In honor of guitar legend Jeff Beck, who died this week at age 78, let’s have Beck joining Stevie Wonder at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame’s 25th Anniversary concert. They’re performing “Superstition”, which Wonder wrote for Beck in 1972.
Crank up the volume.
Last week I shared my dining experiences in Lyon with you. Let’s move on to Arles, along the mouth of the Rhône. Three nights, two restaurants. These were the most neighborly experiences (except for one restaurant in Paris), I think. All three meals were like comfort food.
The weather was warm enough for my first evening meal to be on
the terrasse, which in the case of Le Criquet was between two buildings. It was
like eating on someone’s patio.
I also liked my server’s kicks.
I started with a kir, because the restaurant doesn’t have
sparkling wine.
Then to fish soup, which you eat by rubbing garlic cloves onto a
crouton, dropping it into the soup and spooning it up. All over the patio I
heard people crunching their soup.
The main was fish and vegetables.
And dessert was citron meringue—basically, lemon pie. Really, really good lemon pie.
This is how they deliver the bill:
Next night I walked around the block to Bistrot Populaire, which
faces the Roman arena.
The interior of the restaurant has about 14 tables, so I was
glad I’d reserved. It was definitely too cold for me to deal with the terrasse,
although there were some hardy souls who did.
Do you remember this guy? Yeah, this is where I encountered him and his shirt.
The starters on the menu did not interest me, so I went with the
daurade, which turned out to be a whole fish. My server asked if I wanted her to
deal with it, but I decided I should take on the challenge, which I hoped to do
without embarrassing myself.
Dessert was fondant au chocolat, which we would call lava cake.
Stellar.
Back at Le Criquet the last night it was too cold for outside,
so this is the cozy interior. Again—glad the hotel booked for me.
Had a glass of rosé, since I was, after all, in Provence.
A huge surprise for me was the Jerusalem artichoke salad. This was so amazing, I sent pix of it to colleagues.
I have to say that as I sit here eating my yoghurt and granola
and writing this, I miss these wonderful restaurants that gave me wonderful
meals and absolutely no attitude. It was like dropping in on your friends—your friends
who cook really, really well.
I do not know whether this is a local tradition, or something of recent origin. I mean—every culture (even micro ones) has its way of ushering in the New Year.
This being several traffic cones that were incinerated on the
W&OD Trail sometime in the night or early morning hours of 1 January.
I saw the little pile from a distance and was afraid that it
might be an animal that died—what a way to welcome 2023, right? So I was
relieved when I got closer to realize it was just charred plastic.
I did, however, wonder what kind of fire you have to have to
melt down plastic like that—I sort of feel that matches or even your normal Bic
lighter wouldn’t be enough. Flamethrower? I dunno.
Something different, I guess.
I mentioned yesterday that Britain’s National Health Service (NHS) has its limitations that are distinct from ours here in the US.
Partly it’s because whenever my English friend needs medical
care outside of the most basic services from her General Practitioner, there’s
no calling up to schedule appointments at times convenient to her. She waits for
a snailmail letter from the specialist org, which dictates when they’ll deign
to see her. The appointment could be weeks or months out and there’s no
negotiating that at that particular date/time she needs to attend the wedding
of a child, defend her dissertation or be on a cruise ship off the coast of
Antarctica. She just writes down the appointment and shows up.
But what was in my mind foremost was this Twitter thread over
the weekend from someone I follow:
This man was betrayed by the NHS; he had to take things into his own hands and still died. The NHS is collapsing under the weight of an aging population
and decades of underinvestment by successive governments, particularly under
the Tories. And this is the result.
My knees first became problematic in 2009. Physical therapy and running shoes with a greater stability factor took care of them. Two years later I had arthroscopy to clean the arthritic debris out, which helped. Until I needed cortisone shots and then hyaluronic acid, which took me through to 2020; at that point, the injections stopped helping.
But it was a flare up last June that got my attention, because
the pain was unremitting for the two weeks it took to get an appointment with
an orthopedist. Cortisone and physical therapy got me through Singapore,
and I got a top-up of cortisone before France,
but it was clear within a week that its therapeutic effects had worn off.
I actually made some decisions about where to go while in France
by asking myself, “Self, do you want to go up/down those stairs? Or that hill?”
I do not fancy living like that, and I was literally limping when I got off the
return flight.
So on 26 January, I’m scheduled for total knee replacement
surgery. The surgeon won’t do both knees at once, which is a bummer, because
both need replacing, so I’m starting with the right one; accelerator leg over
clutch. It’s out-patient—isn’t that amazing? The technology and treatment for
joint replacement has advanced exponentially since they started doing it, so
this ought to last the rest of my life.
There will be post-op pain, which I hope will be manageable. And
physical therapy—the Rx is for three months of that at twice a week. Plus, you
know, doing the exercises at home. The expectation is that you get up and about
right away—surgery is on a Thursday; first PT appointment is the following
Monday.
You need a lot of prep work for this kind of surgery—labs,
medical clearance from my PCP, dental clearance, CT scan, viewing a “you and
your joint replacement” video, registering on a gazillion sites. I created a
spreadsheet to keep track of it all.
