The Madinnkeeper

Milk, Opals, and Louie in Santa Barbara

Our first stop this evening was a little gem of a restaurant named Milk and Honey. It has all the style of a hip L.A. restaurant on 3^rd without the big city attitude. Devin behind the bar has a warm greeting for his patrons and serves up great martinis and mojitos. I would love to talk about the wine list except it is not worth mentioning. For a tapas restaurant it is decidedly lacking in vision and depth. The one exception is a decent Cava poured by the glass.

We started and ended with the Pollo Mole. On previous visits I had been fairly impressed with the seared scallops and the ahi. The Pollo Mole was a disappointment. The chicken was dry and flavorless reminiscent of bad chicken strips; the mole sauce bland. Traditionally mole sauce is spicy. It contains a dozen or more spices and a variety of chiles. What was served was a watery rendition of Mole sauce should be.

So we decided to migrate a few blocks up the street to one of the busiest restaurants in town: Opal’s. I am always impressed by the courtesy and warmth of every employee in this restaurant. You feel welcomed the moment you arrive. And the wine list…but that is another story. Let’s just say it is pretty damn good.

On the rotating specials we ordered the “Fresh Ahi Tuna Carpaccio” (a pet peeve of mine: Ahi is Tuna. You cannot confuse Ahi Tuna with say Ahi Halibut). This generous portion was served with a seaweed salad and golden caviar, a caper relish, chili oil, and a ponzu sauce. It is one of the dishes that I wish appeared more often on the menu. The Ahi was delightful. The ponzu sauce complemented rather than overwhelmed and while I could not taste the chili oil, the seaweed salad was crisp and fresh. The wines by the glass are always changing at Opal’s. Tonight I was delighted to find a nice Alsatian white to accompany my appetizer.

The last stop of this progressive evening out was at Louie’s. By the time I had adjusted my seat at the bar there was a glass of Laurent Perrier staring back at me. There is nothing like a good glass of champagne. While Santa Barbara in general was a bit slow tonight Louie’s was standing room only. Sweet Buddha Bar tunes brushed softly over the myriad of conversations throughout the room.

Louie’s is another one of those places that takes care in its wine list. Where else can you find a 2004 DuMol ‘Aidan’ Pinot Noir? Spicy cherry with nicely ripe notes of plum. Great acidity, balance and elegance. It is worth indulging! My stand-by on the menu for the last half dozen times I have been in here is the parmesan-crusted chicken on angel hair with tomato garlic concasse and gorgonzola cheese. I always mean to order something else but I cannot get enough of this dish. In fact I usual have to take half of it home with me. Which I did.

Back home, just to end the evening right, I poured a glass of Billecart-Salmon and wondered where Friday night would bring me.

Paradise Wednesday

Paradise Wedneday. Quiet still. A few idlers laugh between martini sips. A couple against the wall hold a quiet conference on the ideology of republicisms. Two employees in the wine room exchange gossip from an illegal rave at some father’s mansion and no – he was not out of town. He was the life of the party.

Joe is guest bartending for Bruce who is skiing with the family in tahoe. I expect an explanation when he returns. One to the tune of : my wife made me go.

Joe recommends a book he is enamored by: “The Blood Meridian”. His enthusiasm for the novel has convinced me. I’d run to Borders but my New York with sautéed spinach is its way.

The time. We divide everything into measurable bits and then struggle to stave off accumulating them. The dollar amount spent each year, believing the tally will be reduced. But why?

Our belief in the reduction only increases our consumption.

The end of the day. Night falls. Darkness descends. Our small existence migrates under the cover of stars. To and Fro. That’s what I need to do. Migrate. To change existing conditions to my image of what I believe they should be.

I would like to set up shop somewhere: Venice, Seattle, Mendoza. And write. Even if I had nothing really to say.

And visit Bhutan, and Iran and tell the locals it is not my fault. That he is the most unpopular president in history at the moment. I would like to hear how the people of Kabul speak of their new rulers.

