portland
The other night a friend came over to sleep-over in my airconditioned apartment and in exchange he brought a movie and some beer. I had never seen Talk to Her, the Almodovar film, and despite not being this director’s biggest fan I thought, well it might be time to give the old Spaniard another try.
About 10 minutes in, I realized I’d made a huge mistake. The pacing of the film was so mind-numbingly slow that even watching Tarkovsky’s Solaris would have seemed zippy in comparrison. And doubly annoying was the fact that my film watching partner was so reverent about the experience of watching this–his favorite film–that I didn’t even feel like I could make a comment. Although he apparently felt it was within the bounds of film watching religiosity to sing along to every song. (Dude, I get it, you’re real fuckin smart and you speak Spanish and shit. You don’t have to make a running point of it.) To be fair, he was equally annoyed when I paused the film during a dramatic moment to get a string cheese.
A film about two unconscious women being cared for by creepy men has the ring of something I might like, but all I could think about while watching was how extremely clean and cheerful the Spanish convalescent home seemed. I grew up visiting my grandmother in an extended care home in Encino, California that was so repugnant that I would spend the whole visit breathing into her lotion bottle to cut the stench. Also, unlike the women featured in Talk to Her, no one ever sensually massaged my grandmother’s midsection and inner thighs.
In retrospect, I probably should have chosen something animated and fantastical for such a ripe summer evening. It’s difficult enough to concentrate on watching films in the summer. There’s so much happening outside that being stuck on a couch, even in the middle of the night, makes me feel antsy. But it may also be true that Almodovar and I just weren’t meant to be. I’m just not romantic enough, I guess.
I have been thinking lately about how I look while I am working. Unless you are a personal trainer or an actress, you really can’t see yourself while you work but over time, I think, we come to recognize patterns in the faces we make. When I used to work at a computer all day, I made a lot of open mouthed, fly-catching faces. When the sun got strong in my window, I made squinty pursed mouth faces at the screen.
But in my new, more physical job as a cook, my faces have become more like a pro-basketball player’s. I do head rolls, I nod at teammates, I gasp at the heat. The extremity of the job really forces me to resort to comforting facial gestures and body movements. So here is a list of what I perceive to be the most common faces I make while working:
1) The Straw-suck Face–Cooks need to hydrate a lot and often can’t refill their water during a shift. To remedy this, we fill a water pitcher with ice and water, wrap it with saran wrap and stick a straw in it. This is what we suck on throughout the night. The Straw-suck face is a dead-eyed fish face. The eyes focus on nothing while the mouth purses down and takes in as much water as the moment allows. This face is repeated whenever there is a lull in the shift.
2) The Tongue-out Precision Face–This is the face I make when I am slicing a steak with concentration. I am thinking about the angle and trying to make it all fit nicely on a plate. Once and a while this face is accompanied by a “please let this be medium-rare” eye-plea. But the overall face is face down, tongue slightly out and held between teeth. Maybe this is the same face a Laker would make while setting up a free-throw shot.
3) The Eye-Roll Dick Waiter Face–This is the face we make when a waiter is a dick or fucks something up. It is a full eye roll to all kitchen members sometimes followed by a crude comment and a chuckle. This is how the kitchen builds a collective spirit amongst themselves. Without a bad or dick waiter, we cooks wouldn’t like each other as much. By fucking things up they are actually bringing the team closer together.
4) The Lifting Heavy Shit Face–We all know this face. It’s the face you make when you are straining to get something safely down or through a narrow passage. Somehow it feels like my nostrils flare more while I am engaged in these activities. My mouth is closed. My jaw is clenched and my eyes are so focused they feel like tiny beacons in my face. Imagine an angry horse.
5)The Fuck I Burned Myself Face–An indignant wince. Equal parts anger at oneself and brief fleeting pain.
6 ) The End of Shift Face–Actually, it’s not so much a face as it is a twinkle in the eye. If someone says anything remotely funny at this point, you will laugh. When your drink is finished, you will laugh at not funny things.
Allow me to introduce you to my new and forever city, Portland–a place where wild artichokes grow in unkempt front yards, a place where grown men ride tiny little baby bicycles for some inexplicable reason, a place where you can drink beer and eat pizza in a second run movie theater.And not just any beer, but really good IPA’s from local breweries. Appetite is an essential part of life here and being a small weight or a tsk-er of carbs is tantamount to blasphemy. This was made clear to me when I opted for a pint of beer rather than my own personal pitcher. “But what if you run out of beer half way through the movie?” My kind and native companion asked. So I got me a pitcher and a couple of slices with local artichoke pesto and pickled red peppers and headed in to watch Greg Mottola’s Adventureland.Adventureland is one of those rare indie rom-com’s that didn’t make it big because it was a little too smart and understated for the general movie going public. The film is full of moments that take basic coming of age situations and subvert them just enough to make you laugh again at what has become the most tired of all film genres. And the dialogue is so good that I wanted everyone in the film to talk louder so I wouldn’t miss a single thing they said. They should issue mandatory closed-captioning for Mumblecore films. Or maybe I should not drink a whole pitcher of beer during an hour and a half film screening.By the time the lights went up, I had to pee so bad I thought I might have to go in the empty pitcher. My level of ebullient drunkenness was forcing me to say obvious things like, “This really is the ladies room,” as I waited for the next available stall, and to muse about my future pick-up lines for a Portland audience; “Who’s your optometrist?”, “Are the bars always this full on a Tuesday?”, “How’d you like to knock me up, so I can get on WIC?”Two bourbon-neat’s, and a Megavideo interrupted attempt to watch The Wizard of Oz later, I settled into bed almost looking forward to tomorrow and my first Portland hangover. Just as I’d expected, Portland was gentle to me the morning after. I woke to an overcast sky, walked less than a block and found really great coffee which I could drink slowly amidst the sound of languid conversation and lugubrious music. I took my sweet time eating my tuna sandwich and reading my mystery novel. When I finally felt clear headed enough to head back home, I checked the Craigslist food classifieds and found out Nostrana was interviewing. I sent in my resume and got an interview within the hour. In two days, I begin work at possibly the best restaurant for foodies in Portland. I thought about Dorothy, my childhood Idol, and her little line about not being in Kansas anymore. She wanted to go back, but I would just as soon stay here in Oz, thank you very much.