(A British friend of mine thought it disgraceful that I had to
do this, but this is the difference between a single healthcare supplier that
dictates—literally—all your appointments and the fact that I have choices among
multiple providers, and schedule appointments at, mostly, my convenience. She
has to trust that all the NHS components will line everything up for her when
she needs a procedure—even though it’s quite clear that many parts of the NHS
do not tick along like clockwork. I am responsible for lining up all the ducks
for my care myself. Because we have a for-profit medical system, this also
means I have my Flexible Spending Account card out for every service. My co-pay
for the CT scan was more than $300.)
Because I made the mistake of including my mobile phone number
on all the forms, I’ve also had to fend off attempts by the hospital and other
providers to get me to access their portals via mobile. I do not fill out forms
on a tiny screen; a 14” laptop monitor is bad enough. They keep trying; I keep
telling them to stop.
(They make mobile phone number a required field. What are people
without mobiles supposed to do? Not have surgery?)
I know I’ve made the right decision, because every single day
the pain becomes a little worse. By the time I’m done with a mere 7k steps on
my morning walk, I’m gritting my teeth. It’s time to take action.
And something I find encouraging is that every single person I
speak with who has had the procedure done, or knows someone who has, says, “I’m
only sorry I didn’t get it done sooner.” I’m looking forward to that kind of
relief.
Well, it’s Gratitude Monday, so here’s the deal. I’m grateful
that there is treatment to alleviate this pain. That I have an excellent
surgeon (he cleared up my rotator cuff a couple of decades ago). That this is
an out-patient procedure and—barring unexpected things—I’ll be home that
evening. That I have a great physical therapist who is helping me prepare for
the surgery and will take me through rehab. That I have reasonably good
healthcare insurance, so I can afford all of this. That I have (for the moment)
a job that ensures I can pay for all the co-pays. That I have friends who can help me through all the rough bits. That I can look forward to a
future of not having to make touring decisions based on avoiding hills and
stairs.
That’s a lot.
Given the absolute clown show House Republicans have put on for the past three days, I think the only possible earworm for the second anniversary of the attempted coup has to be the Benny Hill Show theme song, “Yackety Sax”.
Pubs: enjoy; you earned this.
Welp, here we are in the first week of the new year and since everyone’s dealing with the pulled muscles of their cross-fit workout and drinking detoxifying juices, I’ll just share some meals from my trip to France last November.
‘Kay?
It’ll take me a few days, so I’ll just start with Lyon, which is
purportedly the gastronomic hub of France. I truly dunno about that, but I
liked it fine.
Before I embark on the roundup, let me just say that it’s
interesting to me how hospitality establishments treat me as a solo female
diner. It’s been my observation since my first trip to Ireland in the 90s that
it’s very rare that I’ll see another woman eating alone in upscale restaurants.
You’ll find men alone, and they don’t seem to get the crap tables or be ghosted
by the waitstaff like you’re somehow lowering their property values by walking
into the place. This is one of the reasons I prefer to let my hotel make my
dining reservations, because I sort of feel like a local joint is not going to
want someone coming back to the hotel and dissing them.
(As an aside, I learned a long, long time ago from my older
sister how to not feel uncomfortable at dinner by myself. She did it when she
and our mom went to Hawaii just before Mom died; Mom wasn’t up to meals, so
Penny went by herself, took a book and just enjoyed herself. She’s my role
model.)
Interestingly, to me, I found that the very few times I
encountered “Oh, une personne…?” were at your basic legend-in-their-own-mind
places, one in Lyon and two in Avignon. Mostly their food was fine, but as
someone who’s worked in Hollywood, I’ve already achieved my lifetime quota of
attitude and I do not find it charming.
I get it that a single diner does not spend as much as two—even though
I ordered what appealed to me and my meals averaged maybe $60-70 overall. So I
appreciated the places that gave me the attention they did to everyone. And I
tried to be on the early side so I didn’t take up a table that they could
monetize better. Although I think I also averaged at least 90 minutes per
dinner, because France and great food.
For the record, every meal was accompanied by appropriate wine,
and my first impression of actual côtes du Rhône in their natural habitat was
that I prefer Oregon Pinot Noir, although I did have better red wine as the
trip went on.
Also, every meal ended with a déca—decaf espresso.
Anyhow—Lyon:
I confess that my first night there, I just slunk over to the
pizza place next door to my hotel—by dinner time that day I’d been traveling
for about 20 hours, had had nothing to eat since my Air France breakfast and
just wanted to have a bite before I let my circadian rhythm catch a break. My
prosciutto pizza was serviceable:
But what I found fascinating was the at-table use of mobile
devices by pretty much everyone in the place, young and old. I mean—France,
what the hell? At dinner?
The next night, I went to le Layon, on Rue Mercier, which is the
epicenter of cuisine lyonnaise. Le Layon is a tiny place and it was pretty much
jammed to the gills. I sat between a family of four and two German women who
were establishing lebensraum by parking their handbags on the table-for-two
next to their own, thus distancing me somewhat.
