5. Conspiracy Was On My Mind ©2011

Conspiracy was on my mind, that afternoon in late November 1963, as I crouched down behind the grassy knoll across from Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

I was headed for the Texas Book Depository to meet a young fellow with whom I had recently made an acquaintance. I peeked over the bushes to see if I could make a run to the buiding, when the sound of police sirens forced me to keep my head down. I looked up to the sixth floor window and thought I saw him looking for me. I was about to wave to show him that I was there, but quickly changed my mind: I didn't want to attract attention. I guess he felt the same way, because he put his head down low on the window sill.

As the sound of the sirens grew louder, I started to get a little nervous and began to recount the events that had led up to this day. After weeks of planning, only a few seconds and a few feet separated me from achieving a goal that seemed improbable just a month earlier. If my Eastern Air Lines flight from New York City, which had begun the day before as a direct flight to Dallas, hadn't developed engine problems and, consequently, forced to land in Atlanta, everything would have worked out perfectly.

The four-engine Electra turboprop had a spotty flight maintenance history. It was a temperamental aircraft and it decided early Thursday afternoon over Georgia, to have one of its fits of pique. "Relax," I remember the Eastern representative saying to me, "we'll have you on the next plane to Dallas," The next plane to Dallas, it turned out, wasn't until 08:30, the following morning. I tried, desperately, to call the book warehouse where he worked, but I had waited too long and, by the time I had decided to call, it was already late in the day and they must have been closed. I didn't try calling him in the morning because the plane started boarding at 07:30, and I figured that he wouldn't be there at that hour.

By the time I arrived in Dallas, it was shortly after 10 AM. I didn't bother to call him; at that point, I was too much in a hurry. The taxi ride to Dealey Plaza seemed interminable. Traffic was stopped all around the area and my driver had to drop me off five blocks from Dealey. When I finally got there, there was a police line blocking anyone from crossing the street. I saw the Depository right in front of me and looked around to see if I could skirt around the police. I saw a grassy knoll and figured if I could get around to the back of it, I would be just a hop, skip and a jump from my meeting with Lee. But as I maneuvered toward a spot in which I reasoned, I could still go over the police barricade and get to the other side of the street; I nearly knocked down a man holding up a black umbrella which I thought to be a little odd because it was sunny and there were only a few clouds in the sky. I apologized to him and made sure he was alright, but that incident cost me almost 30 critical seconds, although, I did manage to make it to the other side!

The sounds of sirens and the approach of a motorcade stopped me from sprinting the few yards to the building. I rued my luck, but reasoned that they would soon pass. I sat down, nearly collapsing on my back from exhaustion. I had my eyes closed because the sun was directly over me, but immediately reopened them when I heard a car or police motorcycle backfire two or three times: maybe it was four or five. I can't be clear about that because I was startled. Then, all hell broke loose. People were screaming. Instantly, there were many more sirens wailing creating an incredible cacophony. I looked up but couldn’t see Lee.

I saw what looked like a wave of police heading in my direction; I rolled over, got up, ducked down and ran for cover. I was going to wait to see what was going on so that I could finish my business but a crush of people and police carried me away from the grassy knoll. I stopped running a few blocks away and was instantly knocked down by a man who was running in back of me. At first, he didn't stop, then, when he did, he must have noticed that I was bleeding (I landed squarely on my nose) he came back and helped me stand up. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's all very exciting."

"What's so exciting? "I asked, looking at my bloody handkerchief.

"You know, you know," he repeated, excitedly.

I looked around at the throng of people still running in every direction. Everywhere police cars with sirens screaming were racing up and down the street. I nodded my head, believing that the surrounding chaos was what he meant.

"Look," he said, "I feel really bad about knocking you down. Why don't you come over to my place and we can fix you up?"

I didn't like the sound of the invitation. I hesitated. He must have read my mind or seen the unease in my eyes because he immediately followed up with, "Hey it's okay. It's a public place. I own a club, the Carousel...”

He hesitated for a few seconds, then, stood back to give me some distance.

