Loose Cans

There was something pristine and unblemished about the all-white attire: white pants, white shirt, white belt. Showed sweat stains like whoa. This morning, despite killing pains in my butt muscles (strengthening every day; I have phenomenal buns), I made it to the test, despite my uniform's only having been transferred from washing machine to the dryer 15 minutes before I left. The test was fairly killer; how they keep 20-odd people moving that fast in that small a space, I don't know. Broke a board to earn the yellow belt. It's nice, you know. Not a huge achievement, but they make you feel good about it. They don't minimize, they don't overstate. The guy holding my board said, I have no doubt whatever that you can break this board. It's your breaking my fingers I'm concerned about. I let his fingers live.

Came home by 2:15, hurting like I'd had the snot beat out me. Called BLT Steak to ask if I needed to be in blacks or something for the interview (at 3). The answer was wear whatever, so I headed over to 57th and Park in the jeans. A much more pleasant interview than what I got at Fish. Also they're wildly high volume--something like 260 reservations on the books for tonight (that's a ton. Aix, a comparably large restaurant, usually averaged 60-90). Meaning much better money. It's a tough job, because it's their flagship. I'll know whether I'm training there by Monday.

Got home to find a message from a woman I had worked for two summers ago, a caterer. She needed bodies for the King Kong premiere Monday night. Ushers, guest-list people. $20 an hour for five hours, can't complain. It's money.

My life is very normal lately. It features a lot of The West Wing DVD's brought home from China. If that DVD-loaded package from Nepal ever makes it here, you may never see me again.

In fact, it is beginning to appear that what purported to be the Nepalese Post Office was, in fact, a cleverly-conceived, if poorly-designed, hoax perpetrated on gullible tourists all too willing to entrust their belongings and souvenirs to just anyone. Decidedly I have learned my lesson. It's been what, over two months? Meh. It took the Irish post something like three months just to clear the Atlantic.

Went to Tae Kwon Do again today. First time in about a week. My ass has been resoundingly kicked, but I needed the practice. Not only was I going slightly nuts after so long without any decent exercise (standing up for 11 hours behind a bar does not count), but I have a test for the next belt up tomorrow. This whole system is predicated on achievement, I love it. They keep rewarding you, where fascist dance teachers just beat you harder. Of course they beat you harder here, too, but they do it with pride. And it's good pain. Where else can a bunch of adults run around with big blue pads and wallop each other like they were preschoolers?

I'm exhausted anyhow. The past few days were somewhat eventful. After my first day of training at BLT Fish, when they inexplicably made me work a double (hence the 11 hours), I was to come in the next day at 10:30am. I did so, despite becoming very nauseated and dizzy on the train, due to some unknown imbalance of my humors. The balance did not right itself, but continued to skew as the morning went on, and by about 11:30, I had to tell the manager. I was folding napkins and just couldn't sit up anymore. I agreed with Wilson, the manager, that it would be best if I went home and returned the next day for another double. I also consulted with Dwayne, the cold, impersonal--well, asshole general manager, who wanted to know was this a recurring thing, read: do we have to fire you over this? Neither, as I left, offered a "hope you feel better" or a "get well soon." Dicks.

So yesterday morning, after I went to the doctor's, I called the restaurant to tell them I was going to be a bit late. The surprising response was not that I'd been fired, but that BLT Steak, the second of three BLT's (the other is Prime, on 22nd st where Union Pacific used to be), had called, needing a bartender pronto, and I was to go there. So I walked over (57th and Madison, where Sono, another much-beloved Ashworth restaurant, used to be) and after a little confusion with the floor manager Sylvain, was told to call later in the day when the hiring person was coming in. But this was clearly a much better fit. You don't get to wear jeans and a t-shirt here, but I'll live. They all just seem much more pleasant. Hope it stays that way; I have an interview again tomorrow at 3pm. Right now my arms wish me to stop typing.

Just had an interview downtown at BLT Fish, Bistro Laurent Tourondel. Despite the general manager's exceptional coolness and curtness, I start training tomorrow at 10am. Wary of my relatively minimal experience, as well as my age, which he asked point-blank, he made it clear that this was audition-training, no assurance that I'd be kept on. I've seen people sacked in training, so this week is crunch time. But it'll likely be worth it. This place is no Aix, no Morrison and definitely no Monaco (though Tim did offer me my job back). BLT Fish is star-fucking-spangled. It's thrice-starred by Frank Bruni for the New York Times, who describes it thus: "If Le Bernardin took Bubba Gump's Shrimp Company as an illicit amour, the precocious, spirited love child might look like this." Aix only had two. More importantly (though nothing will supplant my allegiance to the Times Dining Out section and Bruni, who is likely my favorite writer these days. He turns me on), it's pinned with a Michelin star.

I don't know how I feel about the Michelin guide. It just came out, to what seems like popular ambivalence and distrust, unlikely to supplant the Zagat, however "snarky" and "ripe for parody" the guide is considered these days. I think there are two reasons for the less-than-euphoric reception: one, between Zagat and the Times, New Yorkers have more than enough intel on their dining options; two, the arrival of the Michelin men in New York comes on the heels of an extensive Times report on how three-star French chefs such as Alain Senderens have finally gotten fed up with the stiffbacked, starched-white demands of the Français-über-alles critics and flung their stars back where they came from, deciding that if they feel like putzing around with sushi, tapas, or what the hell, falafel, they're going to bloody well do it, and damn the torpedoes, damn the consequences and damn you.

Senderens' new place in Paris, I read while I was there, was phenomenally received, sushi and tapas bar and all. Even the French are realizing that there are other ways to cook out there, and while certainly not conceding that those other ways might be better, they're interested in poking around, seeing if there might be a little--gasp!--fun to be had.

Finally, they're French. And no one really wants to hear from them anyway.

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I haven't written lately because I have not only done nothing of note, but I have not even thought anything of note. Jacob played the Beethoven 5th, the Candide Overture and the Dvorak Cello concerto (with the stupendous Carter Bray) with his orchestra yesterday at Carnegie. I like that we are so thoroughly blasé in this family that, when one of us plays Carnegie Hall, our praise to him mostly centers around his posture: "you sat up so straight!" But now, because it is a beautiful day, I will do something. I am going to relocate to the Hungarian Pastry Shop on 110th and try and write something worthwhile. Peace.