#Black Friday Paris transfer deals

[jazzynook]

The Essay that Made Bourdain Famous

"Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals. It’s about danger—risking the dark, bacterial forces of beef, chicken, cheese, and shellfish. Your first two hundred and seven Wellfleet oysters may transport you to a state of rapture, but your two hundred and eighth may send you to bed with the sweats, chills, and vomits.

Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness. The members of a tight, well-greased kitchen staff are a lot like a submarine crew. Confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders, they often acquire the characteristics of the poor saps who were press-ganged into the royal navies of Napoleonic times—superstition, a contempt for outsiders, and a loyalty to no flag but their own.

A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher in “Down and Out in Paris and London.” Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen—free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.

I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumors of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavory side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humor, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom—doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”

A year ago, my latest, doomed mission—a high-profile restaurant in the Times Square area—went out of business. The meat, fish, and produce purveyors got the news that they were going to take it in the neck for yet another ill-conceived enterprise. When customers called for reservations, they were informed by a prerecorded announcement that our doors had closed. Fresh from that experience, I began thinking about becoming a traitor to my profession.

Say it’s a quiet Monday night, and you’ve just checked your coat in that swanky Art Deco update in the Flatiron district, and you’re looking to tuck into a thick slab of pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna or a twenty-ounce cut of certified Black Angus beef, well-done—what are you in for?

The fish specialty is reasonably priced, and the place got two stars in the Times. Why not go for it? If you like four-day-old fish, be my guest. Here’s how things usually work. The chef orders his seafood for the weekend on Thursday night. It arrives on Friday morning. He’s hoping to sell the bulk of it on Friday and Saturday nights, when he knows that the restaurant will be busy, and he��d like to run out of the last few orders by Sunday evening. Many fish purveyors don’t deliver on Saturday, so the chances are that the Monday-night tuna you want has been kicking around in the kitchen since Friday morning, under God knows what conditions. When a kitchen is in full swing, proper refrigeration is almost nonexistent, what with the many openings of the refrigerator door as the cooks rummage frantically during the rush, mingling your tuna with the chicken, the lamb, or the beef. Even if the chef has ordered just the right amount of tuna for the weekend, and has had to reorder it for a Monday delivery, the only safeguard against the seafood supplier’s off-loading junk is the presence of a vigilant chef who can make sure that the delivery is fresh from Sunday night’s market.

Generally speaking, the good stuff comes in on Tuesday: the seafood is fresh, the supply of prepared food is new, and the chef, presumably, is relaxed after his day off. (Most chefs don’t work on Monday.) Chefs prefer to cook for weekday customers rather than for weekenders, and they like to start the new week with their most creative dishes. In New York, locals dine during the week. Weekends are considered amateur nights—for tourists, rubes, and the well-done-ordering pretheatre hordes. The fish may be just as fresh on Friday, but it’s on Tuesday that you’ve got the good will of the kitchen on your side.

People who order their meat well-done perform a valuable service for those of us in the business who are cost-conscious: they pay for the privilege of eating our garbage. In many kitchens, there’s a time-honored practice called “save for well-done.” When one of the cooks finds a particularly unlovely piece of steak—tough, riddled with nerve and connective tissue, off the hip end of the loin, and maybe a little stinky from age—he’ll dangle it in the air and say, “Hey, Chef, whaddya want me to do with this?” Now, the chef has three options. He can tell the cook to throw the offending item into the trash, but that means a total loss, and in the restaurant business every item of cut, fabricated, or prepared food should earn at least three times the amount it originally cost if the chef is to make his correct food-cost percentage. Or he can decide to serve that steak to “the family”—that is, the floor staff—though that, economically, is the same as throwing it out. But no. What he’s going to do is repeat the mantra of cost-conscious chefs everywhere: “Save for well-done.” The way he figures it, the philistine who orders his food well-done is not likely to notice the difference between food and flotsam.

Then there are the People Who Brunch. The “B” word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress brunch up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it’s still breakfast.

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public—and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans—as enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

Like most other chefs I know, I’m amused when I hear people object to pork on nonreligious grounds. “Swine are filthy animals,” they say. These people have obviously never visited a poultry farm. Chicken—America’s favorite food—goes bad quickly; handled carelessly, it infects other foods with salmonella; and it bores the hell out of chefs. It occupies its ubiquitous place on menus as an option for customers who can’t decide what they want to eat. Most chefs believe that supermarket chickens in this country are slimy and tasteless compared with European varieties. Pork, on the other hand, is cool. Farmers stopped feeding garbage to pigs decades ago, and even if you eat pork rare you’re more likely to win the Lotto than to contract trichinosis. Pork tastes different, depending on what you do with it, but chicken always tastes like chicken.

