness, but a desire for freshness. Who wants flowers that have been all day in the library's cold carrel, or hidden in a closet, or--worst yet--bought at convenience and delivered likewise? No, fresh flowers should be a struggle and a victory, brought home in lieu of a fresh carcass.

I went to Whole Foods because it is closest, and I was on a bike, and still needed to prepare and serve the nice meal, and with Kant eating away the day, hours were precious. In my basket I secured the food (the carcass! lamb), and then made a beeline for the flowers. Others were already in line with bouquets. I joined another man in the perusal of the left-overs. Pick't-over they were, at six-thirty on Valentine's night, as I should have expected. (The price of freshness!)

When I read the other man's face, I understood something new about people. He and I were, in a sense, competing, but flowers are not like other prey, where the best is easily spotted. In his eyes I could see his love, and with it his desire to pick flowers she would like. For some women that means the biggest and brightest, and their men have less work according with their desires than affording their desires, but other women have style--and buying anything for them needs a sharper eye. This man and I were both taking in all the flowers, weighing and measuring, noting color and form. If it had happened that we both picked one flower, maybe it would have come to blows, but short of that, I could feel mutual support. It is not in one man's interest to foul up another's relationship, ceteris paribus.

All that aside, I don't know much about flowers. Neither did my aisle ally. I would venture to guess that our relationships are not so different in duration. But I chose first, whatever that might mean. Another man, ahead of me in line for the florist, asked if he could also buy a vase--maybe he hasn't been in her house ever, or for very long--he certainly doesn't live with her. I think he was looking for a material exchange. In my other compatriot I could sense love, a desire to please, a fear of failure, a sharp awareness of his floral ignorance. The other guy asked the florist if those flowers "would go" with that vase. Totally different question, unless he was buying for the florist.

Maybe I'm making it all up. Buying flowers is expected, it's almost dull--like a cake comes with a birthday, flowers come with Valentine's--but I posit, it is not dull. A dress might not fit, food is for both of us, but flowers are just for her, from him. A chance to match styles is not to be taken lightly.

Of course, I could share the secret of how to get two hunks of lamb, stawberries, three Kant books, and a double-bouquet of flowers home, two miles, on a bike, with no damage, but come on. I'm not gonna make it easier for anyone. Get to work.

The Telltale Start

So long as one lives to tell the tale, the tale is worth the damage.

That's what I discovered upon my first foray into the blogosphere, and it wasn't even so adventurous the first time. But now that I have a partner-in-crime, and a new home like a fat fried pie awaiting the tooth, it feels like it's time to take on the 'sphere again and start blogging like a blumberjack.

Mellie is my new fiancee, and Fat City is our new home. And they have single-serving fried pies here.

Our life here is equal parts homemaking and adventuring, all underwritten by risk-taking. And so long as we shall live, we'll tell the tale.