"Look," he said, "You can call me Jack; you can come to my place, clean up, have a drink and watch the news. It's on me. I feel really bad for what I did." Then, turning aside, he said, There's my ride," indicating a black Cadillac which was pulling up alongside of us. The driver rolled down his window and, in a gruff Spanish accented voice, asked, "Who's he?" I could tell that he was clearly displeased to see me.

"He's all right," said Jack. "I knocked him down and I'm taking him to the club to clean up."

"Aren't you supposed to go to the movies?” Replied the driver.

"Yeah, I know, I know" said Jack, "But, it'll be good for him to sit and cool his heals there for a while."

"Oh, by the way, this is my colleague, Macho," said Jack pointing to the driver. "We go way back to Cu…” Jack never finished his sentence, because Macho quickly interrupted him and said, "You remember what the Empress said?" Jack paused to think about what Macho had just told him and said, "Yeah, yeah you're right." Then, quickly turned to me and said, "I never got your name."

"Quelle, Sir." Somehow, by the tenor of his voice, I felt compelled to say, "Sir."

The Carousel was a small one story establishment with pictures of half clothed strippers, posted in front. A small awning in front did nothing to enhance its appearance. My first impression was that it was the type of tacky place that I normally avoided. Inside the lounge, the bar was crowded with patrons watching the TV. I saw Walter Cronkite and an image of the Book Depository. Walter was pointing to a window on the sixth floor. A sense of gloom suddenly overwhelmed me. I got the unmistakable feeling that, after all I had gone through and all the expectation, I was never going to see Lee or complete my business with him. I was devastated.

I was overpowered by disgust and exasperation, and lay my head down on the bar. My host came over to me putting his hand on my shoulder. "If the news is hurting you that badly, I'll turn off the TV." He asked me where I came from. I told him, New York City. At which point, he said that he was, originally from up north,” My brothers and I are originally from Chicago," he said as he offered me a beer. "It's on the house." I was about to tell him what I was doing in Dallas, when I noticed a picture above the bar. Jack was standing in the middle of a group of men. I recognized Macho. "You and Macho go back a long time?", I asked.

Jack stopped for a minute, looked up at the picture and seemed to be thinking, when I interrupted "Is the Sans Souci a hotel in Miami?", I asked pointing to the picture. "Naw," he said, "it's in Havana. It used to belong to the guy who has his arm around me, Meyer, err, Enrique Chacon", he corrected himself. "That's Macho, the guy standing next to him is Chuck, and the guy next to him is Raoul. On the other side of Enrique is Rafael. We all go way back down there in Havana, before that bastard Castro came in and messed up our business."

I was about to ask him if they were friends or business partners when the phone rang. Jack went down to the other end of the bar and carried on a very animated conversation in a hushed voice. He came back and stood across the bar from me. "Listen kid, that was a business partner of mine, the Empress Wu, I have to go downtown. You need a lift?" I was a little relieved because I was about to confess my woes. I thanked him for the beer and decided to walk around, maybe take in a movie. I said that I had heard him mention to Macho that he was going to take in a movie and I wondered what was playing, maybe I would join him.

"Naw, kid," he stuttered, "I'm just going to meet someone about some business. Anyway," he added, "You wouldn't like the movie that's playing at the Texas Theater."

"How do you know," I replied, already resigned to finding another movie but a little curious to know what film was showing. "Anyhow what's playing?"

Jack looked at me as if he were having difficulty remembering the name of the movie, "Our American Cousin." he finally blurted out, "it's a comedy about this guy's cousin who's American. He must have realized that I was still a little confused because he immediately followed up by offering to give me a lift downtown.

Outside, the wail of police sirens hadn't abated and they only became louder as we approached the movie house. To my absolute astonishment, the entire area was sealed off by police cars and ambulances. Jack looked upset and told me that I had to get out of the car. I thanked him, again. He made a U turn and sped off without uttering another word, not even a "Good-bye," leaving me alone on the sidewalk.