Another much maligned food these days is butter. In the world of chefs, however, butter is in everything. Even non-French restaurants—the Northern Italian; the new American, the ones where the chef brags about how he’s “getting away from butter and cream”—throw butter around like crazy. In almost every restaurant worth patronizing, sauces are enriched with mellowing, emulsifying butter. Pastas are tightened with it. Meat and fish are seared with a mixture of butter and oil. Shallots and chicken are caramelized with butter. It’s the first and last thing in almost every pan: the final hit is called “monter au beurre.” In a good restaurant, what this all adds up to is that you could be putting away almost a stick of butter with every meal.

If you are one of those people who cringe at the thought of strangers fondling your food, you shouldn’t go out to eat. As the author and former chef Nicolas Freeling notes in his definitive book “The Kitchen,” the better the restaurant, the more your food has been prodded, poked, handled, and tasted. By the time a three-star crew has finished carving and arranging your saddle of monkfish with dried cherries and wild-herb-infused nage into a Parthenon or a Space Needle, it’s had dozens of sweaty fingers all over it. Gloves? You’ll find a box of surgical gloves—in my kitchen we call them “anal-research gloves”—over every station on the line, for the benefit of the health inspectors, but does anyone actually use them? Yes, a cook will slip a pair on every now and then, especially when he’s handling something with a lingering odor, like salmon. But during the hours of service gloves are clumsy and dangerous. When you’re using your hands constantly, latex will make you drop things, which is the last thing you want to do.

Finding a hair in your food will make anyone gag. But just about the only place you’ll see anyone in the kitchen wearing a hat or a hairnet is Blimpie. For most chefs, wearing anything on their head, especially one of those picturesque paper toques—they’re often referred to as “coffee filters”—is a nuisance: they dissolve when you sweat, bump into range hoods, burst into flame.

The fact is that most good kitchens are far less septic than your kitchen at home. I run a scrupulously clean, orderly restaurant kitchen, where food is rotated and handled and stored very conscientiously. But if the city’s Department of Health or the E.P.A. decided to enforce every aspect of its codes, most of us would be out on the street. Recently, there was a news report about the practice of recycling bread. By means of a hidden camera in a restaurant, the reporter was horrified to see returned bread being sent right back out to the floor. This, to me, wasn’t news: the reuse of bread has been an open secret—and a fairly standard practice—in the industry for years. It makes more sense to worry about what happens to the leftover table butter—many restaurants recycle it for hollandaise.

What do I like to eat after hours? Strange things. Oysters are my favorite, especially at three in the morning, in the company of my crew. Focaccia pizza with robiola cheese and white truffle oil is good, especially at Le Madri on a summer afternoon in the outdoor patio. Frozen vodka at Siberia Bar is also good, particularly if a cook from one of the big hotels shows up with beluga. At Indigo, on Tenth Street, I love the mushroom strudel and the daube of beef. At my own place, I love a spicy boudin noir that squirts blood in your mouth; the braised fennel the way my sous-chef makes it; scraps from duck confit; and fresh cockles steamed with greasy Portuguese sausage.

I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.

Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing paychecks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills: Live Cabaret! Free Shrimp! New Orleans Brunch!

In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family. It’s a haven for foreigners—Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. In New York, the main linguistic spice is Spanish. “Hey, maricón! chupa mis huevos” means, roughly, “How are you, valued comrade? I hope all is well.” And you hear “Hey, baboso! Put some more brown jiz on the fire and check your meez before the sous comes back there and fucks you in the culo!,” which means “Please reduce some additional demi-glace, brother, and reëxamine your mise en place, because the sous-chef is concerned about your state of readiness.”

Since we work in close quarters, and so many blunt and sharp objects are at hand, you’d think that cooks would kill one another with regularity. I’ve seen guys duking it out in the waiter station over who gets a table for six. I’ve seen a chef clamp his teeth on a waiter’s nose. And I’ve seen plates thrown—I’ve even thrown a few myself—but I’ve never heard of one cook jamming a boning knife into another cook’s rib cage or braining him with a meat mallet. Line cooking, done well, is a dance—a highspeed, Balanchine collaboration.

