Dust On My Boots Part 8
Part 8: I’d Rather Drink Crow
by Nazel Pickens
“Drama is very important in life: You have to come on with a bang. You never want to go out with a whimper. Everything can have drama if it's done right. Even a pancake.”
- Julia Child
“Just speak very loudly and quickly, and state your position with utter conviction, as the French do, and you'll have a marvelous time!”
- Julia Child
On a recent mission to the local hardware store, in a simple attempt to acquire some nails, bailing wire, rolls of duct tape, and a few other assorted home-steady necessities, I, apparently, was the ninety-ninth customer of the week and the “Lucky Winner” of an “Exclusive Special Prize”. To my marginally cranky dismay, my booty was not a new hammer, power tool, assorted lumber, life supply of sandpaper, gallon of pvc glue, or any other sorta semi-useful reward for my amazingly uninteresting feat of being some certain place at some random time. No, it was a gift certificate for a free meal at a new restaurant called Rien… over there in Poshland.
Now, first off, to paint a picture of Poshland… well, it is an earth-toned bumper-sticker placed perfectly slightly askew on a Prius parked at an over-priced food co-op in the sky-blue political landscape with bland yet pretentious values, aesthetics, and personality. It is surrounded by some beautifully rugged mountains, but even they are arrogantly presented as if their God on high had created them for these pathetically weak and boring specimens of the human situation. I don’t go to Poshland very often if I can help it. The last time there I was almost arrested for coming to the defense of someone smoking a cigarette within the city limits, followed by a citizen’s vibe ticket for not providing a preferred pronoun to a local enforcer, but, never mind, let’s focus on my most recent “experience”.
Oh, and I should also caveat here, that as far as tasty, nutritious, unique, and interestingly prepared food goes, it is a joy of my life and one of the few endeavors that many traditional cultures and certain individuals have excelled at. But, what once was a necessary, and at its finest a scrumptious and creative affair, has become another victim to the ever-trending consumer trash can of this plastic, redundant, and flaccid reality. Sometimes that means garbage presented as food, other times decent food presented as some sort of epic delight. Either way, it has gotten out of control and is a mostly hyped-up and generally deceitful scam, not too mention too spendy for any simple folk. Don’t get me wrong, there are exceptions, like the local BBQ joint, a Mexican restaurant or two, a Thai place, and a few other well-meaning food establishments around the area that provide fulfilling meals in every sense of the word. But I could not think of a more pretentious and so very Poshland a term than “Foodie”. Let’s start there. So, the announcement of my “prize” read like this:
Fellow Foodie!
We are delighted to offer you
a culinary experience of unparalleled exquisiteness
You are cordially invited to a special early seating
at 4pm on Tuesday the 17th of June
The venture which offered this award appreciates you
and would like to honor your patronage
by offering a complementary meal at
Rien
A Stark and Intersectional Malthusian Experience
187 Mountain Crest Blvd, Poshland, OR
rienmalthusianexperience.org
Hmmm. Well, it sure is hard to pass up a free meal, ’specially these days. Plus I had a pal or two I could drop in on along the hour or so drive there or perhaps on the way back. There were also some plant foods and medicines I could only harvest over in that valley too. So, I supposed I would go, although, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the invitation or if there was any sort of dress code, but I figured my cleanest pearl snap, beaver hat, and nicest boots would do just fine. As I left, however, one of my cats gave me a glare I will never forget, like I was gonna kill her mama and eat her or somethin’. That was not a good omen, but I did wish to somehow contort my face and stare into the darkness of eternity like that on command some day.
Everything else moved along just fine. The truck had over a halfa tank of petrol and the sky was clear. The drive was pleasant enough, ‘cept for a snail of a drunk granny in front of me and some jerk in too bigga hurry behind. But it eventually worked itself out without too many fingers, horns, or general rage and I sailed down the pastoral byway with scenes of an early summer impressionist blur on my windshield, on my way to… who knows?
I did need to make a pitstop for some caffeine along the way. A buddy had told me that a mutual acquaintance of ours had just opened some sorta coffee shop or cafe in the roadside hamlet of Aptitude, a few miles north of Poshland, so I figured I might obtain some free muddy jo there. I drove up and down the two main roads of the lil’ town lookin’ for anything resembling a place to fuel my adrenals, but it was just obnoxiously multi-colored townhouses, flowery boutiques, yuppie restaurants, a spruced-up food market, a kitschy laundromat, and a hipster bar not-so-discretely disguised as a dive. After giving up, I got back on the main road, and there it was, across the highway in a strip mall… in clear, smooth, bright letters — Sacrament: Stool and Closet. It looked (and sounded) like a place to buy furniture or perhaps some other over-priced generic “home goods”, maybe a business that offered artificial tanning, or perhaps the cremation of an over-indulged pet, but certainly not a locale to give caffeinated non-postmodern amperage to my limpy and draggin’ step. I just kept driving. I’d stop at a gas station for some liquid energy instead.
