Spin

I really don't see how it's being arrogant to think that a recruitment is like any other transaction, and both parties should respect each other.

Or that a company that fails to do so has fallen in my esteem.

Or for that matter, to have a strong distaste for the obvious lack of honesty and reality in the schmoozing that seems so important to the job search.

As I get along in life, I realise that I really am a terribly honest and straightforward guy. Most of the time, I mean what I say, and say what I mean. Very much a cliche, but pretty true for me. There are times when I say that I lie a lot, but that is a more fundamental issue. For the immediate, and for what I am at the moment, honesty works.

Except that it apparently doesn't.

I don't want to spin things. I don't want to pretend to be anything. I don't want to pad and exaggerate and lie.

Here's an experiment in posting pics. Never bothered to figure it out before.

Gays

There's something I thought about a little while back, but pretty much slipped out of my mind until I was reminded of it last night.

Gay men and their defenders like to declare that there really is no reason for the average straight man to get all uptight and worried about their presence. After all, the same principles apply here as they do for relations and interaction between straight men and women. Straight guys do not find every women they meet to be attractive, nor do straight women gaze with lustful eyes upon every man they encounter. If you, as a straight man, do not find that you are being sexually harassed at every turn by countless hordes of women, there really appears to be no need to be overly worried about gay men lusting for your ass.

In other words, what makes you think gay men find you attractive? Why should you be any more uncomfortable interacting with gay men than with straight women? There's no need to flee to the most hidden corners of the gym dressing room to avoid being naked under the gaze of people you think are gay.

Ok, here's the thing. That's bullshit. The reasoning is correct. There is no reason to assume that homosexuals find you particularly attractive. Most men who think that they are the object of gay affection probably hold too high an opinion of themselves, and too low an opinion of the standards of homosexuals. It is ridiculous to constantly worry about gay men looking at your ass in the street.

However, simply think about the situation as similar to that between straight men and women. It is true that not all straight men and women find each other attractive, but even without actual attraction, there does exist a definite level of tension between the genders. Simply because there does exist the very real possibility of sexual relations occurring, barriers and distinctions are made. Men and women do not share dressing rooms, no matter the actual attraction between individuals. Or shall we designate three separate sets of dressing rooms, one for men, one for women, and a shared one for ugly men and women?

The very idea is preposterous, yet that is the natural conclusion of the argument deriding the lack of comfort some straight men have with gay men. I might not be worried about a particular gay man finding me attractive, but I would still not be comfortable undressing in front of him, simply because there is a possibility of it. I would not undress in front of an unfamiliar woman either, whether or not I think she might find me attractive. I would be rather upset if an ugly woman walked into the room and started changing before me.

If homosexuals are to be treated equally with the general population, then they should be regarded equally. Equal does not mean forced acceptance of whatever standards they choose to preach, but the applications of the same social norms to them as to every other person in society.

Tired, don’t want to go into detail.

Looking forward to nothing

Finally, off to the US in a few more hours. Damn tiring summer, this one. Bloody exasperating too.

I tried to be patient, I really did. In fact, I think I did a better job than anyone else could be expected to. Is it really so hard to understand that I don't really care all that much about some things? Is it really impossible to listen to what I have to say, softly as I may speak? Why can't I just be left alone to think things through? I am capable of so many things, and this is the least of them. So leave me to think things through.

Other than irritation, a fairly unemotional summer. Or more precisely, a more emotionally chilled out summer. I felt nothing but the slightest of ripples, though by all reports, others felt quite a bit more. No more hidden messages, or suspicions of them. I made peace with some, had to declare war again swiftly on one of the same. I'm a nice chap, but please don't claim that I am something that I am not.

One moment of forgetfulness did bring the single moment of pain. A collection of photos, two faces close together, smiles slight and massive, unsuited to their frames. Pain, for a moment. You're worth much more than that, but what can I say? I don't know so many things, that I think it presumptuous to feel joy or sorrow on your behalf.

No more summers then. The last one is past, and nine more months of nothing loom.

Where's Spidey when you need him?

Meet Electro.

I like food

I'm not entirely certain if I qualify as a foodie. I have a sort of ambivalent relationship with a passion for food. Imagine that, a relationship with a feeling. How odd.

As many people who know me can attest, I can be quite passionate about good restaurants, great food, skilled chefs. I spend a good deal of time researching restaurants and learning about the chefs that run them. One of my more common opening questions on msn is to ask if the person on the other end of the keyboard wants to go to a cool restaurant. Note that this is not specific to an eatery, but to a group of them. This group is fairly arbitrarily defined, and mostly composed of places I have yet to visit.