I used to be a terror toward my floor staff, particularly in the final months of my last restaurant. But not anymore. Recently, my career has taken an eerily appropriate turn: these days, I’m the chef de cuisine of a much loved, old-school French brasserie/bistro where the customers eat their meat rare, vegetarians are scarce, and every part of the animal—hooves, snout, cheeks, skin, and organs—is avidly and appreciatively prepared and consumed. Cassoulet, pigs’ feet, tripe, and charcuterie sell like crazy. We thicken many sauces with foie gras and pork blood, and proudly hurl around spoonfuls of duck fat and butter, and thick hunks of country bacon. I made a traditional French pot-au-feu a few weeks ago, and some of my French colleagues—hardened veterans of the business all—came into my kitchen to watch the first order go out. As they gazed upon the intimidating heap of short ribs, oxtail, beef shoulder, cabbage, turnips, carrots, and potatoes, the expressions on their faces were those of religious supplicants. I have come home."

Published in the print edition of the April 19, 1999, issue.

[bradfoe]

Annals of Gastronomy

Don’t Eat Before Reading This

A New York chef spills some trade secrets.

By Anthony Bourdain

Monday’s fish has been around since Friday, under God knows what conditions.Illustration by Adrian Gill

Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals. It’s about danger—risking the dark, bacterial forces of beef, chicken, cheese, and shellfish. Your first two hundred and seven Wellfleet oysters may transport you to a state of rapture, but your two hundred and eighth may send you to bed with the sweats, chills, and vomits.

Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness. The members of a tight, well-greased kitchen staff are a lot like a submarine crew. Confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders, they often acquire the characteristics of the poor saps who were press-ganged into the royal navies of Napoleonic times—superstition, a contempt for outsiders, and a loyalty to no flag but their own.

A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher in “Down and Out in Paris and London.” Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen—free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.

I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumors of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavory side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humor, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom—doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”

A year ago, my latest, doomed mission—a high-profile restaurant in the Times Square area—went out of business. The meat, fish, and produce purveyors got the news that they were going to take it in the neck for yet another ill-conceived enterprise. When customers called for reservations, they were informed by a prerecorded announcement that our doors had closed. Fresh from that experience, I began thinking about becoming a traitor to my profession.

Say it’s a quiet Monday night, and you’ve just checked your coat in that swanky Art Deco update in the Flatiron district, and you’re looking to tuck into a thick slab of pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna or a twenty-ounce cut of certified Black Angus beef, well-done—what are you in for?

The fish specialty is reasonably priced, and the place got two stars in the Times. Why not go for it? If you like four-day-old fish, be my guest. Here’s how things usually work. The chef orders his seafood for the weekend on Thursday night. It arrives on Friday morning. He’s hoping to sell the bulk of it on Friday and Saturday nights, when he knows that the restaurant will be busy, and he’d like to run out of the last few orders by Sunday evening. Many fish purveyors don’t deliver on Saturday, so the chances are that the Monday-night tuna you want has been kicking around in the kitchen since Friday morning, under God knows what conditions. When a kitchen is in full swing, proper refrigeration is almost nonexistent, what with the many openings of the refrigerator door as the cooks rummage frantically during the rush, mingling your tuna with the chicken, the lamb, or the beef. Even if the chef has ordered just the right amount of tuna for the weekend, and has had to reorder it for a Monday delivery, the only safeguard against the seafood supplier’s off-loading junk is the presence of a vigilant chef who can make sure that the delivery is fresh from Sunday night’s market.

Generally speaking, the good stuff comes in on Tuesday: the seafood is fresh, the supply of prepared food is new, and the chef, presumably, is relaxed after his day off. (Most chefs don’t work on Monday.) Chefs prefer to cook for weekday customers rather than for weekenders, and they like to start the new week with their most creative dishes. In New York, locals dine during the week. Weekends are considered amateur nights—for tourists, rubes, and the well-done-ordering pretheatre hordes. The fish may be just as fresh on Friday, but it’s on Tuesday that you’ve got the good will of the kitchen on your side.

People who order their meat well-done perform a valuable service for those of us in the business who are cost-conscious: they pay for the privilege of eating our garbage. In many kitchens, there’s a time-honored practice called “save for well-done.” When one of the cooks finds a particularly unlovely piece of steak—tough, riddled with nerve and connective tissue, off the hip end of the loin, and maybe a little stinky from age—he’ll dangle it in the air and say, “Hey, Chef, whaddya want me to do with this?” Now, the chef has three options. He can tell the cook to throw the offending item into the trash, but that means a total loss, and in the restaurant business every item of cut, fabricated, or prepared food should earn at least three times the amount it originally cost if the chef is to make his correct food-cost percentage. Or he can decide to serve that steak to “the family”—that is, the floor staff—though that, economically, is the same as throwing it out. But no. What he’s going to do is repeat the mantra of cost-conscious chefs everywhere: “Save for well-done.” The way he figures it, the philistine who orders his food well-done is not likely to notice the difference between food and flotsam.

