The Philadelphia Story (pt. 5 - Lunch)

Three things to be thankful for today:

1) Be thankful that you are not a Mexican federal agent who's been doused with paint thinner and then set afire by an angry mob.

2) Be thankful you are not a student at the high school in China where a knife-wielding assailant stabbed to death 8 of your clasmates, wounded 4 others, and prompted school administators to continue holding classes as usual, unlike Columbine, where the survivors were given aproximately two years off to come to terms with what had happened.

3) The next installment of the Philadelphia thing.
------------------------------------------------

We were up bright and early Friday morning; Tony had errands to run, and when he left, he left the balcony door open, making the suite very cold and forcing me to get out of bed and close it. It was cold and rainy, and I was immediately struck with the realization that I had nothing to do—and a suitcase (and, eventually, a rented tuxedo) I would have to lug around while I was doing it—until our friend Evan showed up and checked into the room he'd reserved for the two of us at the Sofitel, whenever that may be.

I took a 45-minute shower then watched bad TV while Andy got his act together. He invited me to join his family for lunch at Morimoto, a Food Network special about which just about everyone I talked to that weekend had seen. I'd seen it myself, and was eager to attend, never having had the fortune to enjoy the recipes of a genuine Iron Chef before (that's not entirely true; Kazuhiro Sakai made me a grilled cheese once, and Chen Kenichi did famously dump a tureen of scalding hot soup over my head before a dinner honoring Ken "Dr. Fad" Hakuta, but nonetheless, this was to be my first full Iron Chef-designed meal).

Before that, though, Andy had to attend to some business regarding a cocktail party to be held the day after the wedding in D.C., for the people living in that area who'd not been invited to the wedding. The day before—the day of the bachelor party—Andy had learned that the room booked for the event was, for reasons I never quite understood, being temporarily remade into a mock-up of the Oval Office, meaning the hotel (or wherever this was) needed to find him a different room. The only thing they had available was the grand ballroom, which was too big for a gathering of this sort. I tried my best to convince Andy to stay in the fake Oval Office and pretend that he and Kristine (the bride) were President and First Lady, but he would hear nothing of it.

It was now coming up on check-out time, and Andy suggested that I change into dressier clothes for lunch (which proved unnecessary, judging by a pair of restaurant patrons we later saw—she in an Eagles sweatshirt, he in an Iron Maiden t-shirt). This led to an incredibly frustrating series of events in which I'd open up my somewhat complicated suitcase, pull out one piece of clothing, close it, and realize I'd forgotten to take out my shoes, and then my socks, then my belt, ad infinitum. I did not run a stopwatch during this episode, but I'd speculate that the process of changing took well over six hours.

Finally snazzied up, we checked out and caught a cab in the frigid rain, Andy getting out first at the Sofitel and taking my luggage with him, while I stayed on to pick up my tux. "You said 12^th and Market?" asked the driver. I told him I had, even though I'd actually told him 12^th and Walnut. It did not dawn on me until I'd been running back and forth, blindly, in the rain for ten minutes that he'd dropped me off at the wrong place. Eventually, though, a friendly (enough) hotel doorman directed me to a concierge, who quickly righted me and, after another wet sprint, I found After Hours Formal Wear. I was soaked. The sympathetic girl behind the counter offered me a paper towel, which did me little good. While I was signing the paperwork, Andy called, instructing me to meet him at the restaurant. I left without trying on the tuxedo.

I had only a vague idea of where the restaurant was, and so did the cabby. Nonetheless, he found it with no difficulty. I checked the damp, vinyl garment bag and was led to a long table full of middle-aged Chinese people. I'd met Andy's mother only once, and that was some time ago. Still, I recognized her enough to re-introduce myself, and she greeted me warmly and introduced me to the six other people in attendance, all of them fresh from Hong Kong. Four people, Andy and his sister Alice among them, were yet to arrive. I chatted pleasantly with Epi, Andy's mom, mainly about her history in America, which I did not know, and which I won't bother to share with you, because I don't remember it. Something to do with teaching, I believe. Whatever the case, I'd trade my mother for Andy's in a second. My mom's okay and all, mind you, but she's never been a jolly little Chinese lady. That's a gap that's hard to span.

Eventually, Andy, his sister Alice, their cousin from Australia, and the cousin's 20-something son showed up, Andy ordered the tasting menu for everyone, and we ate. The food was very good, albeit not necessarily the transcendent experience for which I'd prepared myself. Which is not to suggest it wasn't immeasurably superior to every other meal I'd had in the previous six months combined, but, you know, the burger from Friday's I'd had the night before was better than every meal I'd eaten in the previous six months combined. Still, some of the courses were excellent, and the worst could be called nothing more negative than 'very good.' I don't know. I guess I was hoping that I'd eat things that were so delicious, I'd lose control of my bowels or something. It's not like it hasn't happened before.

Apart from catching up a little with Alice, whom I'd not seen in perhaps as many as eight years, I was pretty quiet during lunch. At one point, when Epi asked me what I thought of sushi, I did get to briefly relate the story of the time my mother induced my late grandmother (who, for the record, was still alive at the time of this anecdote) to try sushi, and my grandmother's only comment was that it tasted like a hot dog. Which, I'll be the first to admit, is not a very funny story, but it seemed appropriate for the situation, and it was well received.

There was one joke which I did not tell that I badly wanted to, because it struck me as hilarious. The son of the Australian cousin, see, had been working in Dublin for about a month, and talk on the native English-speaking side of the table turned to the joys of full Irish breakfasts. Never having been to Ireland, and shunning Irish culture in my own particular way, I had nothing substantive to add to the conversation. This led me to come up with the following joke, which I was afraid to tell because I think the Australians already thought me odd, and which I am telling now for the first time ever:

You know what my favorite part of an Irish breakfast is? The sectarian violence.

-----------------------------------

(Coming soon: more of the same, I'm afraid.)