Where I Left My Appetite (In San Francisco)
One of the most pleasant things I know is to travel to a city you’ve grown fond of, and sample new and glorious food, from restaurants great and humble. Vying for least pleasant is being ill, far away from home. The kind of extreme illness where, like all dogs and other intelligent creatures, you seek a dark, quiet, private environment to face the inevitable: The spectre of two days set aside at the end of a business trip, when the hedonism was really supposed to begin, ruined. I called it bronchitis with a little Jim Morrison free-style thrashing of limbs and lungs. Because I was raised Catholic, I have to tell you a slightly redemptive story about the worst part.
After what seemed like weeks, (in fact three hours), moaning pitifully in the pre-industrial darkness of fever and catarrh, Meg convinced me I could walk two blocks to a restaurant, and ENJOY A MEAL. First mistake.Next mistake, scallops. (I know, I know, but Meg is allergic, and I almost never have them because she’s allergic, because whenever we eat out we have to SHARE, usually fine with me, but that night I wasn’t feeling that kind of generosity, so, [(Karma? who knows?)], I got the scallops, and they were yummy. The rest of the meal is a very sweaty blur, so I’ll spare you that, and move on to where I suddenly had that crystal-clear certainty you get from either a high fever, or too many espressos. Said certainty being that outdoors would be a better place to pass out than in a crowded restaurant.
Outside, I defied gravity with every fiber of my Brontean being. The sidewalk was tilting, so I adjusted my sickly angle of repose. I curled my spine, cat-like, and backed up, hugging the corner of a brick wall, pressing hard, feeling the spaces between courses. My vision kept closing down to a single black dot. We all know what comes next, if one isn’t prepared. I was, and kept dropping my head between my legs, avoiding hyperventilation. That’s when a pair of ratty sneakers entered my field of vision, followed by a question. “You OK? You don’t look so good.”
I gingerly angled my head to take in the woman who was staring at me with her one good eye. “You homeless? You don’t look like a bum.” I advised her to maintain a professional distance, as her sneakers were, shall we say, easy targets. “Can you spare a dollar? I need an eye operation. Can you spare any money?” Indeed, one of her eyes appeared to look the way I imagined I appeared to all the SanFranciscans who continually strode past at astonishing speeds. “No, sorry, I might throw up. Please...” No doubt used to this sort of rejection, she lit a cigarette, and appered to contemplate her next move. She exhaled a puff of smoke at me, and readjusted the angle on her “bad” eye, causing it to flop precisely into position, and shoved off, up the street, to find another mark. A minute later, Meg appeared at my side. “The vultures were circling, Meg. They wanted my eyes.” She gave me a (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) quite understanding look, and helped me, in true Stevie Winwood fashion, (Oh, and I’m wasted, and I can’t find my way home.)
Who knows. To wrap up, I was in a malaria-like fugue for several weeks after, and can’t wait to have some scallops, with a nice Sancerre. But first, let’s play a round of “I spy, with my little eye...”
Now for the good news. My time in California was well spent, at the Natural Foods Expo West, and later at several wineries. With the aid of some Vermont distributors, many new organic wines will end up on the co-op shelves. I'll be blogging at you about these fine folks and their wines, soon.
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