I turned around and began to rue the entire experience, walking to nowhere in particular: in frustration, kicking an empty beer can in front of me. Several times a police cruiser passed by me slowly. I could tell that they were checking me out. Frankly, I didn't care what they thought as I continued kicking the can. No one had ever had a worse day in their lives than I had that day. At 20-years-old, I knew that I had suffered what would be the worst day of my entire life.

II.
So, you can fully understand what I had gone through. I should tell you what I was doing in Dallas on that mournful day. First, however, I should tell you a little about myself.

For several years, I had been a member of a college fraternity founded in 1754, as the "Regis Nervo Aptare Sagittas." In 1783, the name was formally changed to the "Societas Nervi," or, as it is known to the Fellows, "The Bow String Society." Unlike similar college associations, we didn't stand over a poor slave's disinterred bones muttering meaningless and arcane Latin chants or wile away our meals in elite dining rooms. Au contraire, we had a mission, call it a "Duty" under the Law of History: to solving ancient conspiracies. To that end, we dedicated our college years -- and, often a great portion of our entire adult life, to the exclusive purpose of solving metahistoric conspiracies.

Fellows of the Bow String are nominated in secret and are asked if they would wish to be members. To my knowledge, no one nominated has ever refused. Since our founding, we have been the very antithesis of the Free Mandelbaums, whom we believe have been around, in many incarnations, as far back as 330 BC. Our original mission, sometimes successful, other times not, has been to expose Mandelbaum conspiracies that have disrupted and derailed the normal course of human history and civilization since the death of Alexander Magnus to the present.

Each new member is assigned an unsolved conspiracy, which one is expected to devote much of their free time, to the nearly total exclusion of any form of collegiate social life, investigating. Meetings of the Bow String resemble academic seminars where members report the problems and progress they are having with their individual file. No one ever expects to solve their assigned cases within their lifetime. However, one is expected to pass on the body of their work in a timely fashion to the Society's Curia, so it can be passed on to a new generation.

My project was to investigate the conspiracy surrounding the murder of Alexander Magnus and to determine what had been the depth of involvement of his one-time tutor, Aristotle, in the plot.

That's the backdrop in which my misadventure began. I was in my room translating Cicero's "Pro M. Caelio," and had just gotten to the part where Cicero was describing, Clodia as the reigning demimonde of contemporary Roman society. I was chuckling to myself saying, "Go Tulli," when, I was distracted by the sound of laughter coming from the apartment's Common Room, dubbed the "Chaos Room."

When I asked Niebuhr, one of my roommates, what all the commotion was about, he told me that a letter addressed to one of our roommates, Vico, had arrived from New Orleans. It had come from a person that none of us knew, nor had ever heard of, inquiring about the organization, Fair Play For Cuba, of which Vico was the sole administrative entity. I remember him walking through the seven-bedroom apartment we shared on West 105th Street and Broadway, laughing and saying, "Look at this letter," speculating that it had to have come from the CIA or the FBI, "he is asking for our entire membership list for New Orleans." General laughter greeted his remarks. Vico mentioned that he was going to write back and tell him that, for five dollars, he could get a membership card for Fair Play that would entitle him to absolutely nothing but continual harassment from the authorities.

Precisely at that moment, our neighbor just below our apartment, Madam Rozali, knocked on our door. She asked us to lower our voices because she was conducting a very important séance. Rather than quell the uproar, her appearance only helped to further the contagious hilarity.

The incident was almost forgotten. Then, one day in late October, the phone rang. It was the same fellow who had written the strange letter. He was upset because he had sent his five dollars from New Orleans, but in the interim had gone to Mexico and had never received his membership card. He wanted me to give Vico his new address in Dallas. Well, one thing led to another and he told me a little about himself. I was impressed with his knowledge of the Russian language, but, I became a little troubled when he told me that he had lived in Minsk, for a few years. I mean we were right then smack dead in the middle of the Cold War.