Then there are the People Who Brunch. The “B” word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress brunch up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it’s still breakfast.

Video From The New YorkerTroy: A Couple Obsessed with the Sex Worker Next Door

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public—and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans—as enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

“It’s been done, but I don’t think it’s been redone.”Copy link to cartoon

Link copiedShop

Like most other chefs I know, I’m amused when I hear people object to pork on nonreligious grounds. “Swine are filthy animals,” they say. These people have obviously never visited a poultry farm. Chicken—America’s favorite food—goes bad quickly; handled carelessly, it infects other foods with salmonella; and it bores the hell out of chefs. It occupies its ubiquitous place on menus as an option for customers who can’t decide what they want to eat. Most chefs believe that supermarket chickens in this country are slimy and tasteless compared with European varieties. Pork, on the other hand, is cool. Farmers stopped feeding garbage to pigs decades ago, and even if you eat pork rare you’re more likely to win the Lotto than to contract trichinosis. Pork tastes different, depending on what you do with it, but chicken always tastes like chicken.

Another much maligned food these days is butter. In the world of chefs, however, butter is in everything. Even non-French restaurants—the Northern Italian; the new American, the ones where the chef brags about how he’s “getting away from butter and cream”—throw butter around like crazy. In almost every restaurant worth patronizing, sauces are enriched with mellowing, emulsifying butter. Pastas are tightened with it. Meat and fish are seared with a mixture of butter and oil. Shallots and chicken are caramelized with butter. It’s the first and last thing in almost every pan: the final hit is called “monter au beurre.” In a good restaurant, what this all adds up to is that you could be putting away almost a stick of butter with every meal.

If you are one of those people who cringe at the thought of strangers fondling your food, you shouldn’t go out to eat. As the author and former chef Nicolas Freeling notes in his definitive book “The Kitchen,” the better the restaurant, the more your food has been prodded, poked, handled, and tasted. By the time a three-star crew has finished carving and arranging your saddle of monkfish with dried cherries and wild-herb-infused nage into a Parthenon or a Space Needle, it’s had dozens of sweaty fingers all over it. Gloves? You’ll find a box of surgical gloves—in my kitchen we call them “anal-research gloves”—over every station on the line, for the benefit of the health inspectors, but does anyone actually use them? Yes, a cook will slip a pair on every now and then, especially when he’s handling something with a lingering odor, like salmon. But during the hours of service gloves are clumsy and dangerous. When you’re using your hands constantly, latex will make you drop things, which is the last thing you want to do.

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Finding a hair in your food will make anyone gag. But just about the only place you’ll see anyone in the kitchen wearing a hat or a hairnet is Blimpie. For most chefs, wearing anything on their head, especially one of those picturesque paper toques—they’re often referred to as “coffee filters”—is a nuisance: they dissolve when you sweat, bump into range hoods, burst into flame.

The fact is that most good kitchens are far less septic than your kitchen at home. I run a scrupulously clean, orderly restaurant kitchen, where food is rotated and handled and stored very conscientiously. But if the city’s Department of Health or the E.P.A. decided to enforce every aspect of its codes, most of us would be out on the street. Recently, there was a news report about the practice of recycling bread. By means of a hidden camera in a restaurant, the reporter was horrified to see returned bread being sent right back out to the floor. This, to me, wasn’t news: the reuse of bread has been an open secret—and a fairly standard practice—in the industry for years. It makes more sense to worry about what happens to the leftover table butter—many restaurants recycle it for hollandaise.

What do I like to eat after hours? Strange things. Oysters are my favorite, especially at three in the morning, in the company of my crew. Focaccia pizza with robiola cheese and white truffle oil is good, especially at Le Madri on a summer afternoon in the outdoor patio. Frozen vodka at Siberia Bar is also good, particularly if a cook from one of the big hotels shows up with beluga. At Indigo, on Tenth Street, I love the mushroom strudel and the daube of beef. At my own place, I love a spicy boudin noir that squirts blood in your mouth; the braised fennel the way my sous-chef makes it; scraps from duck confit; and fresh cockles steamed with greasy Portuguese sausage.

Ilove the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.

Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing paychecks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills: Live Cabaret! Free Shrimp! New Orleans Brunch!

In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family. It’s a haven for foreigners—Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. In New York, the main linguistic spice is Spanish. “Hey, maricón! chupa mis huevos” means, roughly, “How are you, valued comrade? I hope all is well.” And you hear “Hey, baboso! Put some more brown jiz on the fire and check your meez before the sous comes back there and fucks you in the culo!,” which means “Please reduce some additional demi-glace, brother, and reëxamine your mise en place, because the sous-chef is concerned about your state of readiness.”

Since we work in close quarters, and so many blunt and sharp objects are at hand, you’d think that cooks would kill one another with regularity. I’ve seen guys duking it out in the waiter station over who gets a table for six. I’ve seen a chef clamp his teeth on a waiter’s nose. And I’ve seen plates thrown—I’ve even thrown a few myself—but I’ve never heard of one cook jamming a boning knife into another cook’s rib cage or braining him with a meat mallet. Line cooking, done well, is a dance—a highspeed, Balanchine collaboration.

I used to be a terror toward my floor staff, particularly in the final months of my last restaurant. But not anymore. Recently, my career has taken an eerily appropriate turn: these days, I’m the chef de cuisine of a much loved, old-school French brasserie/bistro where the customers eat their meat rare, vegetarians are scarce, and every part of the animal—hooves, snout, cheeks, skin, and organs—is avidly and appreciatively prepared and consumed. Cassoulet, pigs’ feet, tripe, and charcuterie sell like crazy. We thicken many sauces with foie gras and pork blood, and proudly hurl around spoonfuls of duck fat and butter, and thick hunks of country bacon. I made a traditional French pot-au-feu a few weeks ago, and some of my French colleagues—hardened veterans of the business all—came into my kitchen to watch the first order go out. As they gazed upon the intimidating heap of short ribs, oxtail, beef shoulder, cabbage, turnips, carrots, and potatoes, the expressions on their faces were those of religious supplicants. I have come home. ♦

https://1152600814e3066a8b5008bac502819a.safeframe.googlesyndication.com/safeframe/1-0-40/html/container.htmlPublished in the print edition of the April 19, 1999, issue, with the headline “Don’t Eat Before Reading This.”

[sturchling]

Turn the Page- Final Part

Part One      Part Two

Here is the final part!

So Marinette has decided to attend the Wayne Gala. Will Lila finally be exposed? How will the class react? How will everything end for our favorite designer?

Hope you like it!

Marinette and Chloe were working at a fever pace. Mr. Wayne had agreed to let Chloe coming too. Marinette��s parents were hesitant at first, but eventually relented when they heard that Mr. Wayne had offered to let them stay at his manor while they were in Gotham. Tom and Sabine knew they would be safe there. Chloe had been working with Marinette on their two dresses. Chloe’s dress was a mermaid style golden dress. She had some black shoes and gloves to compliment the outfit as well. She wanted it to be a tribute to her time as Queen Bee. Marinette had decided to make a scarlet cheongsam with some golden and black floral embroidery. Marinette had also snuck in some small ladybugs into the embroidery, as a nod to her superhero identity. Marinette had finished the suits for the Waynes pretty quickly, and had already sent them to Gotham. She would make any final adjustments when she arrived in Gotham.

 -----------------

Time had flown since the original email inviting Marinette to the gala. Marinette had been making plans with Mr. Wayne to reveal her identity at the gala. Before Marinette knew it, the gala was a week away. It was the last day before the winter holidays start. Marinette and Chloe were leaving for Gotham in on Monday. The Gala would be next Friday night. As the two girls sat in the back with Nino and Nathaniel, the rest of class excitedly talked about their plans for winter break. Chloe had been right. The class was planning on meeting to watch the red-carpet of the Wayne Gala. The class was practically buzzing about the show. Mr. Wayne had announced that MDC would be attending the gala and planned to reveal their identity to the public. The MDC website also announced the plan as well. When questioned why her friend suddenly didn’t mind sharing her identity despite the ex-boyfriend situation, Lila said, “Well, she decided to stop living in fear of him. I convinced her that it wasn’t a healthy way to live and that she needed to put herself out there again.” Marinette just rolled her eyes and didn’t say anything. Everything Lila was saying would be revealed as a lie soon anyway. Lila turned to face Marinette and said, “What will you and your friends be doing over the break?” “Chloe and I will be going to visit some friends in America. That is about it.” The class just rolled their eyes. They assumed that Marinette was lying about it because she had no plans. Little did they know that not only did Marinette have plans, but they would be watching her on the TV in a few days.

  -----------------

That next Monday, Marinette and Chloe went to the airport and got on their flight to Gotham. When they arrived, they were met by an older man named Alfred who drove them to the manor. They quickly got settled in. Marinette got to work making the final adjustments for the Waynes’ suits. Afterwards, Chloe and Marinette went sight-seeing throughout Gotham. Jason and Damian had come with them, to make sure they were safe. Chloe and Marinette’s social medias became flooded with pictures of their trip. While they were there, Marinette and Damian became close. Then the night of the gala drew close. Marinette was nervous. She was about to reveal her secret to the world. And she still had a semester to go at school. She knew school would be a lot tougher once her secret was revealed. Lila would be furious, and Marinette had no idea how the class would react.

