"Beef bourguignon", he said right away.
I've found common ground. Red wine, beef, some button mushrooms and
a few pearled onions, bouquet garni, maybe some broad noodles or a
simple boiled potato or two to go with it. A crust of bread to soak up the
sauce. Maybe I'm not wrong about everything.
All cooks are sentimental fools.
And in the end, maybe it is all about the food.
MISSION TO TOKYO
IF THERE WAS ANY justice in this world, I would have been a dead
man at least two times over.
By this, I mean simply that many times in my life the statistical
probabilities of a fatal outcome have been overwhelming—thanks to my
sins of excess and poor judgment and my inability to say no to anything
that sounded as if it might have been fun. By all rights I should have
been, at various times: shot to death, stabbed to death, imprisoned for a
significant period of time, or at very least, victimized by a casaba-sized
tumor.
I often use the hypothetical out-of-control ice-cream truck. What would
happen if you were walking across the street and were suddenly hit by a
careening Mister Softee truck? As you lie there, in your last few
moments of consciousness, what kind of final regrets flash through your
mind? "I should have had a last cigarette!" might be one. Or, "I should
have dropped acid with everybody else back in '74!" Maybe: "I should
have done that hostess after all!" Something along the lines of: "I should
have had more fun in my life! I should have relaxed a little more,
enjoyed myself a little more . . ."