Vico's words rushed back to me and I started thinking, "Uh, oh.... agent." I was about to hang up, when he changed the topic by saying that he worked at a book warehouse in Dallas. "Really," I thought, and just for a lark, I asked him if he had ever come across the work "Aristotle, and the Plot Against Alexander Magnus," written by Avicenna with a preface by Rhazes translated and published in Toledo, Spain, in 1456, by Alphonso Colon de Matamoros. I had been searching for it as part of my investigation; however, I was beginning to believe it had been lost to research historians. I cautioned the voice at the other end of the line, whose name I learned was Lee, not to kill himself looking for it. "The people who told me about it," I said, "also told me that all copies of that work had probably been destroyed centuries earlier or, if they existed at all, were squirreled away in private libraries."

He told me that he would look around anyway, and if I could, would I please give Vico his new address in Dallas. I assured him that I would and hung up the phone thinking that I would never hear from him again. However, I did pass on his address to Vico.

III.
So, knowing all this, you can imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, sometime in the middle of November, the phone rang and, when I picked it up, it was Lee: "Hi Quelle, this is Lee, do you remember me?" I assured him that I did.

"Did you get your membership card?" I asked, wondering for a moment if I had forgotten to tell Vico.

"Yes, I did, thanks a lot." he said, "But that's not why I'm calling you." Then, in a rather excited voice, he went on. "I found your book!" To say that I was struck dumb is to put it mildly.

"Not the original edition?" I asked, trying to conceal my own surprise and excitement.

"The original, 1456 edition," he said, nearly blurting out the words. I was struck speechless; I was in such a state of amazement, that I almost didn't hear the rest of what he was trying to tell me.

"It's not in the best condition, however, it is written on parchment but it's readable," he drawled. "It was wrapped in a portfolio containing papers that belonged to Allan Pinkerton." He paused to see if I knew who Allan Pinkerton was, but went on without waiting for me to respond, "You know, the famous cop? I found it at the bottom of a box, along with another book: Aaron Burr's, 'The Secret Military Diaries of Major (later, Col.) George Washington, 1754-1763, published in January 1805, by the Essex Junto Press, in Albany, NY. I thought that maybe you would be interested in that one, too," he said.

Then, pausing for a moment so that I understood the full weight of what he had just said to me, he continued. "Since I began working at the Depository, I have been told almost every day to be on the lookout for papers belonging to Pinkerton. Several people call regularly, inquiring about them. My boss thinks that they were lost at auction sometime back."

"So how did you get your hands on them?" I asked, feigning curiosity, in reality I didn't care how he had gotten hold of them, I was just interested in getting my hands on Avicenna's tome, myself.

"Look Lee," I began to say that I didn't have the money for them right then anticipating that he was going to give me a figure that was going to be well out of my reach, but he cut me off. "Naw, don't worry about money, I can give them to you for free. I found them under a pile of books that were covered with dust. Nobody at the Depository knows that they were ever here."

I wanted to say, "I could hug you, Lee." However, my mind was now racing ahead trying to calculate when I could come up with the round-trip airplane fare to Dallas.

'Well," he said, "You had better get up here before the 22nd, because I will have a new assignment after that."

I was a little confused, "Assignment?" I asked.

"No, I didn't mean to say assignment," he corrected himself, "I meant that I will be going on to another job. My friend Jake bought a nightclub in Buenos Aires and has asked me to run it."

He may have said something else, but I was near desperation. "Okay, Lee," making a quick calculation after checking the calendar and my checkbook, "It will take me a few days to get things together, but I can get down there by the 21st, it’s a Thursday.”

There was a short pause, "Fine," he said, "but no later."

Then my worries turned towards insuring the books, themselves, would still be available. "Can you take care of them for me until I get there?" I realized that I was nearly pleading with him.

"Don't worry Q; I'll guard them with my life. In fact, I will carry them with me at all times," he said with a flamboyant sense of self confidence. I remember asking him if he thought that they would be safe with him. "Hey Q," he responded, with that insouciance one always associates with ex Marines, "Don't worry your little head off, I'll guard them with my life."

Immediately, I canvassed my roommates for the $500 I needed for my round trip air fare and miscellaneous expenses. A few days, later, I was on my way to Dallas.