As I crested the hill into Poshland my stomach began to rumble. The lousy burnt filling station java and no lunch were gettin’ my belly a lil’ twisted. Perhaps I should have indulged in the experience and ingested the Sacrament, I hear their bagels are pretty good too. But, it was a-quarta-ta-four and my fine dinning event was soon to unfold, surely satiating my appetite. If not, I’d stop afterwards and getta slice at the decent pizza shop in town. My mind began to wonder about the prize meal… what would it be? … Surf and Turf? Fried Chicken? Maybe some Kung Pao? Manicotti or Eggplant Parmesan? Hell, I’d scarf down a few crepes or a soufflé or two! My mind was open and tummy empty.
After circling the block a couple times I found a parking spot just big enough to nudge my truck in without too much damage to the adjacent vehicles. I took a swig from the flask under my seat for a lil’ luck, dusted off my hat, and off I went towards my prestigious culinary event.
There it was… a pinkish-purple sign with black letters in a barely decipherable script — Rien. The building seemed older, maybe a hundred years or more, but with a generic and predictable modern update. Clean, crisp, with rustic undertones. Not too overly-comfortable for a dusty and whiskered hickabilly like me, but whatever, at least it would be free grub. I opened the front door and the smell of lavender and charcoal came pouring out. Not necessarily a bad combo, but it surprised me, and it was a little too overbearing for my tastes. Gentle classical music was softly playing and a small simple fountain trickled in the corner next to cut flowers and a softly-colored painting of an old European farm. There was a chalkboard with “Bonsoir! Welcome Esteemed Guests” written on it in pink, white, and purple letters. I stood there for a moment looking around at a dozen or so small round tables with white table cloths and not-so-comfy lookin’ chairs. There were multiple and varied wine glasses, lots of silverware, and cloth napkins folded like swans on tiered glass plates for each setting. About half of the tables were full, with the others each having cards reading “RESERVED”.
A young women suddenly came around the corner. “Bienvenue ! Welcome to Rien! How may we pleasure your palette this evening?”
I stared at her blankly for a moment.
“Um, do you have a reservation sir?” she added.
“Well, I, ah, won a dinner here.” I replied, fumbling to get my invitation out of my shirt pocket. “I got it for shoppin’ over there at Meadows Hardware.”
The host lost a lil’ steam at that, but mustered up a “Oh, welcome dear friend. Right this way.”
She turned around, grabbed a large stiff pinkish-purple piece of paper from a pile on the counter and lead me to another room. This one had most of the same details, but seemed somewhat downgraded from the previous room, which made me feel more relaxed. There were a couple dozen tables in here. Most were occupied by a single person and a few with couples. It was a different crowd than the other room, which mostly consisted of a very homogeneous crowd of thirty to fifty year-old couples dressed like they were on vacation in France and chattering at a monotone padder. This next room, however, was more haphazard and diverse. A few older couples, some lone middle-aged people, a young person here and there, each dressed like they were either a contestant on a game show or just got off work. Some seemed delighted to be there, others bored or annoyed.
A larger women, probably in her sixties, with an orange moo-moo that perfectly matched her puffed up hair, a giant costume pearl necklace around her neck, and an ugly white hat with a fake bird stuck atop it was speaking loudly to a small skinny bald guy in a maroon polyester suit, “Edward, you know I have heard such wonderful things about this place. I can’t wait to tell Martha we actually dined here.”
“Yes dear.” the bent stick responded.
“Sit up straight Ed! … um Edward. This is not Elmer's.”
“Yes dear.” he repeated as he creaked his spine from a 60 to a 70 degree angle.
The hostess directed me to a table in the far corner next to an oil painting of two chubby cherubs pushing grapes into each other’s mouths. As I sat, she handed me the pinkish-purple piece of paper with “Je mange et Je bois” printed on the top and said with almost a whisper “Brandon will be with you momentarily. May I offer you a complementary glass of Légende Blanc to go with your Deconstructed Ile de France Brie en Croute?”