I think I must be inclined toward the degustation method of sampling restaurants. Most places, I have little interest in prociding with repeat business. Once is usually enough, even if the food is good. For me to really want to go to a restaurant I have already been to again, there has to be something about the experience that stands out in a way that strikes me in a very particular manner. I dream about such places, I really do. It goes beyond the food, the service, the room. It is some amalgam of the three, but then again, not. There are restaurants with truly sublime food, the type that you cannot believe that you really are tasting. Take the first bite, and you stop, thinking that it is simply impossible that you are tasting what you are tasting. The second bite confirms the impossibility of it. Nothing could really taste quite as delightful, or rich, or quirky. The third bite, and you are down to earth again, marvelling that you had risen so far, but never reached new heights of your own. Eating someone else's food is like admiring a painting. You may observe and experience it, but it is never a part of you. You don't know what went into it, not really. Even if you were to watch the artist, all you would see is the act, not the thing.

Think of it as a play. The playwright, director, producer, actors and audience all experience the play differently. Who has the true understanding of it? No one, for each aspect is as true as it is impossible to find. Yet each aspect is as complete as it needs to be.

Pointless drivel aside, I find it very hard to define what exactly it is that will keep a restaurant on my list of places to go to. I adore Babbo in New York. I'm not really sure why. The food is fantastic, the room decent, the service acceptable. It is also tremendously overcrowded and impossible to get a table at earlier than 10.30 pm. What could it be that keeps me going back? I really do not know, for all of the above can be found in other restaurants. Similarly, Les Nomades is snooty, with pretty decent food and a very sedate room. I cannot imagine why I keep going back, except that I do. I enjoy my time in that place, more than in other restaurants, with better food, service and a prettier room.

Perhaps it is personality. Restaurants are like people. Some people you like, some you do not. Logic always fails to explain this. The people whom you cannot stay away from are often characterised by the most annoying habits. You find it profoundly irritating when they are too chirpy, or act petulant, or demand far too much from you. Yet you give in, pretending that everything's ok. Then those people who are exactly the sort you imagine yourself spending a lot of time hanging out with, turn out to have exactly zero chemistry with you. Yes, chemistry. Just like cities, restaurants have a certain energy about them that either works for you or not. Well, alright, works for me or not.

I have no interest in chefs personally, only their food and philosophy when it comes to creating a dining experience. There is a reason that I almost always order the tasting menu whenever I can. It is true that I would probably enjoy my food a lot more if I were to simply order entrees, plates and desserts that I know I will enjoy, but that seems to defeat the purpose of going to a restaurant in the first place. I don't need to know how perfectly a sous chef can execute a classic, I want to know how the executive chef thinks a meal should taste and look like. It is akin to the difference between reading contemporary fiction and science fiction. Contemporary fiction seems to me to be mostly about perspectives on life. Take events that we know occur about us all the time, and look at them differently. While that may be interesting, I find it much more so with science fiction. The science fiction writer creates a world. Perhaps not a world he thinks should be, but a world where there is a sort of internal logic, where given what he has decided as a parameter for the world, everything else is, to a certain extent, inevitable. A proper tasting menu has only one iteration for that moment. There is no other way in which the chef would have presented a culinary experience on that moment then in that way, those dishes in that order with those presentations. The inevitability of creativity. And it is in that inevitability that I can experience the work of the chef. My palate is his canvas, to slide into cliches. I become the creation, in that my experience is what is created.

No more, I am tired. I will explain the ambivalence some other time.

Bourgogne, Comte and the Simpsons

I'll miss nights like these.

Defined by a wine, a cheese, a cartoon.

Or a view, an ashtray and gin tonics.

Perhaps beer, a cake and bridge over the river kwai.

How about manhattans, hedgehog carpaccio and a coat?

Maybe a box of wine, tuna fish and lots of rolling around.

Of course there are other nights.

Some I won't miss, but cannot forget.

Tickets, a drink, an email.

Margaritas, jetlag and a phone call.

Kobe steak, an expense account and a spilled glass of cristal.

A river, rain, tears.

Whisky, solitude, anger.

But sometimes a nnight can be defined by just one thing.

One thing can make a night to miss, a night not to miss.

A smile.

The touch on my lips.

Grasping my hand for just an instant.

Sometimes all that's needed for a perfect night is a phone call.

One call, and I will sleep with a smile.

But those I cannot stand to hear from call me so often, but those I want to call never do.

Tactics, I shall use them.