Well, who killed Alexander Magnus? The "Who" part is actually a pretty simple question to answer, although without some historical documentation, can never be really proven. The plot, as far as I can put it together, was hatched in the warrens of the Lyceum in 324 BC. The main conspirators included Aristotle, Demosthenes the Athenian orator and its most outspoken citizen and Antipater, Alexander's Regent, without whose support no plot against Alexander would have been thinkable let alone, possible.

The Why(s) are just as evident. For Aristotle, it was a long seething revenge: first, for the action taken by Philip, Alexander's father, to coerce the unwilling Aristotle to train young Alexander into becoming the "Philosopher King." Aristotle had been exposed to that Platonic concept during his years at the Academy and the theories about the way forms of government characteristically succeed each other in the state, however, he despised the concept of kings in any avatar. When Aristotle refused Philip's offer, the latter ordered the destruction of Aristotle's home village, Stagira, in Thrace and the dispersal of its population to the four corners of the Macedonian Kingdom. Aristotle got the message and agreed.

The second cause, which only added salt to the wound and increased his ire for revenge, was the execution of, Aristotle's nephew, Callisthenes, on Alexander's orders, on the charge that he was plotting to kill him. Alexander made it clear by this action that he, also, suspected Aristotle was in on it, too.

For Demosthenes, the why is historically evident: he, alone among the Athenians, publicly called for opposition against Alexander. (Diogenes, also, spoke out against Alex, but he was from Corinth.) Demosthenes saw the Macedonians as Barbarians and Macedonia's hegemony over the Greek states as a bizarre hallucination in the extreme.

Unrivaled political power was Antipater's motive. With Alexander gone, Antipater saw himself as the boss. It didn't work out that way, but hey, he tried. After Alexander's death in 323, Aristotle beat it out of town saying, that he didn't want the "Athenians to sin twice against philosophy." That was a not-too-veiled allusion to the execution of Socrates, by the Athenians, in 399. Both Aristotle and Demosthenes died, or may have been murdered, a year later, in 322.

The followers of Aristotle quickly went underground taking all his works and cult symbols with them where they stayed hidden for more than 167 year. (The eye on top of a pyramid that you can find on a dollar bill was and still is a Free Mandelbaums symbol, but was originally designed by Callisthenes.)

Since their reemergence under a variety of names, the Aristotelians have gone to great lengths to refute the allegation against Aristotle, including the destruction of evidence and documentation that implicated Aristotle with involvement in Alexander's death: even, as they continue their malefactions against the World Spirit. To understand them (call them Casuists, Scholasticists or Free Mandelbaums), you have to understand that their basic premises are founded on expediency, but especially the Lie. Aristotle was often accused of atheism and preaching evil beliefs during his own life time justifying his perversities and prevarications by saying, "One can only come to a conclusion if an act is good or evil after having examined the cause." Here is one example of the double talk which he was fond of using in his Posterior Analytics, "We have (scientific) knowledge when we know the cause."

I'm afraid that I have to split Platonic hairs, here, and say that "Reason" and not "Cause" leads us to the Truth or Goodness in all instances. Often times, what we believe to be Knowledge has been purposely and falsely manipulated.

The Avicenna and Rhazes treatise would, I believe -- philosophy be damned -- have painted a truer picture of the demonic figure whose influence has been responsible for much of the havoc in the world over the last two thousand years.

Since November 22, 1963, I have continued my investigation; however, with the disappearance of Lee, I have not been able to add anything new to the material that I originally inherited. I have heard rumors that placed him in a Cadillac showroom in Memphis, Tenn., where he bought a Cadillac for a stranger who was merely window shopping and obviously in no financial position to buy one. I traveled to Buenos Aires in the early 70's and was told that, "Yes," he had been there, but had mysteriously disappeared after attending a political meeting. One rumor even had Lee altering his appearance with the aid of plastic surgery, becoming a rock star, and dying of a drug overdose in Paris where he was buried in the Cimetière Père Lachaise. However, when forensic specialists opened the casket, in 1984, it was empty. Recently, someone told me that they heard that he was back in Texas, and had been the leader of a religious cult somewhere around Waco, in the middle 80's; others say they had spotted him, just a few years, ago, as a hired hand on a ranch in Crawford, Texas.