And the wine makers in Ukraine. How different are they from you or me.

And then we get a drunk at the bar in a white collared shirt starched to the point of suffocation yelling and slurring and cursing about how the Yankees lost a playoff game 5 years ago. 5 years! How small is his life? How empty? And then there are a series of baseball enigmas going back 20; to when he was a child and still he is upset with the calls, the players, and the seats he had.

We do not relate stories of playwrights or novelists anymore. There is not enough cable to cover them.

Long ago the media learned that controversy sells. The state does not want you to go to bed happy. Then you might concentrate on the problems that attempt to govern life; your elected officials, the environment, hell, even your child’s inadequate education.

So the media throws at you phrases like steroid testing. The Cruise Break up. Illegal border crossings. And emphasizes: You are not safe.

There are not enough moments left in the day to worry about global warming, to contemplate the destruction of our natural resources, let alone how we hate our job, friends, living environment. Or how unfulfilled we feel.

And if we do, there are always the malls with their Louis Vutton, Prade, Coach stores. And an convenient bar to help erase our guilt from purchasing the equivalent in two hours of a Nigerians Lifetime salary.

The James & Madalena Meter

The James & Madalena Meter

Some explanation must be presented regarding the James & Madalena Meter. It was devised one evening when a series of unlikely events took place. The first was of course my decision to part from their entertaining company to partake in what I assumed would be an even more amusing evening. Madalena turned to me and asked what on earth could drag me from their presence. It was at this moment I suggested to her that I should devise some type of indicator or scale to weigh the array of social functions using J & M as a basis against which all else would be judged.

Now, the obvious tool used most commonly by such giants as R. Parker, and J. Laube is the 100 point scale. For equally obvious reasons I discounted this immediately feeling too constrained by the absoluteness of this system. If an event of such magnitude merited a ..perfect.. 100, who is to say that there would never be, down the road, an event or person of even greater intensity that might merit a ..102.. or even ..103..? And at the single digit end of this system, who is to say that ..0.. is the absolute pittance of social functionality? Could not some unforeseen event, some comedy of errors, merit a ..-7..?

We racked our brains for hours, oblivious to the Bill Evans tunes James hammered out on his Baldwin in the lounging facilities at Hotel Andalusia. While Madalena suggested a grade card of sorts, I suggested using a system more in line with that which Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz proposed in his 1684 mathematical paper which appeared in the journal Acta Eruditorum.

And while his paper involved differential calculus, as opposed to integral calculus (which he actually did not commit to paper until 1686), I proposed to simplify his rather mind boggling (at the time) equation of slope = change in y divided by change in x = rise divided by run, by eliminating the slope altogether, replacing it with a social parabola and a harmonizing secant line. This way, as our point ..or social event- moves along the parabola, the associated secant line is rotated toward a close approximation of the tangent line herein revealing that which had troubled myself and Madalena for the past few hours: what was actually paramount.

Of course to make an accurate calculation once must have access to a highly powerful computer and while I do travel with a dual core processor laptop with 4 gigs of memory, most evenings out on the town I tend to leave the 9 pound paperweight at home. With this in mind I decided to oversimplify by using a sliding scale from 3 to 115.

Measuring all previous evenings out in the company of James and Madalena I arrived at their benchmark on this scale: 99. So in order to abstain from their company an event or person must arrive at or exceed 99. Now one must keep in mind that 99 is an average of sorts. On many occasions these two gems of human existence flat-line at 115. It is at this point where it may seem impossible to be introduced to anyone or anything of interest. But thankfully the 3-115 (pronounced ..three-one-fifteen..) scale is a fluid one and it is quite possible, however unlikely, that while J&M are at the high point on this scale, an event or person might merit a 119. Thus, the scale would have to be ..and happily I might add- redrawn.

