The sun was getting ready to set Saturday afternoon and I was on my way to an opening at gallery HEALY contemporáneo one half block above the entrance to Mercado Ignacio Ramírez. Leaving off my work on that Sunday's magazine, el Centro being what it is, especially on weekends, I drove from my place above San Luis Rey as far as colonia Guadalupe and parked there. I would have rather taken a bus, and saved myself the walk, both ways, and saved the planet the carbon, but busses stop running back to San Luis Rey at 8pm.
Walking down Calzada de la Aurora I recognized an older couple whom I had met much earlier that day, on a previous trip to colonia Guadalupe. Catching up with them, I slowed my pace and, after a bit of conversation, learned that they were Tango teachers visiting from Chile. When it was revealed that they were also walking to the center, I suggested that we go together. But I counselled against going up busy Calle Hidalgo as they had intended: "I will show you a quieter, prettier route."
I should mention that I had taken a few puffs of marijuana before I set out from home, just to get out of my work mode. Because I have the good stuff, smoke only every two to three months and am already a bit wacky that I was really flying. Mentally I scamper, like a young cow let out of the barn for the first time after a long, snowy winter... especially when I'm stoned.
Indeed, the way was quiet and pretty, as we walked a short way up Calzada de la luz, then took Relox, crossing midway, on that little street, over to Loreto. The journey was perfectly charming with colors and atmosphere enhanced by the softer, fading light... especially as I was stoned. I get expansive on marijuana. My gift for gab unbridled, el maestro encouraging me, I took the lead, "performing" as our street theater frolicked along over the paving stones, with a few stops for me to photograph them, using his phone: "How many photos do you have of yourselves together? Take off your sunglasses; you look like a mafioso."
by Carlos Larracilla *
Along Loreto, la maestra got waylaid by the few shops still opened, looking for last-minute gifts. (They were leaving the next day and had entirely missed the artisans' alleyway.) At the second tienda, after giving el maestro the address of the opening, I bid them goodbye, and took the final, exquisite leg of my picturesque journey: finishing Loreto, 15 seconds along Mesones, then through the grand plaza in front of the churches, along Colegio to Puente de Umarán which held my destination, the newly-designated Pasaje Allende Arte.
With the walk, and the marijuana I entered the courtyard feeling exalted. The space was filled with people and tables. Michael Healy later commented, "It had the buzz of a New York opening." Still flying along, I landed in front of the artist Mario Oliva and his small entourage. Mario is a very strong person, who I knew could easily absorb the force of my entrance, and playfully push back.
As I was to do throughout the evening with others, I proudly displayed on my phone the article I had made for Michael's opening. Mario, impressed, started explaining about a series of shows he was planning. I suggested we publish. He agreed. After a longer exchange and getting the contact of his business manager, who was part of his entourage, I excused myself to go look at the show, particularly the two new spaces that Michael's gallery has just opened. Doing so I interacted with people, some of whom I knew already, some just met, all the while maintaining a wobbly lid on my pot-induced magnificence.
Mario Oliva *
In his book, The Botany of Desire, author Michal Pollan asserts that marijuana makes one feel heroic. Critics (of marijuana, not Michael Pollan) describe this heroism negatively, as a loss of drive. Indeed, being stoned, in your twenties or thirties, playing video games and watching pornography in your mother's basement, and feeling that everything is just fine is a liability. But when you are as intense and working as intensely as I am, floating away and looking down contentedly upon it all, is a great perspective to have now and then, even if it's a drug-induced vista.
Returning from the rear new space, back among the tables in the courtyard a broadly smiling man said hello, putting his hand upon my shoulder. I could not remember anything about him except that his wife likes to read my articles, that he worked in finance, and that we had met at several art events. Seeing that I was at a loss, he teased me, "You don't remember me." I teased back, "That's because you never tell me anything about yourself. What, were you in the CIA?" (That he took my question seriously enough to deny that he had been makes me wonder.) When I showed him the article I had made for the opening, he pointed to its lead image and said, "I just bought that."