In any case, I haven't given up the search, nor can I become too demoralized. Long ago, I dedicated my life to the sole purpose of uncovering the truth no matter how long it takes me--even if it were to take my whole life. You see, I know that I was not the only person who lost out that day in November. All the American people were the losers: and, in a larger sense, all of Western Civilization lost, too. Ultimately, Truth was the biggest loser of all, and, for the time being, Conspiracy, the big winner.
-END IT-

6. The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario

hursday, December 04, 2008
6. The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario
The Red Lentil Soup I Stole From Mario
I met Mario while he was working as a chef in a rustic Italian restaurant in upstate New York. He wasn't one of those chefs who had graduated from an elegant culinary school. Actually, I never asked him where he had learned to cook. He was Italian, so I assumed he had learned to cook in Italy.

The restaurant was in a dechristened church in a picture-postcard hamlet in New York's Mid-Hudson Valley region. What attracted me to it was that they made excellent pizza in a brick oven and they stocked several VSOP cognacs. I used to go there in the middle of the afternoon when business was slow. After a few visits, Mario and I began to enter into polite conversation. He would sit down and we'd talk about almost anything. Not unexpectedly, the conversations would always turn to food.

Mario was always trying to push his lentil soup on me. It was his specialty and he was proud of it. It was always on the menu, and people came there at lunch time just to have his soup. He would often offer it to me, too, but I would refuse. We almost made a game of it. I'm not an adventurer when it comes to eating Green Things. When I was a kid, I was forced to eat split pea soup. I hated it until one day, somewhere outside of L.A., maybe it was San Bernardino or just a little bit north, I had split pea soup in a restaurant that had the name, fittingly enough, "Anderson's Split Pea Restaurant." I had the pot roast and the soup. It was great. I think that I may still have the recipe in my head, but I never had the incentive to try and make it.

Mario used to keep teasing me. Once, when I insisted that I didn't like green looking foods, he pointed out that it was made out of red lentils. I could tell, instantly, from his eyes that he hadn't wanted to tell me that. He knew, by now, that I was a recipe thief. Finally, I broke down and tried his soup. It was everything he had said it was, and then some. I began returning to the restaurant, more frequently, to have my regular Quatro Stagioni Margueritta pizza and his soup, all the time pestering him for the recipe.

"If I give you the recipe," he would say, "you'll never come back." I think that after the tenth or 15th attempt, at home, I had almost gotten it right, when one day, I walked into the usually empty restaurant and saw Mario sitting very quietly and contemplative at a corner table next to the kitchen. The restaurant was empty, which didn't seem unusual at the time, since I had become used to seeing it that way. I had convinced myself that the restaurant must do very well for dinner. He didn't even notice my coming in. "What's up Mario?" I asked, "I quit," he said.

Startled by the realization that one of my life's routines was abruptly coming to an end, I began to ask him all kinds of questions friends ask each other when there has been a sea change in one of their lives. "The owners, you know, are from the City; and they have decided to change the menu." Still surprised, but curious to see how much the change would impact on my life, I asked, "How are they changing it?" Mario looked at me and spurted out the words I hate to the core. "Nouvelle Cuisine, and that eliminates me." He said unable to disguise his scorn. "It eliminates me, too," I said. "You know," continued Mario," that I don't cook that way."

Before I said my final farewell to my friend and the restaurant, we talked about the soup. Apparently, I had gotten real close. I had been a bit wrong about how to start it and the amount of cumin to use... but, I was getting there. One or two more tries, I would have gotten it.

"Do you know what nouvelle cuisine is?" He asked, rhetorically, adding."It's nothing more than expensive **** with a French name created by cynical entrepreneurs for the nouveaux riches." He paused for a minute to reflect, then, finished his thought, "That's just my personal opinion, of course."

Nouvelle for the Nouveaux:
Jeffrey went to culinary school for four years. For the sake of argument it's in Poughkeepsie, One of the things he learned and remembers is that people prefer presentation to substance. Jeff, after four years, learned to be an interior decorator of porcelain plates. "Tres joli. N'est-pas?"