I looked down at the tiny plate in front of me containing a single paper-thin apple slice, two raspberries, a piece of walnut, a cracker, and a little plop of white goo. Not knowing what Légende Blanc was, I muttered “Ah, um, eeee, ah, sure.”
She looked at me slightly odd and pulled a green bottle from behind her back, turned over one of the creatively shaped wine glasses and poured a sip of what seemed to be white wine into it. I swished the contents of the glass down my throat. It had a pleasing flavor that was light on my tongue and moistened my mouth for the minuscule morsels of food to follow.
I was playing with the four forks, three spoons, two different butter knives, and a significantly sharper serrated blade when a guy dressed like the offspring of a jockey and a bellhop came to my table. “Monsieur, my name is Brandon, I will be your petite shaman sommelier nouveau and gastronomer connoisseur guiding you through this evening’s epicurean adventure. Do not hesitate to ask any questions. We understand that not every patron who enters our humble establishment is as versed in the Malthusian culinary experience as others. We hope to change that tonight through tantalizing all of your senses with as few calories as possible. Amuse-toi bien!”
Now, I have a very limited and pedestrian understanding of French. There’s some things I picked up along my way, but the phrase I blurted out next I was sure to look up in a French dictionary before coming here: “Combien ça coûte? — How much does it cost?” (I am sure my consonants were, for once, pronounced too directly for these Francophiles ‘round here, but, K’ Syrah Syrah.)
Brandon replied “Oh, fine sir, you were gifted this dinner at Rien, and we are delighted to present our passion to you at no charge. Your satiated palette and smile is all we desire.”
“Um. Ok. So, what kinda vittels ya got fur us tonight?” I added.
“Well, monsieur, you are in for a enchanted delight that I wish not spoil with preconceived ideas and expectations. Relax and I will be back momentarily.” And with that he spun around and vanished around the corner.
I was sitting there staring at the creepy painting of the over-fed babies on the wall and diggin’ out some dusty crusties from my nose when Brandon returned with a thimble-sized saucer of clearish-brown liquid, a thin sliver of grilled onion, a streak of meted cheese on top, and a crouton on the side. He picked up the crouton with a pair of tiny tongs and plopped it in the cup.
“Monsieur, may I present Soupe à l’Oignon?” he retorted as he placed it on the table.
I looked at it, then at him, then back at it. I picked it up and sipped it down, slamming the micro-bowl back on the table. He looked at me a lil’ confused and huffed off. I got back to my digging.
After a few more minutes he retuned with a small dish and put it in front of me.
“Monsieur, would you care for some Alsatian Riesling with your Flammekueche?”
“Um, I guess.” I replied.
He poured another spot of liquid in another glass to go with this tiny flat scrap of pizza with a bacon bit on top and was gone. This was all just making me hungrier, and kind of annoyed. I sat there looking around at these pathetic “winners” and contemplated just how far I had fallen. But my slightly inebriated shame spiral was interrupted by Brandon again. I was not nearly drunk enough for this shit.
Brandon splayed out a curtsy and declared with all pretension: “And now fine sir, our main dish: Surtout La Viande Rien! Confit de Canar, Bordelais-inspired Foie Gras, and garlic oil-infused Escargot Languedocienne served with a Brittany Raclette Galette and Salade Lyonnaise. We offer one of four options for your paring: a wonderful Chardonnay Pouilly-Fuissé, a spectacular Beaujolais Nouveau, an exquisite Vin Jaune, or our impeccable house Thevenent Roguge Les Clos Burgundy.”
He stood there with a look of complete self-satisfied emptiness, like he just asked the Buddha why he’s so fat. I had the same look, but from the other side of the universe. We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes before I blurted out “Its yer show, man, whatever ya think.”
He sighed, poured the dark Red one, and left immediately. I looked down at a sliver of what looked like it was picked from a chicken thigh, a light smear of grey paste, some sort of slug, a flat silver dollar pancake folded with some melted cheese in it, and three pieces of wilted lettuce with a half of a tiny poached egg on it. The small plate had a few diagonal lines of some blue liquid dribbled across everything on it. I gobbled it all up in a few swipes, gulped the wine and got up to head for the door, but the hostess stopped me.
“Sir, you are not finished, there is still dessert!” she shouted.
I took a deep breath and sat back down. Maybe it would be a big slice of berry pie ala mode or some chocolate cake. Despite this dull and dismal world, I can still dream.
