Bologna and Its Namesake

 Many years ago, before the turn of this century (and doesn't that sound OLD!) I was traveling with my friend Tom and his friend Dorothy and we took a late night train from Paris to Bologna. Our cabin had three beds that were magically pulled out of the wall after about 10:00 pm and we were supposed to sleep.  My recollections, such as they are, don't involve a lot of sleep until well past midnight because I found the drink cart and stole (!) many small bottles of Cognac, which Tom and I happily consumed.  Dorothy, probably, wisely, had a couple and went to sleep.

Fast forward to morning, when our train pulls into Bologna. I don't remember much about that night except falling asleep at some point, looking out the window and marveling at the amazing moon.  And then passing out again.  We woke hungover and very thirsty and it wasn't even 8:00 am. Clearly we needed coffee, water and food.... and eventually a place to spend the night.

Because of the afore mentioned hangover, I have no idea what we did with our bags, our bodily needs or our need for coffee and water. What I do remember is that around noon we found a very small, very Italian trattoria down a small alley and we went in for lunch, probably at the stroke of noon when they opened. 

It was clear very quickly that this was a restaurant that catered to Italians.  What a surprise!  English was not fluent, to say the least. But since we were there early, we got a table. Within fifteen minutes the place was full, mostly of business suited men and women, a sign that this was not a toss-off place to eat.

Two things stand out: first, my body was rocking internally, like it was still on the train, quietly drifting side to side, my head still slightly spinning and my eyes rolling around like two unconnected marbles in that aching head, not quite ready to focus on the menu.  Or anything else.

Second, this was possibly the best pasta I had ever eaten in my entire life. When in Bologna one orders Pasta Bolognese. At least I did. How different my life would have been had I ordered something else! Perhaps there was a first course, an antipasti of some sort.... I do not recall. But the waiter put a bowl of fresh tagliatelle in front of me that had been tossed with a very conservative amount of what looked like meat sauce. It appeared that the sauce was barely enough to coat the pasta. Then I tasted it. And I swooned. There is nothing to compare with that first taste. Rich, meaty, not a lot of tomatoes, a dusting of fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Simplicity itself, no parsley, no garlic, no oregano, no spice of any kind.  Meat and something else.

It was salvation. It was a revelation. It certainly cured the hangover (with a nice glass of Chianti) and it set me up for disappointment ever since.

Two years later, I took Gabe to Europe and we stopped for a couple of nights in Bologna because it was, at that time, an amazing city of history and beauty and learning and Bolognese pasta! Gabe and I found the small restaurant down the alley and we were there for lunch. Gabe had the Bolognese pasta and he had the same reaction: one bite and he simply put his fork down and closed his eyes and slowly moved his head side to side.  The owner/host saw this and came up behind Gabe and put his hand on Gabe's shoulder, just a physical acknowledgement of how Gabe's taste buds were surprised and overwhelmed and overjoyed by the taste of that pasta.

And I have been chasing that taste for over 25 years. Today I made Bolognese sauce, once again, trying for that ethereal taste, that elevating experience.  My sauce cooked for 7 hours. It is good. But it isn't it. It isn't Bologna. Maybe that's appropriate, and it is okay, but it is a bit disappointing. I want that first bite experience to be repeated.  Probably never going to happen.  Sigh.

 

"Park It, Whore!"

 Years ago on a local SF radio rock station, there was a DJ named Alex Bennett. He was on during the morning commute, was rather irreverent and one of his catch phrases that he used dismissively was "Park It, Whore." I loved it, of course.

In the past week I have witnessed several really terrible parking jobs in parking lots and the phrase came rumbling back to me. Only this time, it should be "You Can't Park It, Whore." 

What is wrong with people, especially old people, that they have no idea how to simply pull into a parking space?  We aren't even going to discuss parallel parking; that would be a death knell to these folks.  This is simple grocery store parking: pull into a spot and try to get between the two white lines painted on the asphalt. 

Five days ago I was in such a parking lot, talking on the phone (instead of talking while driving, a crime in California) and the car who was nose-to-nose with me backed out and another car pulled in. However, this car, a normal sized sedan, must not have seen the white lines on the asphalt. She parked with about 4 feet on one side of the car and about 6 inches on the other. Plus she left about 6 feet between her front bumper and mine so her car was sticking out into the driving lane.  One would think that when she opened her door to exit the vehicle and could barely squeeze out of the car she might have realized something was amiss. "Oh, gosh! Silly me! I must have parked too close to the edge of my parking space! Let me try again!"  But no. That thought was miles away from her clearly addled brain. She managed to get out of the car, shimmy between her car and the one next to her, walk past the 6 feet of empty space that her car should have occupied in the front of the space and wander away. 

Now, granted, she was sort of old.  But definitely not my age....younger. How does this happen?  How do people become so oblivious to the world around them that they don't even see that world around them?  Parking spaces have lines for a reason but if you don't even see those lines then you are lost and should be shuttled quickly back home, slapped with an ankle bracelet and confined to quarters. Forever.

And then today it happens again!  I am in a parking lot near a Very Expensive Grocery Store in downtown Sonoma. (Redundant, yes.) This store makes Whole Foods look like a Grocery Outlet. The only people comfortable shopping here are rich white people. (Sonoma, again redundant.) I will occasionally go into this market for one reason: they have an incredible salad bar that runs 30 feet and has all kinds of salads and tasty bits. Granted, a small cardboard box of such a salad will run about $8.00, but some of it is so good that I treat myself.

But this day I was, once again, on the phone to a friend, and together we watched, via my narration, a terrible parking  job.  A guy pulled into the spot one over from me (in front) but he was next to the railing that defines where you can leave your grocery cart.  He was very, very close to that railing, and I knew there was no way he could open his door and get out. Sure enough, he tried, failed,  slammed the door and said "FUCK" really loudly. Then he tried to back up, almost scraping his car against the railing, then sort of edged forward until he was 2 INCHES from the car next to him!  His back end was 6 inches from the railing but he managed to open the door and exit, and walk in front of his car (and in front of mine) and leave. But the car next to him, the one that was 2 inches away,  was trapped. That person wasn't going to be able to get into her car.

This was actually hysterically funny while it was happening, much more amusing than it seems here. My friend and I were both laughing. But eventually, we hung up and just then the owner of the trapped car appeared. Oh my. She was shocked at this situation. She stood there for a few minutes, and just as she realized that the only way into her car was to climb over the passenger seat and into the driver seat, the stupid parking culprit appeared.  Words were exchanged, hand gestures were flung about, faces became red.  I simply sat and watched. The stupid guy managed to maneuver his car out and drove away.  She did as well. Whew, situation resolved without bloodshed.

Too many people with too little awareness of how their actions will impact others.  Amusing to watch but an indication of the aging of America and the indifference of strangers.  Come on, kids. It's a crazy world out there. Pay fucking attention. I don't care if  you're old, I do care if you're oblivious.