Sliding Doors*

I could not find my dress shoes this morning. I scoured every closet, every shelf, every nook, and every cranny for over half an hour before resigning to slacks and brown loafers. I was all dressed when my mom came in and inquired of my dour expression. "Why so glum, chum?" she asked, surprisingly chipper for having spent the entire day prior in not one but two hospitals, in two different states, for two totally unrelated reasons.

"I'm not killing it today," I told her, "I can't even find my shoes." She suggested that if my room were not such a disastrous mess, then perhaps I would be able to find what I was looking for. A fair but frustrating assessment of the situation.

I looked down at the floor, paused, surveyed the landscape. And there they were, right in front of my face, wrapped in a yellow sarong I had acquired from a guest house in Costa Rica last summer. I remembered having packed them in the cloth after dinner at The Fat Duck, the last time I had worn them.

Already fully dressed but unsatisfied with my attire, I weighed the costs and benefits of changing into another outfit. Fortunately, I did not fall victim to a classic error in the cost-benefit analysis exercise. I changed.

Running late, I unsurprisingly caught every red light on my way to the train. I took a left on red, and tires a'screeching searched the parking garage for a space, especially difficult well after rush hour, when most spaces are filled. As I was getting out of my car in the only spot left on the third floor, I dropped my phone between the seats. It was dark, and I had no idea where it had landed. Train was leaving in 4 minutes. I still had to find my phone, get my bag, lock the car, get out of the garage, and run all the way to the platform. Basically, I was a dead man.

A run turned to a sprint. I could hear the toot toot of the approaching train. Do you want to make this train? I asked myself. Yes, I do. I slipped in as the doors slid closed behind me.

Was life trying to tell me something this morning? Maybe. All I can hope is that I never regret sprinting for that train.



*Inspired by Peter Howitt's 1998 film of the same name, starring Gwyneth Paltrow

The Fat Duck Experience

There is no dearth of articles about The Fat Duck, so I find little need to tell you that it is the crown jewel of chef-proprietor Heston Blumenthal, or that it has received three Michelin stars, or that it has been ranked and reviewed by a number of independent publications as one of the top restaurants in the world.  All of that information is readily available in the archives at The Times (of London or New York).  Alternatively, if you ever happen to be passing through the town of Bray, England, you can pop in for a quick bite and judge for yourself.

            

The technologically savvy have no doubt by-passed those dusty basement archives and gone straight to Yahoo, the unparalleled oracle of our times, and done a quick Internet search.  They will note that Bray lies in the English county of Berkshire, some 30 miles west of London.  If you can catch the express train from Paddington, you will be to Maidenhead in just over a half hour.  Any cabbie at the station will know The Fat Duck and would be delighted to drop you at the front door for a small fee.  Livers de luxe might hire a car straight from London for a few-odd hundred quid.  Up to you.

            

The unassuming exterior of the former public house is appropriate for the neighborhood, quiet and residential.  No neon signs emblazoned with “THE FAT DUCK” or “OPEN” found here.  Rather, the restaurant is inconspicuous to the point of obscurity.  In fact, I was even slightly hesitant at the front door.  Is this it?  A framed menu to the right of the door indicated that this was indeed the place.  The door was small and wooden, closed to the outside world.  I thought of Alice and what she might do.  Needless to say, I entered.

            

Inside beyond a narrow corridor, a British gentleman by the name of James welcomed us warmly and showed us to our table.  Being a taller fellow, James had to duck under the thick wooden beams that ran along the ceiling.  Fortunate (for once) to be shorter in stature, I had no trouble clearing them.  The low ceiling and plush carpeting made for hushed acoustics and a cozy atmosphere.  We sat at a lovely table for four in the back.

            

James returned shortly after with menus and a weighty tome.  The menus are merely for introductory purposes.  There is little choice of what to eat, as The Fat Duck offers The Tasting Menu only, a prix fixe, fourteen-course extravaganza.  The choice of what to drink, however, can be daunting.  The weighty tome I mentioned contains hundreds, if not thousands, of premiere wine selections.  But have no fear, for Isa, a world-class sommelier, will be there to save you from embarrassing yourself in front of your guests.  We ultimately decided to go with a prepared selection of wines, specially paired to the items on the menu.  I definitely recommend it.

            

I will refrain from extensive commentary on the meal itself.  You can find the menu on the website.  Suffice it to say that it was spectacular in every way: flavor, texture, temperature, smell, color, even sound.  The courses were creative and exciting, introduced and explained in detail by world-class servers. And that, in my opinion, was the highlight.  The serving staff were sharp and professional, dressed to impress in suits and ties, but they were also friendly, welcoming, and cheerful, and would not look askance even at jeans and a tee.  We were in suits, but the dress code reads: come as you are comfortable.

            

Four hours later, James sent us on our way, with a bag of sweets and a sealed copy of the menu in hand, mementos from a fantastic evening.  If you can save up a little spare change and make a reservation a few months in advance, I suggest you give The Fat Duck a try.  And be sure to bring someone you love, or that you hope someday will love you.  They just might after a meal here.

Backlash

Well, needless to say, there was some disagreement with the views expressed in my previous post.  Several people have suggested that the problem stems more from a sense of entitlement, lack of consequences, and a general loss of public shame.  Below is just one (negligbly edited) example of an alternative but, I'll maintain, not oppositve view:

My son spent the better part of his childhood collecting, hiding, and revering his arsenal of plastic guns.  He has long been a fan of action films, violent movies, good guys over bad guys, just as my brother and I were. He would never ever, ever, ever shoot anyone with a gun, real or plastic, because he has been brought up a sensitive, life-loving, giving, wonderful man. Even if I were being attacked, I know for sure that he could never pull a trigger.  An individual's anger manifests because of those around him -- i.e., SOMEONE or SOMETHING triggers the violence, not our laws, not our way of life, but the Liberal Democratic bulls**t that has people thinking that they can do anything they want, anytime they want, to anyONE they want, with no retribution.  All we need to do is to teach our kids that they can't do whatever the f*** they want.  Then, you'll see change.  When I was a kid, this s*** was UNHEARD of. 

Again, I don't think we are entirely in disagreement.  Ultimately, it is up to parents to teach their kids the difference between right and wrong, especially in the face of so much wrongdoing.  However, it's up to everyone to change the environment, the culture of violence, that surrounds them.  I'll say the same thing about our kids' health: Yes, parents need to do more to keep their kids eating right and getting enough physical activity, but its up to all of us to demand that we live in a society where it's not so hard for parents to do the right thing.

Someone else had a different view, basically that is the fault of movies and video games, but perhaps not in the way you would expect.  I've paraphrased these comments below:

Action movies are a lot different than they used to be, and so are video games.  The special effects have become so advanced that it's hard for us to distinguish fantasy from reality.  We see "real-life" violence and engage in "life-like" killing all the time now, making what was once only a fantasy into a potential reality, and leading to the kinds of horrific things we are seeing. 

I agree that movies are a lot more realistic.  For example, I watched the first ten minutes of Batman & Robin with George Clooney, produced over a decade and a half ago.  It was laughably simplistic in comparison.  I never had any interest in games with guns (although I loved Mortal Kombat), so I can't really comment on that. I don't know about the rest of the argument, but perhaps there is something to it.  I'm sure if I start digging in the Yale Psychology database, I'll find something.

The response suggests that people really do care about this.  And I think that there is at least some merit to most of the arguments, except the "we need more guns" one, which is just insulting, and which I mention only to ridicule.  It's like suggesting we all smoke to prevent dying from second-hand smoke.

If you think you've a better suggestion than that, I'd love to hear it.