The mysterious financier's purchase, by Carlos Larracilla *
Fifteen minutes later, outside in the street, when I called out "Follow me!" to the mass of people who were invited to the after-party, but were milling about not sure where to go, a well-dressed, tall woman questioned her friend loudly, "Are we going to follow that man?" I replied, equally loudly, over my shoulder, "You could do worse," and set out through the last of the twilight with everyone in tow, up Nuñez and a few doors down Mesones.
Our destination, I knew from previous experience, was a boutique hotel which might actually be back-to-back with the art space, so that, were we adventurous, we could have saved ourselves the walk and arrived via a couple of well-placed ladders. As it was, on our short street-level circuit, I prevailed upon the mysterious financier to reveal some personal details. Eventually I pulled out of him, not that he had been a spy, but that he had been in charge of a very large foreign market, a continent, for a very prominent financial institution.
Stepping through the front door of the boutique hotel, previously a large house, was like entering a storybook, another, sheltered world. A long rectangular courtyard ran down its middle with rooms off it: front, back and along its sides. Its calmness, and the jamaica-mezcal cocktail I ordered, tempered my exuberance just perfectly. The food was delicious. The company, divine. The most colorful character among them, for my taste anyway, I met on the rooftop in front of a gas-fired hearth.
by Carlos Larracilla *
A wiry man of undetermined age, introducing ourselves, when he told me that people call him "The Chef," I told him that my father had owned three restaurants and that I had owned two. You are either at home in a kitchen or you're not. "Mise en place" is a restaurant term; everything has a place... you included. I am impressed by competence, especially that of a well-functioning team. I admire order and hierarchy. I say, "I like when someone tells me what to do. I just haven't met many people who know what to do." The Chef knows what to do.
For decades, he commanded a line of chefs in his large restaurant in Washington, D.C. I offered perspective to the other man standing with us there in front of the fire, "Four people are at a table. Each orders something different. All four meals have to arrive at the same time. And the chef has 11 tables." The Chef asserted, "Eleven tables is nothing. My chefs never saw a ticket. I told each of them what to make and when to have it ready."
Mentioning that it is illegal to sell hunted meat, The Chef told a story about breaking the rules. He knew a bush pilot up in Alaska who regularly flew hunters far out into the wilderness and routinely received a portion of the kill when she returned to pick them up; caribou and moose are enormous animals. There being direct flights to D.C. from the airport, his bush pilot friend packed up her portion of the hunt and sent it as freight to D.C. where The Chef collected it and served it off-menu to the likes of Al Gore; "Here is what we're serving tonight," no questions asked.
I told him a story which featured me working as the kosher supervisor for a wedding. I am adding a few details here for you civilians:
On a lovely summer evening in rural western Connecticut 200 hundred wedding guests were sitting under a big tent on a lawn. They had just eaten dinner and it was time for dessert. Closeby, in the large industrial kitchen of the resort it was all hands on deck with, the whole staff, close to 30 persons, come to attention ready to carry that dessert, and all everything needed to serve it, out to the far side of the tent: across a small parking area, along a driveway, down one full side of the large tent and halfway up the other. It was quite a procession: some carried folding tables, some carried tablecloths and napkins, some trays of silverware, stacks of plates, crates of cups and saucers, two samovars, and more than a few boxes of dessert. As a supervisor, my job was just to watch.
There on the far side of the tent, everything was assembled with martial discipline. When it was, with me positioned half a step aside and behind the chef, the cakes were removed from their white cardboard boxes. The chef, suddenly awakening, almost distressed, observed, "We need a knife." At which point I stepped forward and handed him what I had carried down by my side in the procession, an 18-inch knife, just what he needed to cut the cake and to plate it. He took the knife, looked at me and said, "I love you," then got to work.
Publishing is like being a chef. Like that act on the Ed Sullivan show, there are a lot of plates to keep spinning. My intensity and attention to detail drives some people crazy... especially when I'm stoned. But, as they say, if you can't stand the heat, then get out of the kitchen.
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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, public internet, building community, strengthening the local economy. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.
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