In an instant Brandon was back with the smallest bowl yet filled with a custardy gloop, one teeny tiny wafer stuck in it, and a couple droplets of dark red liquid on top.
“And fin. Raspberry Crème Brulée ala Rien pared with a liquid gold Bordeaux Sauternes. Merci.” Brandon said as he dropped it in front of me, poured one more sip in a tiny glass and left.
I scooped it all in one spoon and splashed down the wine. I wiped my face on a corner of the tablecloth and stood up. As I was straightening my hat I noticed a fancy note under a tiny piece of hard candy. It read:
In our mission to combat toxic tipping,
We request a compulsory 30% gratuity.
You may certainly give more,
but for your convenience
We have determined your tip for you.
(Gifted) J’ai mangé: $150
30% gratuity: $45
Merci
Rien
A Stark and Intersectional Malthusian Experience
I began to see red. It was an earthy flush that began in the pit of my grumblin’ half empty stomach, stormed up my esophagus, rolled off the back of my throat, and came roaring out of my mouth: “Excusez-moi! Fuck You! S'il vous plaît!”
I pulled out the tablecloth like a drunken magician, sending everything crashing to the floor and ran towards the door. Brandon and the hostess crept to the back of the house quietly. Other patrons dropped their forks and spoons and just stared slack-jawed and silent. I grabbed the cut flowers on my way out and handed them to the first purty lady I saw on the street and took off for the pizza place and the closest seedy bar. On my way I thought about what ol’ Tom Waits sang on his “Lucky Day”:
“There's a lot of things in this world
You're gonna have no use for
And when you get blue
And you've lost all your dreams
There's nothin like a campfire
And a can of beans”
I spent the rest of the night lookin’ for my truck, sippin’ too-sweet of spirits from the pint of Old Crow I nabbed from a liquor store, and successfully duckin’ the po po. I also managed to scrawl this (or something like it as far as I can recall) on the stall of a shitter in some yuppie wine bar that inspired me (for the deification and the song):
All alone I’ve been a-ramblin’
A stranger in this world
All my life I’ve been lookin’
For a diamond or a pearl
I’ve searched the darkest oceans
Through the deserts of time
But all I ever really found
Was this life of mine
In the shadows of the cities
Through this cold world on my own
Down the highway of wastelands
Never felt like it was home
My restless feet a-movin’
And my thoughts half-blind
I wander this ol’ world
With a displaced mind
Friends are just moments
Of kindness on the road
And love is something more
Reckless and bold
But I’d never trade a minute
Of anything I’ve done
I’ll always keep on movin’
Like an outlaw on the run
A stranger in a strange land
Shadow in the night
A whisper in the breeze
Blindness in light
Stranger among strangers
Well, we travel and we roam
Like actors on a stage
All together…alone
All together…alone
—————
“And you tell me, friends, that there is no disputing of taste and tasting? But all of life is a dispute over taste and tasting. Taste—that is at the same time weight and scales an weigher; and woe unto all the living that would live without disputes over weight and scales and weighers!”
- Friedrich Nietzsche,
“On Those Who Are Sublime”
from Thus Spoke Zarathustra
—————
Nazel Pickens, a cosmic-anarchist-cowboy with backwoods, home-spun, divergent, deviant, rebellious, sorrowful, cynical, silly, and celestial commentary on the world at large and his forever cluttered and dusty lil' place in it. Ol’ Nazel doesn’t have a cellphone (they’re gonna pry his rotary landline outta his cold dead hand) or internet connection, but he sure does have opinions about this psychotically alienated technophilic postmodern mess of a world and of his perpetual pursuit of authentic anarchic freedom, and loves to pound them out on his typewriter, some of which is available as the somewhat regularly reoccurring column “Dust On My Boots” from The Rogue Writers Guild’s online magazine (www.roguewritersguild.com). From essays to poems to rants to short stories to songs, Mr. Pickens emotes with words in the dust, and lets the wind take it all away. He sometimes joins forces with another voice in his head, Invecchiare Selvatico, who writes from a more sophisticated, sometimes more analytical, voice. They teamed up to put out a book, Black Blossoms At The End Of The World, available from underworldamusements.com.
Messages to be passed on to Nazel (and requests for a free catalog of his own distro) can be sent to PO BOX 316 Williams, OR 97544 or nazelpickens@gmail.com. Nazel also puts out music with his (now defunct, but hopefully someday reconstituted and resurrected) cosmic-outlaw-country band, which can be heard at: distilledspiritrebellion.bandcamp.com