Now conditions can be met wherein a person or event might average a 99. It is in these unusual circumstances that the following may be applied:

If during the first 26 hours this person or event reaches approximately two-thirds of the way to the James and Madalena benchmark, an additional 22 hour probation period is granted. If however after 48 hours an average less than 99 is obtained then, with regret, I listen carefully as Madalena tells me ..I told you so.., and I return to the lounge in Hotel Andalusia where James is still playing variations of Evans on his grand.

An Ounce of Pleasure

My contact failed to show at the appointed time or any other time appointed or not. By 7:00pm I had caught a taxi back to my hotel after haggling the hundred pound price down to three. What I believed would be another dull night at the bar turned out to be quite something indeed and may catapult my career of silent intrigue to one of fame and fortune. Allow me to explain.

Things were in a panic as I walked the final steps up to the first floor bar (figure that one out). It was the streets of Cairo 10-fold and placed inside the Windsor Hotel Lounge. Maybe 100 people were milling about outside the double door entrance as I squeezed past doing my best to say 'excuse me' in every language I know. The scene inside the lounge was equally as nuts: cables, studio lighting, cameras, make-up tables, and...oh nuts...actors. It was too late. I couldn't turn back. I had just been suckered onto the set of an Egyptian Soap Opera.

The director quickly ushered me over to the end of the bar where he asked me, "Can you drink beer?"

"Sure", I replied.

"Excellent!" Then i realized where he was headed. I couldn't allow my face to be on television. The Princess from that former Soviet Republic would surly see. I tried to evade the next question.

"You are English?" the director asked.

"No. I am Greek!" I replied triumphantly thinking he would have no further use for me. The director's grin grew broader however.

"That is excellent! This scene is set in a Greek restaurant."

"It is?" I frown.

"Yes. In London."

"London? With an Egyptian cast?" I was very confused now.

"It was too expensive to import Greek actors. But you are here! You will be our "authentic". I will give you a solo!" which he did but that comes later.

Disorganization was apparent but keeping to direction I drank my beer quietly at the end of the bar chatting with the odd actor (actress) who stopped by for a rest. Apparently I pissed off 2 very famous Egyptian Soap Opera stars, Tapara and Sheeren, when I didn't immediately recognize their star status. I smoothed over the entire incident until I brought up the name Rob Lowe to Tapara who slapped my face and stormed off (it seems that upon separation from her husband he sold their "sex" tapes to the Egyptian tabloids. How was I to know?).

As I sat watching a dance scene rehearsal I reflected upon my career in film. Recently there was that Peruvian rock video in Cuzco. Then that episode of Nash Bridges where I jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, but that was done by a stunt double and later cut so that doesn't count. There was a radio show I hosted in Colima, Mexico...oops...wrong media.

"Stephen! Stephen!" --my stage name-- "give me a little more emotion when you drink your beer. This couple is to be married." Give me a little more beer I thought, but ours is not the job to upset the director.

"Of course!" I reply.

"...and nod your head side to side in time with the music."

"What music?"

"...and keep your eyes on me...and don't smile too much...and..." I tuned out at this point.

"CUT! What happened to the music?" the director screams. At this point a young actor -maybe 15 who doubles for the music coordinator- runs over to the cassette player and pulls out 15 feet of unraveled tape. Since the director has little enough hair he didn't go that route. This gave me time to make friends.

There was Muakmed Ali who drank greedily from a 7-up bottle at every opportunity (later it was determined, after finding him passed out in the grand piano, that he had been imbibing alcohol). There was Usama, leather jacket, goatee, who was actually offended when I guessed his correct age of 28. "Many people tell me I look 23." There were the 2 Greek musicians who were from Australia and played no instrument. Then there was the Egyptian actress who played the Greek barmaid in this Greek restaurant in London with a Russian accent. "I was born in Cairo, lived many years in Moscow, work 20 years for US Navy as secretary, and now will soon be Soap Opera Diva." Wow, I thought.

