I was sitting at my workbench in the garage of my mom’s Bayview Drive townhome, working on a pre-digital-age video cassette recorder, when I heard the grating, heavily accented voice of Rocco, my blonde beauty neighbor Kerry’s Parisian boyfriend du jour.
“Working hard or hardly working?” he grated.
“I’m really busy, Rocco, what’s up?” I barked testily.
“I have a question for you about zees,” Rocco said. His accent converted th to z. “Fat Tuesday. You were fat. Is this a day for celebrating fatness?”
I grimaced. “Rocco, it’s part of a religious thing for Christians,” I said. “It’s a day of gluttony and excess before Ash Wednesday and the asceticism of Lent. It’s supposed to honor the sacrifices of Jesus.”
Rocco thought for a moment, then asked, “What does it have to do with lint?”
Flustered by his stupidity, I snapped, “It’s Lent, not lint. And why are you concerned? You’re an atheist!”
Rocco muttered dreamily, “My darling Kerry, who is my little peach blossom, cherry pit, rose petal, cactus flower, and snuggie-wuggie, is coming home next Tuesday, and I want to prepare for her a lovely combination Fat Tuesday and Valentine’s Day dinner. I need your help.”
I pondered his question, then replied, “You’re a waiter at L’Etoile, why don’t you ask one of the chefs?”
Rocco glared at me, then snapped condescendingly, “French chefs have no interest in overwrought American cooking. They say your food has no subtlety, no nuance, no finesse, and no care. Remember that time you gave me a bowl of your beef stew? I felt like suing you for ruining my palate!”
“Then why do you want my help, you snob?” I asked.
“Because I want you to bring your girlfriend Jenny to dinner, and I need you to help me get the ingredients for a nice paella. Plus, I’m broke until payday.”
“Finally, the truth comes out!” I bellowed. “Alright, you jerk, we’ll make a real Fat Tuesday dish, jambalaya, and you can make it like a paella, and we’ll have a few bottles of Bandol rosé, to represent Valentine’s Day. Meet me here Fat Tuesday morning and we’ll get the stuff.“
I called Jenny and told her the news. To my surprise and concern, she hesitatingly agreed to attend.
Rocco was a great cook, but a terrible snob when it came to ingredients, so I drove him to the best place I knew for sausage, fish, and produce—Housewives Market in downtown Oakland. When we got there and went to Taylor’s Sausage Shop for andouille and chorizo, I was forced into the role of Rocco’s apologist/ bodyguard.
Rocco looked into the sausage display case and asked to see a particular chorizo, and then to taste it. The grizzled old counterman was having none of it. “Where you come from, boy?“ he snapped.
Rocco turned his snobbery up to high and sniffed, “I am a classically trained French chef from Paris, and a waiter at L’Etoile, San Francisco’s finest Gallic restaurant. I am satisfied only with the best, and demand to inspect and taste before I buy!”
The counterman laughed and bellowed, “Well, Frenchy, your snooty a** is in Oakland now, and people here don’t go questioning the quality of our stuff! They know it’s the best!”
I heard Rocco mutter, “Swine!” and I immediately interjected.
“I apologize for him. He’s new to our culture. And I’ve been coming here for years because your andouille and boudin are absolutely the finest around.”
The counterman’s countenance changed. He smiled at me and said, “Okay, I’ll do business with you, but Pepe Le Pew can haul his nasty Gallic butt the hell outta here!”
As we left Taylor’s Sausage Shop, we were both angry and silent.
“This way,” I snarked as I led Rocco to the fish market. To my dismay, Rocco had learned nothing from the sausage shop encounter, and resumed his snootiness with the fish market counterman.
“Where are the eels?” he snapped rudely.
A tiny, white-haired woman beside us overheard and yelled, “Eels! Them is slimy a** water snakes! You eat them? Boy, is you crazy?”
Again, I had to interject. “He’s from France. The waterways there have plenty of eels, so naturally the French figured out how to cook and eat them, like they did with snails.”
“He eats eels and snails? He nasty, and so is you!” She moved to the opposite end of the counter, as the counterman glared at us. I took over ordering, whispering so the old woman couldn’t hear.
“Give us a pound of squid, two pounds of the jumbo shrimp, and a pound of crayfish,” I said. Rocco was perturbed and turned his back to me.
“A paella is not paella without eels!” he griped.
We got the rest of the ingredients, including a pricey Spanish imported rice that he claimed was the best for paella, then we silently and passive aggressively returned to Alameda, where I stopped at Ernie’s Liquors at the old Bridgeside Shopping Center for several bottles of wonderful Bandol rosé.
I dropped Rocco off at his girlfriend’s house so he could begin preparing the feast, which included a crispy and savory little gem salad with Rocco’s delicious Roquefort dressing.
My girlfriend Jenny was taking BART from San Francisco, so I drove to the Fruitvale station to pick her up. When she got into my car, to my dismay, she turned her head away when I tried to kiss her. And when I handed her a long stemmed red rose, as was my custom, she didn’t thank me or say “How sweet!”
We drove to Kerry and Rocco’s townhome, and found Rocco in a better mood because the beautiful Kerry had returned from her latest travel nurse gig. After a very bibulous happy hour, both Kerry and Jenny were delightfully tipsy. As it was a Valentine’s Day celebration, Kerry was very affectionate with Rocco, but Jenny pulled away when I touched her.
We sat down at the ornate dining room table for dinner. I filled the wine glasses, Rocco served a flawless salad, and we eagerly awaited a very expensive paella/ jambalaya. Rocco served it forth with a flourish.
“Happy Fat Tuesday and Valentine’s Day to our two beauties,” he bellowed.
We all dug in and I saw Kerry grimace.
“Rocco, this rice is undercooked and hard,” she slurred.
Jenny didn’t speak. She just picked the sausage, chicken, and seafood from the rice. I glared at Rocco, thinking to myself, “$250 worth of stuff, and this arrogant, pompous, preening moron undercooks the rice.”
Rocco wouldn’t make eye contact with me, never apologized, and the atmosphere at the table turned silent and frigid. Soon after, Jenny ended the gloom saying, “Thanks for dinner, you guys. Gil, can you drive me back to BART?” She knew full well that I would drive her back to her San Francisco apartment. I, ever the optimist, retained a bottle of Bandol rosé, just in case.
Right after we got underway, I asked, “All right, Jenny, what’s wrong? Last time I took you out, we had a long smooch-a-thon.”
She seemed to shrink in her seat, and said, “There’s someone very special in Seattle, and he wants me to move in with him, so…”
I responded angrily, “So you’re dumping me? On Valentine’s Day? That’s pretty unethical, Jenny.”
I took back the flower and the wine, and let her off in front of her apartment. No more words were said. When I got back to my mom’s, I handed her the rose and the rosé.
She laughed. “Another dating fiasco? Bad for you, good for me! Thanks for the rose, now open up that Bandol. Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Gil Michaels is unlucky in love at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels.