My Self-Full filling Prophecy
The phone rings loudly as I finish my last down dog and sun salutation. I snap out of my Zen like state to regroup my thoughts and put on my masks, one that is “Sammy” and I mean that in the most Jungian way, and one that is made of herbs and petrified grains found in ancient Aztec ruins, ground to a fine powder and activated it with a couple tablespoons of apple cider vinegar. I smear it on my face as I knew the person on the other line can talk for days; I figure kill two birds with one stone. I insert my Bluetooth headset and focus my zen like energy on what is going to be a long winded conversation or so I thought. As I run the water in my Jacuzzi bath tub to cleanse away any impurities my body migt have excreted in my practice, I am told to put on my “careless” best so as to not look like I am trying too hard to look good. God forbid I look like I’m trying to pass as a person who cared to much what I look like. I had just been put on a VIP list to sit at the chefs table at the new restaurant opening event that our celebrity friend had just invested money in. I, of course being in my twenties and in the height of my superficially driven, idealistic phase my mission and goal was to not only maintain and keep my stature in a circle incredibly hard to penetrate but also to “secretly” try the food before “everyone” else did so as to bring it up in conversation purposely in a social setting and made sure everyone at the table knew that I had already not only met the chef, ate his food but was assured that the chef and I were “tight”. If you’re not picking up what I’m putting down, my goal here it to be envied by those with a goal to be envied as well. That was the game.
As I look in the mirror and put on the finishing touches to an outfit that took me two hours to put together, just to make it look like I always look like this, like I just threw it on. I get a text that my car is waiting for me outside. I walk into a cloud of designer cologne because putting it on directly, I might run the risk of being compared to a Persian taxi driver and not be let in to the restaurant at all. I couldn’t afford the embarrassment, so a light mist was sufficient. I arrive to the carnival and paparazzi madness that is ensuing outside of the restaurant. I look in the midnight tinted town car windows for last looks before the door opens and flash burns our freshly masked faces on our way into the restaurant. I look over at the lines to get in and make sure that everyone in line knows that “I” don’t have to wait in line and can get right in.
A I enter the restaurant I am transfixed by the pure excitement of the place. Waiters running feverishly trying to get their barrings, hostesses awkwardly gawking at celebrities when they should be trying to figure out ourtable situation. Lights dimmly lit so as to hide the faces ever so of the people inside enjoying a night or celebrity gawking. Customary at these establishments is to stop what you are doing and look towards the entrance of the restaurant when someone walks in the door to see if it's someone worth looking at or making a big to do to invite them to our table. Night after night thereis a new club openening, a new bar and or club. Being a socialite has its perks but it also has it downfalls.
This one particular night I sat at a table with a group of friends that I had always sat with, same exhausting mundane and insipid converstaion that really had nothing worth spending the evening talking about.
It was a circle almost routine, I knew what came next afetr the sharing of who was wearing what and how much money they spent on the piece of string they called a dress and the guys whipering in each others ear and comparing otes who was a better lay Lohan or Paris Hilton. I of course sat bored trying to yake my self to a place in my head that made me get through the night at these stale and boring events. That was reading the menu.I drowned out the sounds of this saxaphone cacaphony of sound like the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons and would beggin to read the menu with detail. The Canapes consisted of a burrata with pequillo peppers and a garlic crostini, the frog legs with a bbq coulis. I thought frog legs? Is it cool or is it gross? I was caught in a social debate within myself? I wasn't sure if ordering frogs legs was in the rule book at this socially concious table of friends? But I couldn't help but imagine the taste of the frog legs with a nice dry white wine, my mouth salivated just thinking about the moment the two would swim synergisticly together in my mouth. I took a chance and it came my turn to order the first course. "I'll have the frog legs with the bbq coulis please to start". Silence fell around my table like the type of silence you experience right before the tornado rips through your living room on a humid summer day in Kansas. I gulped in fright. Had I made a faux pas? Had I compleatly ruined my reputation of ordering what everyone else ordered, pommes frites with a garlic aioli? Sweat beads falling ever so down my face like Iron Eyes Cody in a "Keep America Clean" commercial. I took a deep breath looked around the table and made a stance "YES, I will be having the frogs legs"
As the waitress waked away there was somewhat of an awkward silence at the table. A whiper here and what I call the awkward sip, that's when something awkward happens at the table the first thing one does to break the awkwardness is they go for the glass as if the sip of the glass is going to make everyoe forget how awkward the moment was. So I sat there watching the "awkward sip" and I gave in I sipped along with them. I sat quietlt thinking how is it possible that frog legs were such a taboo item to order as a first course? How avant garde of me, I felt like such a libertine. I smiled at the decision I had made. It was as liberating as burning your bra in the sixties to make the point that I didn't have to be like everyone else and comform, I wanted frog legs and I oprder frog legs and here was nothing they could do about it and I didn't care!!
As the wine was being poured at the table I could see my hot sauteed frogs legs in the window. My mouth watered in anticipation. The waitress brought the plates one by one. Down went the pommes frites with aioli, then the bruschetta on toasted french bread, the beef carpaccio with a chive pancake...then came my frog legs. Slowly it was placed infront of my face like a cinematic exclamation, my company's head turned toward my frogs legs. They arrived just as I had imagined, juicy, and drizzled ever so with a satin like bbq sauce with herbs and aromatic spices carried over to the states via camel or tug boat, how romantic I thought.
As I sit excitedly in my plush Victorian wing chair, staring at these lucious appendages, steam rising up my face like my spa experience earlier that day sans Helenka my Russian esthetician.
I pick up my utensils and I notice my company slowly turning their heads and waiting in anticipation for my first bite of these tender morsels of goodness. As I cut into the first leg this savory juice falls out of the tender meat and rolls into the sauce, creating an unintentional fusion of flavors. I swirl the meat around in the sauce and just when I think I have just enough sauce smothering the meat I slowly bring it up to my mouth and look away as if in my own world, forgetting anyone else was around. I put the meat in my mouth and at the very moment of contact a sort of genesis happens, the birth to what is becoming a revelation in my life. My sensories had gone into a whirlwind. Have I stumbled upon a new path? Have I opened a new door to what is become my future? I fevereshly cut and prepared my next bite. I was lost in a world of smell, taste and color as if I had been lost in an unknown world after being dropped off by a tornado and accidently killing a witch and looking for a city made of emeralds.
Just then I look over at the swinging kitchen doors to see the chef peeking out the circular window, waiting for reactions from his honored guests. We locked eyes and slyly give him a thumbs up. The doors fling open and out comes the slightly rotund, middle aged, jovial chef the kinds you see in Humphrey Bogart movies, French accent and all. "You like?" he asked in a sort of insecure tone. I couldn't get the proper words to describe how delectible and savvory the frog legs were. My mouth was full and all I could do was nod and smile. He stood up in excitement and brought his hands together in gratitude and shook them vigurously as if he had just won an Oscar. As if I had the last say in critiquing his frog legs. Who was I? Why did he care so much to why I liked his frog legs or not? "Curious" I whispered in his ear, "Why do you care so much that I like your frog legs? I'm just a wanna be actor with his daddys credit card, I know nothing of food?" He earnestly replied in his thick French accent "Iz becoz no one has ever ogderegd zee Cuisses de grenouille"
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