flashing the lights for last call at twelve-thirty. The permanent residents
speak of New York and DC with strangely wistful expressions on their
faces, as if they can't understand how they ended up here, rather than a
few miles north or south, where there's a real city. There's an element of
the South, an almost rural quality to Baltimore, an Ozark fatalism that's
amusing in John Water's films but not so much fun to live with. Worst of
all, I had no idea where to score drugs.
Gino's Baltimore occupied the second floor of a large new structure on
the water in Baltimore's Harborplace. The kitchen was bigger than the
dining room—which I liked—but the dining room was pretty empty
most times, which I didn't like so much. The crew, not uncommonly for
most far-flung outposts in a restaurant empire, were already used to
being the neglected bastard offspring, largely ignored by their leader.
Supplies, which were supposed to arrive from New York, were sporadic.
Guidance, such as it was, was erratic in the extreme. I was told
immediately that another chef had just preceded me. He had set up a
menu, showed the recent culinary graduate cooks how to dunk pasta, and
then quit.
My first night, I slept in a vacationing waiter's apartment. It was a
strange bed, with a strange cat, in a shabby, two-family Victorian. I lay
awake, kicking and scratching, swatting the cat at my feet. The next day,
I was brought over to the official residence of visiting dignitaries from
New York: a three-story townhouse, brand-new but built to look old, in
the center of the fake historical district. It was pretty swank: wall-to-wall
carpeting, four bathrooms, vast dining room, living room and top-floor
studio. The only problem was, there was no furniture. A bare futon lay in
the middle of the floor on the third story, a pathetic black and white TV
with coat-hanger antenna the only offered amusement. The spacious
kitchen contained only some calcified rice cakes. The only other sign
that anyone had ever lived there was a lone chef's jacket on a hanger in
one of the closets—like an artifact, evidence of an ancient astronaut
who'd been here before me.