  -----------------

The day of the gala had finally arrived. Marinette and Chloe were getting ready together. Alfred had gone to drop off the Waynes at the venue and would be coming back to pick up the girls. While they got ready, Chloe was coaching Marinette how to deal with the paparazzi and press that would be on the red carpet. They would also be let into the gala so they could be there for the MDC announcement. Chloe was also going over what Marinette was going to say during the reveal. To say Marinette was nervous was an understatement. Before they knew it, Alfred was there to pick them up and they were on their way to the red carpet.

  -----------------

Meanwhile, in France, the class had gathered at Alya’s home to watch the red-carpet. Everyone was excited to finally see Lila’s friend who was MDC. Lila was talking about how sweet the girl was, and how considerate she was. “MDC even donated to one of the go green charities I work with. She is such a sweetie.” The red-carpet broadcast started and the class waited with anticipation for Lila to point out the girl who was MDC. But Lila made it clear that she was going to leave it a surprise until MDC revealed it later in the night. Imagine the classes’ surprise when they saw Chloe and Marinette arrive in a limo and walk into the gala. They couldn’t believe it. How could those harpies get an invite to one of the biggest social events of the year? Lila was furious. How dare Marinette take the spotlight off her? Lila took the opportunity to make Marinette look worse to the class by asking, “Why did Marinette not tell any of us she would be there? Why didn’t she get us an invite either?” The class quickly was filled with rage at Marinette and was ready to tear her apart.

  -----------------

Back in Gotham, the gala was in full swing. Everyone was having a wonderful time. Even though Marinette was becoming more anxious by the minute, she was still trying to enjoy herself. She and Damian had been dancing together for a while now, when Bruce signaled to Marinette that it was time for the announcement. Chloe gave her a thumbs up and Damian gave her a nudge to the stage. Marinette swallowed her fear and walked towards the stage, waiting for Bruce to introduce her. “May I have everyone’s attention please?” The hall quickly quieted and everyone turned to face Mr. Wayne. “As some of you may know, I had announced that MDC would be here tonight and was planning on revealing themselves to the public. Well, they are here and ready to speak to all of you. Here she is, you all know her as MDC, but I know her as Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” The crowd applauded while Marinette climbed on stage. Cameras were going off all over the room, and Marinette saw all the video cameras and microphones pointed at her. She was incredibly nervous, but knowing there was no going back now, she began to speak. “Good evening. I decided to reveal myself tonight for a few reasons. Firstly, I thought it was time to step into the light, seeing as I am about to graduate. It just seemed like the right time. Secondly, there were some people trying to claim they were me or knew me to get advantages or fame in their life. I do not enjoy liars, especially ones that are lying about me. It has been a rough year, since I started this brand, in my personal life. This work has given me an outlet for all the stress in my life. I am glad that my work has resonated with so many people, all over the world. I am incredibly honored that you all have supported me, gave me work, and helped me to chase my dream. I hope to have many more successful years to come. Thank you.” The crowd applauded again as Marinette left the stage to celebrate with her friends.

  -----------------

Little did Marinette know on the other side of the world; her class was shocked to their core. Marinette was MDC? That doesn’t make sense. Lila said they were best friends, but Lila and Marinette hate each other. And why would Lila call Marinette the sweetest girl in the world? According to Lila, Marinette had been anything but. All of the lies that Lila had told about MDC rang in the ears of the class, as they realized that none of what she had said was true. Lila was fuming. How was Lila supposed to know that Marinette was MDC? She was just going to see who the girl was at the announcement and then claim to have known her all along. Lila could see all her plans falling to pieces. The class also began to realize that if Lila had lied about this, what else had she lied about? Alya discreetly googled some of Lila’s stories, desperately hoping to find some proof. Something to prove she hadn’t been taken in by a trickster. But all Alya found were posts from the Ladyblog. Lila had slipped out of the room, and the apartment while the class stared at the screen in shock. By the time they realized what had happened and went to confront Lila, Lila had already left. The class just sat there horrified as they realized that they had abandoned their friend for some liar with honeyed words. They had pushed away a dear friend and believed the worst in her, with no real proof. Worst of all, Marinette had tried to warn them. She had tried to tell them Lila was a liar from the very beginning and none of them had listened. And now, Marinette was lost to them. They doubted she would want to be friends again after how cruel they were. They eventually all went home, lamenting the lost friendship.