The last year in culinary school, Jeff began going down to the City on Saturday's for French lessons. By the time he graduated, he not only knew how to make barely cooked pigeon breast in a butter and wine sauce, with a sprig of parsley and a slice of tomate (sic) for which he could charge $90 and up. but had completely metamorphosed himself into "Geoffrey." He had, originally, planned to go with "Roland." (He had heard, somewhere, that there had been a romantic character in French history with that name). However, he knew there were already too many "Rolands," working on Columbus Avenue, where, coincidentally, he got his first job, in a very small but trendy chic bistro, "Chez Book Y Worm," known to the trendees, as the "Worm."

Someone, early on, had suggested to the proprietor, that "Y" was the Spanish form for the conjunction "and," and the proper form in French was "et." "Too late," said the proprietor, "Anyway, the "Y' gives it a cute double 'entente' however inscrutable, and who will ever know?' Good Point! I was about to ask him if he meant "entendre," but thought better of it.

The Worm has 8 small tables; a bar and walls lined with books-once-read purchased by the yard. Now, one step from the garbage bin, they are a chic substitute for wallpaper, lending the cave-sized eatery a much needed ambiance. What is missing in the patrons' skull can be conveniently borrowed from the decor. One can simply absorb knowledge through osmosis. Nice trick, n'est-e pas? .

The clientele are the variety that has more cash than class. Missing are born 'n bred Manhattanittes who would never be caught dead in one of those establishments that caters to 20-somethings from Deluth or its environs and who make bushels of bucks in advertising or design.

She and He:
She and He are sitting at a table with a lighted candle in a nook by the bar. They have already made the rounds of several Second Avenue bars before deciding to come over to Columbus to see what everybody else was doing. This week, they have decided to celebrate her raise from the women's garment company where she is employed as a blouse designer. The company has decided to go with her "BraBlouse" creation. "It' a blouse. It's a bra." Actually, it's a bra with a little material sewn around it, adding a little more cloth so as to make it "Barely legal," as she proudly states.

"It's Shocking," said the boss.
"It's Shocking," said her co-designers."
"But," said the boss, "It has that certain je ne sais quoi."
"But," said her co-designers, "It has that certain je ne sais quoi."
"It's the BraBlouse," said the boss, foregoing Her suggestion of "BraChem(ise)."
"It's the BraBlouse," said her co-designers foregoing her suggestion of ... Oh, well, you get the picture.

The BraBlouse brought her a raise in salary to nearly $100,000, almost the same as her beau who received a raise from his company, the American Generic Tobacco Company, where he is a copywriter. He was the one who came up with the new product idea, and AGT's new motto, for their Asian tobacco markets. "Tiny Cigs for Tiny Kids." Very catchy. She is from Cheyenne, but She tells everyone that She is from San Francisco where She went to design school. He is from Buffalo but tells everyone that he is actually from Rochester.

Their waiter is actually named Roland, but, because of the aforementioned reason, calls himself, Pierre. He wears tight black pants with a black silk shirt tucked in but open to the navel. Around his neck, he sports a thick gold chain on a hairless chest. When he makes broad arm movements, a tattoo of Eros about to shoot an arrow is exposed over his left nipple. Tonight, Pierre is recommending, of all things, "Breast of Dove, au Suisse," and, "from the wine cellar "(They have no wine cellar. They don't even have a cellar. The trendy cheese shop, next door has the cellar), intones Pierre, with the insouciance of someone who writes for wine magazines on the side, "we have a delicious '93 Chablis, imported to the States, just for the Worm." Did I mention that Pierre is from Brooklyn and, in his entire life, has never tasted a Chablis. He wouldn't know what it tasted like. He prefers Rum and Coke with a twist of lemon.

She has the pigeon: He opts for the more manly, New York Sirloin, "Very rare, please."
Finally, "Would Madame like to try the house Mousse au Chocolat?" The only madams that Pierre had known before working on Columbus Ave. were madams, that he had met plying their trade in the same Eastside bars in which he had earlier been employed. "Oh," says She, "Is that the same thing as the Moussy thing you have here, on the menu? "Oui, Madame," says Pierre. As tip time gets nearer, Pierre's French begins to blossom. "I'll pass on the pudding," says He. "May I recommend an aperitif?" inquires Pierre.

