frogs and pigs

europeans, particularly those from areas with historically fluid borders, have interesting perspectives on identity. one of the more charming tags i've heard is that alsatians have the work ethic of germans, but the life philosophy of the french. tiny and lovely alsace changed hands four times in the last 100 years, so yeah, i guess pragmatism builds. those i've met, i adore. the region is one of my favorite in the world. even the gentleman caller was charmed!

but tonight i had a weird icky slap in the face of gene pool/subculture/chicken/egg.

my chef's most revered mentor is wildly successful and world-famous, and originally from alsace. he owns several properties, and was instrumental (along with my favorite clan from ribeauville) in bringing both the cuisine and wine to the states.

i introduced myself. he told me to pick the wine. he was pleased. one for me.

pretending a light tone, he quizzed me on my schedule. i said, "it's normally "x". well !! he was here on one of those nights, and i was not. inference? i don't work enough. gently, i countered with my irregular hours; he parried with also having been in on night "y". in 12 months, he has visited twice. yet, i know for my chef, the impression was made: she's never here. my 60-70 hours per week now count for naught. i might as well phone it in from the catskills. which is where i might be lucky to find a job emptying ashtrays.

he assented i could plan ahead for the red. "this, that..." he stared at my breasts. " i want it to be you know, round and generous. like a woman. something... you know... something i will like." i wanted to hit him.
within a very limited and supposedly light banter, he showed me the frenchman's propensity for bringing sex into everything and the german's capacity for offensive bluntness. but most sharply, he threw out the ugly rusty ax of celebrity chef *SNAP*, and i witnessed him swiftly instill unwarranted doubt in my boozy-woozy boss.

we have a fairly new celebrity chef community here, and most of them share one father. he has always been charming to me, but i don't doubt for a moment his jocularity stops at the kitchen door. these guys don't get to the top of heap by being easy-going. but the piling on of abuse? *it* has to be learned behavior. they can't crawl from the womb, tongs in hand, and instinctively behave as stupendous wretches. he tells newbie to make 10 pounds of carrot brunoise. budding chef wishes for a slide rule. it doesn't matter how perfectly sized the cubes may be, they still get ridiculed, rejected and tossed in the stockpot. it breaks the spirit, and demolishes ego. i've seen it countless times.

tonight, in a few minutes, i watched the elder pass the venom. it made my blood cold, and it will be a long time before i think longingly of flammekueche or choucroute.