The next scene involved the traditional Greek plate breaking routine and the actor responsible for the carnage was having a field day. "No No! CUT! Look happy when you smash the plates. You look like an angry camel." the director snaps.We sent out for more dishware.

And so the night wore on. I got my cameo and afterwards the actors praised my agility to drink beer and nod my head to imaginary music. In the wedding scene I played a frenchman drinking Greek wine next to an authentic french woman playing herself. And in the farewell scene I was a distraught Greek boy looking teary eyed as my Greek love left the party with someone else.

As the cables were wound tight, the lights packaged away, and the camera secured, I had a brief conversation with the director. "It is a Greek Drama with an Egyptian cast, true, and this Winsdor Hotel Lounge in Cairo is suppose to be a Greek restaurant in London, but this is show biz. Who in all of arabia with be able to tell? Out of the 50 million who watch you each week, no one. You will see."

After the 6 hour shoot I was curious how many minutes of footage would be used. "Maybe 90 seconds." he smiled. "Pretty good for today."

As the last of the crew left the Windsor Hotel Lounge, back in a corner there was left a tall directors chair with its back facing out. From my bar stool I could just make out the words across the back: An Ounce of Pleasure.

And with that my night folded close.

A Short Story from Peru

My arrival at Restaurante Don Piero was quite unusual . Why just last month   I was running across Europe for my life. A plane brought me to Cuzco, and a   10 hour train ride brought me to this restaurant in Puno, on the edge of Lake   Titicaca. I sit this first night at a table sipping a pisco sour with the chief   of police in these parts. He is a portly man with short cropped hair and a jolly   smile. He wears no side arm but has a number of auto-weapons, as he calls them,   in his truck. I think he could intimidate a priest into dropping his bible,   though tonight he is in a fine mood.

"The trouble with me is that I have grown fat," he complains as he pats his   rather large belly.
  "No no! Not at all," I reply on cue.
  "No, It is true. The problem is that there is very little excitement nowadays.   What we need is a guerilla movement or a re-insurgence of the shinning path."   
  "Oh!" I nod noting his odd look of contentment.
  "Those were the days," he sighs.
  "What did you do during those years?" I ask hesitantly.
  "Why I was a commander of a very special until!" he brags, taking a long drink   of pisco.
  "What is it you did?" I push.
  "We were responsible for relaying dis-information.
  "Between whom?" I am honestly curious at this point.
  "Various secret agencies."
  "Were you successful?" I inquire.
  "Extremely!"
  "What type of dis-information would you relay?" I ask.
  "That I would not know. My secretary took care of that." He takes another long   pull from his dwindling pint of pisco.
  "Ah," I reply. "Did you see any action with the rebel groups?"
  "No. That is why we were so successful. They never even came close to us. They   feared us!" His smile has a hint of evil in it, mixed with envy and confusion.   
  "Because…"
  "Because of all the dis-information! Have you not been listening?"
  "Of course. And the arrest of Guzman…" I ask, trying to drag a little more information   out of him.
  "Who?"
  "Guzman. The leader of the Shinning Path movement."
  "Oh, that… well…" he stutters.
  "Wasn't that important?" I ask incredulously.
  "No." he frowns.
  "No? Why not?" I ask, being myself now in a state of confusion.
  "We had them on the run already."
  "Dis-information?" I take a long drink from my own glass of pisco.
  "Yes!" he snaps. I pause for a moment. Seeing my look of puzzlement he continues:   "That is why I got promoted. Now I am in charge of all the various secret agencies."   
  "What will you do about Montesinos? Was he really paying a bribe to the opposition   party?"
  "That my friend is the pinnacle of our campaign of dis-information." He is gloating   at this point.
  "So it is not true?"
  "I did not say that."
  "So it is then?"
  "I did not say that either," he chuckles.
  "So what will happen?"
  "We will hold elections soon," he smiles. "People have already asked me to run."

He sits back resting his hands on his growing stomach, "and that is why I will   continue to grow fat."