  -----------------

Back at the gala, Marinette had a wonderful night. She danced the night away with Damian and Chloe and spoke with a few reporters about her plans for the brand. She was exhausted by the end of the night, but in a good way. The end of their trip came far too soon, but it was time for Chloe and Marinette to go back to Paris. Before they left, Damian asked Marinette to be his girlfriend. She was flustered, but agreed. Now the two planned to have skype dates as often as possible, until Marinette came back at the next holiday. When the two got back to Paris, they avoided their classmates, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation. Whether the class would apologize or attack them, they didn’t know. Eventually though, classes resumed and they had to face the class. When they walked in the class pounced and apologized profusely. Lila sat in the back glaring at the young designer for ruining everything. She had tried to convince her mother to let her transfer schools, but it hadn’t worked. So, now Lila had to sit in this class full of idiots who were mad at her even though they were the gullible ones. Marinette did accept the classes apology, but told them that she wasn’t ready to be friends again. “Will we ever be friends again?” Rose asked in a quiet voice. Marinette answered them honestly, “I’m not sure. You all really hurt me. It will take time. But, maybe someday.” With that, Chloe and Marinette went back to their seats. Mrs. Bustier came in quickly after that and began the lesson.

  -----------------

The semester went by in a flash, and before the class knew it, they had graduated. Things between the class and Marinette were still rocky, but they were at least civil to each other. Lila resented that Marinette had ruined all of her lies in the course of a single evening. But Lila was already planning her next batch of lies for whatever poor fools she met in university. Marinette’s fashion brand was more popular than ever. She actually had to hire other designers to follow her designs, so she could keep up with the commission request. Chloe had taken over management of the business aspect of the brand and managed all the social media as well. Nino was officially Marinette’s personal MC for all of her fashion shows. And she also asked Nathaniel for help coming up with a Miraculous inspired fashion line. She still saw Damian frequently, and after graduation, she moved to Gotham, along with Chloe to set up the first real office for the MDC brand. Marinette and Damian quickly became the power couple of Gotham. Life for Marinette was amazing, and she wouldn’t change it for anything. The times in Mrs. Bustier’s class had been tough, but it made her stronger and turned her into the girl she is today. And she couldn’t be happier with how things turned out in the end.

[endoftheworldpaul]

It's still technically Wednesday for me so looks like we got another close call update!

@dbhrarepairs Here's my submission for day 3, wrong blind date.

Both Convin and Elijah/Leo bc I shouldn't brainstorm when I'm tired.

If you would rather read on AO3, you can click here!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611682 

Again, I apologize, but I'm having serious troubles with getting the read more break in here if anyone has tips I'm willing to listen Google isn't helping.

EDIT: I FIGURED IT OUT. Well, really, I just went on my laptop bc mobile, for all its benefits for my schedule, is super confusing when it wants to be.

Usually, Nines is rather reliable. Always prepared, always punctual, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

Just not this week. Finals week had, as always, was hellish for most students. Even Nines felt some of the end of the year panic. And by some, it was more along the lines of going into an over-studying craze. 

One problem that accompanies what his close friends have dubbed The Dark Ages is that he takes on too many extra projects in a failing attempt to distract himself. 

One such project is promising four very confused and stressed friends to set them up on blind dates. Four friends that, he decided, needed something new to distract from the stresses of life. 

Friend number one—Gavin Reed, a police officer closing in on his second year out of police academy—was the one who unintentionally gave Nines the idea to play matchmaker. 

On a cold Friday evening, their weekly "chill day," Gavin was complaining about his coworkers, as usual. 

"So, there's this new guy, a transfer from Dearborn, who is so fuckin' annoying. Dude spends his entire fucking break, I shit you not, to gush about his wife. Just got married. Who cares? Lotsa people get married, why should it be such a big deal? So I say to him, "Why don't you spend less time rambling on about the missus, and more time solving fucking crimes?" And the asshole has the gall to tell me that I'd change my mind if I could keep someone around for more than a week! What a dick right?" 

While Nines loved spending time with Gavin, he made conversations interesting and he was honest, he got into moods and would, for lack of a better word, be a huge bitch about things he didn't agree with. 

Nines shot a glance towards Gavin, taking in his position sprawled out on Nines' couch, one leg dangling off the edge, fiddling with his phone. "I suppose the only option would be to prove him wrong then. Show that you can 'keep someone around for more than a week' and rub it in his face, good ol' Gavin Reed style." He scowled, "But who would be this mystery date?"

Gavin looked up from his phone, shooting Nines a confused glance. "Well, I 'spose it could be one of those friends of yours. You've got like a million, it can't be that hard to find someone who'll like me. Even if I am kind of a dick!"