Pro tip: if you chose a table on a restaurant’s terrasse, you’re
likely to be engulfed in smoke. But go inside and you’re okay, because the
EU, God bless ‘em, has banned smoking inside buildings.
After a Kir Royale, I started out with escargots, which were
fine, but not garlicky:
Then roasted pigeon:
And finished it off with baba au rhum:
My next night was at a brasserie called Bouillon Baratte, which
was cavernous in comparison with le Layon. I mean, look at the size of just part of their
bar (with hooks for handbags!):
Funny story: I actually walked into a different restaurant
thinking it was Bouillon Baratte, but they wouldn’t open for 10 minutes. Only
when I got back outside did I realize I’d gone to the wrong place. Believe me,
I was glad I got to the right one.
My Kir Royale was made with pêche, which was new to me, and I enjoyed it.
I started out with the salade lyonnaise which features egg and bacon:
And then moved on to andouillete beaujolaise, which was just
delish:
Dessert was vacherin fruits rouges et praline rose, which was a
form of Pavlova:
My last dinner in Lyon was at Brasserie le Nord, part of the gastronomic
empire of Paul Bocuse. First white-linen experience; most places seem to have
moved on to no tablecloths and napkins that are some form of puffy one-use
material.
While the operation was well-oiled, my particular server was
decidedly disinterested in me—first time I encountered it on this trip. She
seemed surprised that I wanted an apéritif (their house version, which was
nice) and I had to flag other servers down throughout my meal to get things
taken care of. She just couldn’t seem to be arsed.
Apéritif maison:
My starter was terrine:
The entrée was merlu (hake); the fish was lovely, the rice was a little strange, but I think it's because I almost always have basmati rice at home:
And dessert three citrus sorbets:
Enjoy your steamed veggie plate and water with a squeeze of lemon.
Oh, my, my, my—Kevin McCarthy’s apotheosis of ambition (the entire reason for his pathetic political career) in being nominated as Speaker of the House of Representatives finally came yesterday. And he’s gone down in history as the first wannabe speaker in a century to fail to be elected on the first ballot.
And the second.
And the third.
He evidently moved into the speaker’s office over the weekend in
anticipation of his achievement, but all the groveling he did to the RWNJs of
the party did not work. I expect he spent the night trying to find Republican
asses to kiss to turn his humiliation around—although a humiliation like this
just doesn’t go away. It’s in the history books.
Imagine having to suck up to Paul Gosar and Matt Gaetz just so
you don’t have to move your crap out of Pelosi’s office.
Nancy, BTW, probably had a nice glass of red and settled in to
watch the spit turn.
I mean—look at this face:
As one Twitterite said, yesterday was the worst day McCarthy ever had
at the Capitol and two years ago he was almost murdered there.
Know what we haven’t had for a long time? A flash
mob.
I guess that’s because of going-on three years of global
pandemic, duh, but it seems time to see what we got.
After spending whole minutes on YouTube, I have to say that the
2022 crop of flash mobs (at least the first five pages or so) is on the dire
side. Too many are just clearly stage performances in what happens to be a public area or
are, uh, somewhat substandard in dancing ability.
But this one, on the boardwalk at Santa Cruz, Calif., has both the verisimilitude of spontaneity and serious dance chops. The song is "Freedom", by New Orleans artist Jon Batiste, who recently entertained those lucky dogs at Joe Biden's first State Dinner, for Emmanuel Macron.
Crank up the volume and feel free to bust a move or two.
I’m going to start out 2023 by being grateful for the good
things of the past year.
Like the drubbing Ukrainians have given the Russian invaders and
the international sanctions that are having a real effect on Putin’s ability to
continue to wage war. They're definitely in the find-out stage of operations.
Or the way people around the world have rallied to support
Ukraine in ways large and small, crowdsourcing everything from meals to
missiles. We are living in weird times.
I’m grateful that the expected Red Wave turned out to be more
like light spotting, and that Republicans—who can still use their majority in
the House for willie waving and assholery—may start out the year by being
unable to elect a Speaker without leaving a lot of blood on the floor.
Speaking of elections, though, it seems wrong to have to express
thanks that they went off like they’re supposed to in every state, without armed
RWNJs storming polling places…but here we are. There was some nonsense in
Phoenix with sore losers marching around the Maricopa County elections office
and blowing trumpets in the expectation that Jehovah would cause the walls to
come tumbling down, but surprisingly that did not occur.
I’m grateful that global inflation is beginning to taper off, at
least in the US. Gas prices under $3 is a huge relief to everyone.
I give thanks that I appear to have onboarded to the Megalithic
Software Company without resorting to violence on anyone involved, although
there’s still one open matter, so I’m putting a “so far” caveat on this.
I’m grateful that I was able to take two wonderful trips, to
Singapore and to France. I saw otters on the hoof and lots of Roman ruins. Life
really can be wonderful.
And I'm thankful that I made it through the year with most days
unremarkable. This is a good thing, given the world as a whole.
So—a good year.
And here's New Year's morning in the People's Republic:
