Brenda and the F Word

Sat next to the designer, Carolina Herrera, this morning at the beauty salon. She was getting her hair washed. I, usually,  blatantly ignore celebrities. Most New Yorkers do. It’s a point of pride, I think, and a sort of reverse snobbism. “Hey ! So what if you’re a world famous movie star, billionaire, crook, politician, whatever. This is my town, too.” But her eyes were closed. So I figured it was OK to stare, discreetly. 

She was mesmerizing, a vision of cool, long-limbed splendor. 70 years old and she’s got legs like a girl, I thought. But everything about this woman, including her manners, was staggeringly chic. The black patent leather stilettos as sharp as pencil points, the nylon stockings (My God! Nylon stockings. Do I ever remember that rite of passage), the slim black skirt and crisp, high-collared white shirt. But most of all, the face, the exquisitely unmarked, creamy white skin. Not a single fucking wrinkle, mole, or freckle. And yes, of course, she’s had lifts. (Two, according to my stylist) And no, it didn’t look natural. How could it at 70? Instead, there was something almost supernatural, ethereal, about her aura. 

As she sat there,  perfectly still, her face and smooth neck exposed to the harsh,merciless daylight, I imagined her as a woman who dresses from the inside out. That is, from a place that must be unimaginably serene. She’s probably never been in a hurry, I thought. Not even to get to a party. I pictured her growing up in some corner of perpetual shade, sheltered, always sheltered, from the sun; from dread and doubt. 
“She appeared original, vivid, and destined for other lands and lovely times,” says Shirley Hazzard in her novel, The Great Fire. 
When she stood up and said “Thank You” to the assistant, she gave me a radiant smile. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” she said. I, suddenly, felt hopelessly unkempt. All I could see was the pinprick hole in my shirt, the two mismatched white socks under my pants, the dirty shoe laces, and the battered Converse. This is a woman who would rather have her feet cut off than be seen in a pair of Converse, I thought. 

Then when I walked home, I remembered my own summers in Caracas (which is where Herrera was born. Her maiden name was Carolina Josefina Pacanins y Nino). I would fly down for the month of August to visit friends from the convent. South American parents often sent their daughters “North” to learn English and there was nowhere safer for them here than within the cloistered halls of a Sacred Heart convent. I’m sure those years in the 70’s were the last of the lovely, gentle times for the rich in Venezuela. And how I looked forward to those first exotic getaways. To my first (and only) appointments with a team of seamstresses who created my dance dresses. That sensation of standing in a curtained room, ladies armed with tape measures, scissors, and pins, circling around before slipping this fabulously flimsy cocoon of white lace over my head… It was the stuff of fairy tales. The dances took place outside in gardens beneath huge striped canvas tents and went on till morning. Every girl received a card that hung from the wrist on a piece of satin ribbon and came with a tiny pastel colored pencil. The boys would write their names next to each number and no one was permitted more than three dances with the same boy. I remember the chaperones hovering and tapping them on the shoulder if they dared to dance too close. 

When I tell my daughter these stories now, she giggles in total disbelief. It seems impossible that there could have ever been such ridiculously innocent times in the world. And yet, she, too, has a grace, an aura, all her own, this daughter of mine. An ease and a sort of splendor that never fails to move me. 

Photo prefaced with this note: “Looks bad over there. Maybe I’ll stay here.” More later.

panic! This is one of the problems, being a freelancer. You have to find a way to kill time. Like blogging and  Googling “Swine flu updates” every twenty minutes. At 2 30, New York is officially declared the “American Epicenter for Swine Flu.” Fuck is all I can say. Fuck. I’m sick of living in the epicenter. Yesterday, it was some dumb ass pilots in a 747 and F-14 buzzing the World Trade Center site.  I’m feverish. Achy. My nose is running. So I’m off to stock up on food at Citarella. Usually, I shop like a European. (Which translates into a refrigerator that is practically empty.) Not today. Today, I’m rolling that cart around like some kind of half-crazed housewife on the  old Supermarket Sweepstakes. $200 bucks later, the cart is full. I drag the bags home and unload them in the kitchen. 
5 containers of home made pesto, 4 containers of spinach cheese ravioli, 3 packages frozen edamame, 2 loaves French bread, 6 red onions, 3 bottles of salad dressing (what am I going to do? Drink it?), marinara sauce… Food for a dinner party not a quarantine. Out now to buy soup and tuna fish. Oh. And I also e mailed my dystopian friend, the survivalist in the West Village. I wrote about his closet command center months ago. I was laughing at his stacks of bottled water and hunting knives and gas masks. Well,  I ain’t laughing now… 

A Sars mask, a video, or an action figure, you’re wrong. Apparently, it’s a Fire Escape Mask and can be found, like Gideon’s Bible here in the USA, in every Beijing hotel room. My husband, R, sent the photo this morning. Somewhat concerned about the baffling graphics (I mean, what is that little guy down in the left hand corner doing exactly? It certainly doesn’t look running) and his father’s future well-being in a fire, my son, Jack, looked up the mask on Google.

Here, from his e mail, the instructions for use:
1. Open the cover, take out the vacuumized packing bag
2. Tear the vacuumized packing bag IMMEDIATELY, take out the respirator, and pull out the plogs.
3. Put out the helmet and fasten its string
4. Choose Right Way and escape decisively and quickly.

Step four, says Jack in his e mail, sounds the most helpful. Don’t dally, Dad, over the confusing mess that is step 3, or step 2, for the matter. What, pray tell, is a PLOG?. In case, you’re confused by Put out the helmet, says Jack, I assume they mean Put On and not throw out the nearest window. As for fastening its string. Good luck with that. I enjoy the generous employment of adverbs: immediately, decisively, quickly. But please for Fuck’s sake in the event of fire, make sure you choose “The Right Way.” (Although I suppose to a Chinese Buddhist who believes in that right way, reincarnation, and karma, that may be a very confusing instruction. Therefore, if you happen to meet any Chinese Buddhists trying to escape the fire, do NOT FOLLOW them. 

 

This comes from a friend and a source who would rather burn at the stake than lie and/or exaggerate… 

Extremely bright daughter and very conscientious parents take fourteen college tours last year. Daughter applies for early admission to–I’ll say Swathmore–and gets in. Delirious with relief, totally  enthused, daughter and family relax. Months pass. Time comes to pack up trunks and head off to #1 college choice. After nervous five hour drive, family follows town signs to campus. Daughter begins to fidget. Dad turns into campus drive.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful this place is,” Dad says, eyeing the lovely 50K per annum, landscaped quad.
“Oh My God!”, the daughter howls. “My God!” 
“I know its hard, darling,” Mom says, compassionately. “But it’s gonna be just fine. You’re going to love it here.”
“No, I’m NOT!” daughter wails. “You don’t understand. This isn’t IT, Mom. This isn’t the college I picked!” 
“Fuck!” Dad mutters, looking at Mom. “Tell me she’s kidding.”
She wasn’t. But daughter is now in second year and loves it. 

Been thinking of Paolo’s chat and his very, very tin (thin) womens; the ones who come only to be seen. As if being seen, somehow, confirms they actually exist. (And no, I don’t mean the ladies who show up for lunch, looking like they’ve been air-lifted in from Basra. ) This is why, I think, they also crave that blinding light of the papparazzi’s flash. Because for one brief, incandescent moment, the light brings them back to life. Being recognized gives them an illusion of identity. As for the rudeness Paolo mentions… I’ve heard this from waiters all over town. How demanding they can be. Ordering entire meals ’off menu.’ How dissatisfied with everything from the service to the sole. (Sole as in fish.) But most of these rich, “tin” women live in a bizaare state of captivity. They’re kept, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. And the only place they’re free to assert themselves is in restaurants. Not that this is any excuse for the fact they’re merciless to everyone but their dogs. It’s just, somehow, understandable. The bottom line, for me, however, is that I often judge people not by their shoes but by how they behave in restaurants. The ones with real style have manners. The ones who don’t. Well, I can live without them. But now, I’ll return to Paolo and his own grim fairy tales at Triestino…  

“You gotta lot a de crazy regulars, sai? Like a the lady who say fucka you. And de guy who eat a no ting but a bigga bowl a garlic. Only garlic. Che pazzo, lui. Forty dolla for de garlic. Oh yah. And de cat ta woman. She like a gotta dees guy who travel wid her. Maybe butler. Maybe lover. But he always in de kitchen,wrapping uppa de champagne. Just a so. So much loneliness, des peoples. I remember one a lady wid her husband. Always dressed een white, white, white. Beeg red lips. She wanna de whole table, every ting on it, white. Her child die, you see? She loosa her mind. 

De waiders at Triestino ees a really tough a life. De gotta like a two keeds, de wife. Maybe di-vor-ced.  By lunch, de already drinka like two bottles Pinot Grig. Dey are a stuck in de lifa. 11 o’clock, I leave a de restaurant, go home, hafa some dreenks wid friends. Des guys, dey worka till a twelve. Den what? Do a druga and go to bed. Alone. De Bossa. He know a everybody gonna steal a from eem. Ee is  a paranoid. Dat’s a why he dreenk so much. Dat’s why you no can bringa de backapacka een. De guys dey putta meat inside and de bottles and even de feesh. We gotta one guy, de food runner, from Ecuadora. He worka der for thirteen years. They can maka like $6,000 a weeka, eh? I tink a he owna like half a Ecuadora. He tella me he got ta $100,000 dolla saved. And de guys in de front a de house. Forgeddabout it. Every shift, a hundred dolla. Lunch and deena $400 mora from de pool. Plus, of course, he getta de money from de handshake. Especially in de summer, you getta guy, he no wanna wait. He no wanna seat near de batroom. So ee shake a your hand and give you one hundred dollar. Tommy Mottola, he givea $500.00 always for his a table. Dat’s a lot of money. I gotta frienda uppatown. De  manager. He getta free rent for two year as wedding present. Anudder guy, he getta free Mercedes. 

When Jacka Nicholson come a een wid a Sean Penna, ees de worse. Ee is a lika high all de time. One night, I am eena de kitchen, closing uppa. And der dey are wid a rock bigga like dees. (Here, Paolo puts his fingers in a big C) Uge!! Dees are peoples who donna even remember a de real world. De all hugga you, kees you. Ma Perche? I no agent or director. I just a waider. But dey are lonely, see? Eees de young girls are de worse, dough. Dey coma eena for de drugga. Dey go to de batroom and leave a stuff all over de floor. Dey picka up no ting. Den dey putta food and licquor on der Daddy’s house account. So spoiled, dees girls. Losta, I tink.

Me, I say. You gotta be appy (happy) eena your house a. I no can work when I notta appy. People around you eeesa assholes. De system. Pushy, pushy, pushy. You never canna relax. So I worka eer at Tristino to makka money for de sportsbar. And I goota only two tousand to go, Brenda. Den I feenished. (Finished.) 

Paolo gives me a big grin. “But leesten, you needa good table next a week. You call me, eh? I’m a doing de front a de house.” 

One might assume with their “exclamatory hands” (Morton) and excitable natures that Italians make lousy professional waiters. Paolo M is proof, otherwise. Thirty-three years old and a long-time veteran of New York’s restaurant scene, he works at one of the city’s most famous celebrity haunts. I’ll call it Triestino. Short and stocky with a cap of curly black hair and green eyes, there is something almost sprite-like about Paolo. His grin. His restlessness. His humor. He also has this wonderful way, when he laughs out loud, of crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair that makes even his horror stories seem hilariously funny. His English, or what I loosely refer to as English, only adds to the hilarity. Because he works only in Italian restaurants with other Italian waiters, taking orders for Italian food, his exposure to ”dat udder language” is minimal at best. 

This week he is especially exuberant. Full of plans to abandon his studio down the block and return to Milan to open a sports bar with his brother. His imminent departure makes him a little less discreet than usual when sharing gruesome details about serving the city’s high (like Amy Winehouse high) and mighty. As I have just recovered from a bout of acute food poisoning after devouring rotten barbecued pork, we begin our expresso chat by dishing the dirt. Or ‘de deeert” as Paolo says…

“Me I eat a home. De peoples, dey don’t know what essa (is) good food. An dey don’t know about de deert. You haf a to realiza someting. Besides a de ane-mals running around, de mice, de rats, de cockaroachas…You gotta. Well, let’s take a de bartender. Hees (his) hands, dey toucha de money, de cash, and den dey toucha de olive in de Martini. I hava dees friend, si? He worka de bar at a restaurant wid me upatown. One night, ee (he) hava dees bigga fight wid ees girlfriend at a de bar. He no Know he losa ees bandaid. I taka de drink to de table and I no no why eet (it) no come outta de shaker. So I open eet uppa and der is de bandaid, stuck inside a de top a! Miseria! 

Uppa town was de worse. You hafa des  (these) very, very tin (thin) womens, dey a come in a for de lunch after de plastic surgeon. And dey coma een, coe-vered, (covered) der whole face, coe-vered wid de bandage, eh? You gotta put a de straw een de soupa and de feesh (fish) inna de blender. You say to yourselfa “Ma che? Why you no a stay home, lady? You looka like dees? Or dey order, you know?
“I’ll have a de dressing on de side, no olive, no butta. And please a steam a de vegetables.”
Den dey go and vomit in de batroom. Madonna! Eees a crazy, non?” 

Dees is why a  decide to worka downtown. Eet’s lika girlfriend, si? You hafa te find de spot you a really want. A few months a ere (here), a few months a der…And in a dees bizaness (business), also you wanna cash. No paycheck, eh? . Like a now at ta Triestino. I do a five deeners, two luncha,, I make a two, tree tousand dollars a week. Cash. And de boss. Eee essa lika drunk allla day long. But ee no missa no ting. Eee essa (is) de first a one een and de lasta one a out. For eeem, no essa job. Essa his life. De first a night, I worka der, dey (the other waiters) putta me at dees crazy lady table. I say hello, OK? She say,” Do a me a favor. Get a de fuck outta ere.” She gett a upa to go to de batroom, she say: “Getta fucka outta my way.” De waiters, dey laughing and dey tella me later…It taka two years before she talka to you like a de human being.  Porca Miseria! But whaddaya goin do? So mucha money, Brenda.”  

De ting ees… De fooda ees a like OK at Triestino. But a plata pasta eesa plata pasta. You spenda lika seexty (60) dollar for lika bowl of spaghetti wid a tomato sauce. But dey coma here because ees de place a to be, non? Dey coma to see de boss. I lova eet! I see so many tings. So many great a tings. And ees a fun. But now I tired and I gotta go a homa to see my mama. I missa Milan, eh? “

Tomorrow. Paolo and Sean Penn