Keep my head, my heart, my wallet safe.

Perhaps the last shall fall.

A perfect restaurant

A couple of days ago, I dreamt about my perfect restaurant. A place where you go to feel, just for a moment, that you really are special, and everything that is going on around you is wholly and completely about you.

I must admit that it was just that, a dream, and I cannot claim to remember the details perfectly. In fact, it continues to fade as I type, so it seems prudent to plunge into a description.

It is a cliche, much as all perfection must be. For anything to be without flaw, every aspect of it must be beyond doubt, beyond reproach, save for it being too much of itself.

I remember dimly a room where the walls are covered with wooden panels, warm, polished, without austerity. Lighting is strong enough to be clear, but warm, with that slight yellowish tinge to it that eliminates the harsh examination of light itself. It's not the sort of place you take a first date to, unless you don't give a damn about impressing her. The light's not low, the mood's not romantic, the people not chic. You wear a jacket and tie there, not to look good, not because there's a requirement for it, but because you're comfortable in your clothes, and it just seems appropriate. The waiters are tuxedoed, but not self-consciously elegant, nor markedly ill-at-ease, just perfectly comfortable.

The tables are few, mostly along the walls of the room, situated in those little alcoves formed by smooth leather banquettes. Not the cheap squeaky things that you find in so many cut-rate places, but the sort of leather cushions that you would be incredibly happy lounging upon on a sweltering summer afternoon, the air conditioning blasting away overhead, while you're stretched out and dozing, a book lying open across your belly, forgotten in the pleasure of complete nothingness.

Of course, those little seat alcoves are only for tables for two. Heaven forbid having to sidle along to get in and out of a seat sandwiched between others. A few tables for four are to be found at an angle along some walls, in the standard layout, a square with seats at each edge. A single setting for six can be spied, shuffled into the corner. This is not a room for boisterous socialising. Quiet conversation is assumed here, and the slightest suggestion of excessive noise is met with a warm offer from the maitre'd to relocate the party to another dining room, set off to the side. I must admit that I forget the details of this room.

Walk in, a doorman holding the portal open, and a host introduces himself before politely asking about names. If the name is not on the reservations list, the host refers the guest to another hostess who will assist the party in obtaining a table at a nearby restaurant.

A small lounge is off to the side for those waiting for the rest of their party. No bar here, a waiter asks about any refreshments the waiting guest might desire.

Progress to the main dining room, and feel absolutely no impact from the room. It is designed to be comfortable, pitched at the level exactly below your radar. You do not notice that it is dark, trendy, chic, warm, inviting, cold, austere. You notice nothing at all, except that the table is perfectly situated, not too near any other table, without being isolated. A drink is offered, no crass drinks menu here. Twenty types of mineral water are available, should the guest desire to choose. Otherwise, a bottle is chosen at the waiter's discretion. No charge for the water, of course. Bread, the freshest you could imagine. Only one type here, directly from the oven to the table. After a moment, the chef de cuisine approaches your table to discuss the menu. The number of courses here is entirely flexible, and prices for the menu are constant across the board. Asking about preferences and requests, the chef de cuisine composes a menu on the spot for each diner. Of course, most courses are repeated across the tables, but none of the diners has to know that. As far as each is concerned, a completely personalised menu has been crafted.

Perhaps a couple of little surprises are scattered in between the courses, amuse-bouches to keep people happy while waiting for the next course. Every course is brought to the table in tandem for each diner. No theatrics, just a quiet setting down of the dish, a description of the item and an explanation of the suggested method of consumption.

The flavours are not extreme, do not explode and dance upon the tongue. Instead, they enter the mouth unobstrusively, but grow in complexity as they slide across the tongue, awakening the palate gently. There is creativity, but not gratuitously. Classics are presented, perfectly made, the best version tasted since or ever. The only surprise is the perfection. Perfection and subtlety.

Desserts, on the other hand, are extravagant. Rich, bold, striking. You couldn't down a huge portion, but the modest serving is exclaimed and gushed over. A crescendo is reached, and allowed to pass ever so slightly, hinting to the diner that indeed, he neither needs nor wants anything more to eat.

Only the strongest espressos are served, but a cart of little treats is offered, just in case you didn't get the hint.

As you step out the door, a small package of freshly baked brioche is proffered to each diner. After making you sign that bill, helping you save a little money on breakfast seems the least the restaurant could do.

And that is the perfect restaurant I dreamt of.

Incidentally, the previous night, I dreamt of letting someone's soft soft cheek rest on the back of my hand. Then getting that same hand bitten by a dog.