"What would you suggest, Pierre?" says She, ululating her Rs. (Between Geoffrey's and Pierre's instruction, her French had gotten pretty good). "We have an excellent VSOP," says Pierre. "Oh," says She, "I was really thinking of having a cognac." Pierre can not stop his eyes from rolling. She settles, however, on Pierre's suggestion of a 25-year-old Extra Special Old Pale.
"None of that sweet girlie stuff for me," says He, "I'll have a double Remy on the rocks."

The bill: $525. Neither flinch, they fight to pay the bill. "Sweetie, I think that you paid last time," says She. "Okay, I guess you're right," says He, finally giving in..

So, what became of Mario? I don't know, but I have his recipe for Red Lentil Soup.
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All the ingredients and utensils you'll need for Mario's Red Lentil Soup:
- 1 large cooking pot, with lid, capable of holding three quarts of water, (preferably iron, but absolutely not aluminum)
- 1 small frying pan, or skillet
- 1 wooden stirring spoon
Ingredients:
- 1 cup of Red Lentils
- 1 Red Bell Pepper
- 1 Carrot, thinly sliced, (My addition)
- 1 Onion
- Two or Three cloves of smashed Garlic (The more, the merrier)
- 1/2 Teaspoon of freshly ground Black Pepper
- 1 Teaspoon Cumin (It is the éminance grise behind the soup)
- 1 Teaspoon of salt (More or less according to taste and tasting)
- 1 Bay Leaf
- OPTIONAL, 1 minced Hot Pepper, only if you have a taste for things very spicy.
- 3 Teaspoons of Spanish Olive Oil (I Will find out if you use any other)
- Two-and-a-half Quarts of Water
La Préparation (Don't worry, it's spelled correctly in French) Yiiiiiii, this job is getting difficult.
Okay, let's make a deal. From now on, consider every word I spell as being correct even if you are sure that it's not. Continue (Spelt the same in English as in French, but here, please pronounce it with a French accent to humor me. Merci.).
-Wash the Red Lentils, thoroughly. Rinse them in cold water three or four times. Set aside.
-Slice and chop up the onions and Red Bell Pepper. Smash the Garlic
-Start boiling the water.
-In the skillet, sauté (faire sauter) the onions, Red Pepper, Sliced Carrots and Garlic in the (Spanish) Olive Oil.
-As the Onions begin to become translucent, add the Salt, Black Pepper and Cumin, and continue stirring on a low flame. When the Onions appear as if that they would start to burn, remove and set aside.
-When the water begins to boil, throw in the Red Lentils, and stir. Lower the flame and continue to stir. If you haven't washed off the excess starch, the water may start to froth. Too late, just lower the flame a little more and continue to stir. If the froth begins to become a nuisance, skim off some of it.
-Continue stirring the Red Lentils (approximately 20 to 30 minutes) until they pop (split) and they turn Green (actually a Yellowish Green; they will get Greener later).
-Then, throw in the stuff that you sautéed and put aside (Onions, Pepper , etc.) and STIR.
-Throw in the Bay Leaf and STIR-STIR, STIr, STir, Stir, stir, Lower the flame, Cover and Simmer over a low flame.
-Stir every 20 minutes, until the soup becomes thick and you've lost almost half of your water. (About Two-and-a-half hours). If the soup is still thin, uncover and bring to a low boil and stir as if you know that the bottom will burn if you don't.

On the side, you can have some fresh corn, (stripped off the cob) served in a small bowl.
Serve with sliced French or Italian bread (with a ripe Brie or Camembert, if that's your pleasure).
A fine Margaux would be perfect unless that's problematic, otherwise, a Coke with a slice of lemon would be my choice. Water is good, too.
Bon Appetit!
From Budapest
Posted by Imperfect Messenger at 10:42 PM
Labels: Food, Social Commentary, Social Satire
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