Nines hummed in confirmation, mentally creating a list of potential dates for Gavin. He had a lot of pros and cons lists to make. 

Friend number two—Connor Stern, a newer acquaintance of his—was the catalyst for the second half of what would eventually turn into Nines' biggest embarrassment. 

Connor had been more forthright with his date searching. On one of their shopping trips, devised when they found out they both lived at the same apartment complex as well as frequently shopped at the same local grocery store, he had suddenly enquired as to whether or not Nines could find someone he could go on a date with. 

"I suppose, since it's been so long that I've tried dating, that I should consider pursuing romantic relationships. Now that I am about to graduate from the academy, I have more time to do so. So you have anyone in mind whom you think I could form a serious connection with, whether it be more friendly or more romantic?" 

At first, Nines was a little surprised. But he quickly overcame that because a wave of excitement washed over him. Since he began planning a blind date for Gavin three days prior, Nines had closely analyzed the personalities of all of his companions. In doing so, he had gotten closer to narrowing down who Gavin's date would be. To find Connor a potential date, all he would have to do is make minor adjustments to his list of complementary personality traits and hobbies. 

He gave Connor a small smile in confirmation. "I think I can come up with a person or two."

After narrowing down his list of potentials for Connor, he had to ask friends if they would be available in the set few days Connor had confirmed he would be free. 

Option one, a close friend and classmate, North Dufay, stated that she had to take over for a friend who was on vacation at the taekwondo studio she worked at. 

Option two, local street artist Markus Manfred, was also unavailable. His father was accompanying him to an art gallery showing in Paris, where both artists would present new works. 

That left one person. The third friend roped into Nines' disaster of a plan, Elijah Kamski, genius and programmer, and massive introvert. It had been at least three years, half of the time Nines has known him, since he had even attempted to socialize with anyone outside of his immediate friend group. Jumping from one project to the next, he had a habit of ignoring any of Nines' attempts at getting him to redirect his attention elsewhere and relax. Nines hoped that, by introducing him to someone new who would match his wit and appreciate his devotion to his goals, it would encourage him to pursue other minor hobbies and allow him to de-stress. 

Connor, who was sarcastic and determined, seemed like a perfect match. 

Finding Gavin a date took a little more thinking than it did for Connor; he had a less approachable personality. Grumpy and irritable, many of Nines' friends would be unable to withstand sharp jabs and brutal honesty long enough to get to see his protectiveness and ambition. 

North might've been a good option, but she had prior engagements. Tina might've gotten along well with Gavin, but they had dated in high school and agreed that being friends was better for both of them. At first, Chloe seemed like she might be a good match, but she had recently come out as aromantic and asexual, so Nines ruled her out. 

The only option left was the chaotic ball of energy that was Leo Manfred, Markus' half brother. When he was younger, Leo had been in a bad situation, but finding supportive friends and a good therapist that encouraged him to redirect his anger to something more productive had helped him find a purpose in life, create goals. 

Now a full time student, well on his way to becoming a psychologist, he was likely to enjoy Gavin's sass and dorky jokes. 

People paired up, all Nines had to do was organize the details of the dates. For Connor and Elijah, he decided that a less crowded, but not isolated café just off of the main streets would be perfect. Or, was that where he had planned Gavin and Leo's date? No, he was mostly sure that he had made reservations for them at a local restaurant by Gavin and Tina's shared apartment. He didn't have time to worry about it at the moment; he had a final to study for. 

Connor had the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Nines hadn't told him his date's name to prevent him from looking him up on social media platforms and form any opinions on him before their actual date. He was just told that his date was about average height, with dark hair, often wore glasses, and had horrible posture. 

So of course, when someone matching that exact description walked through the door six and a half minutes after their scheduled meet up time, he hesitantly waved. 

The man, indeed wearing glasses, seemed slightly out of breath. He hadn't seemed to try to dress up, dressed in a faded gray, long sleeved sweater and wrinkled blue jeans. 

Flopping down into the chair across from Connor, his date sighed, stuck a hand out to shake, and blurted out "I'm so sorry I'm late! My roommate let my cat outside accidentally and I had to chase her down the street so that I could get her home and by the time I did, I had lime fifteen minutes max, and I still had to shower and stuff and then i realized that my dryer broke in the middle of this last load so most of my clothes are either soaked or horribly wrinkled and I couldn't find a shirt that made my eyes look really good and I forgot to put my contacts in and… yeah. I'm so fuckin' sorry, I wanted to try to impress you but I'm doing a kind of shit job at that huh?" 

Connor blinked a few times, trying to absorb the story his date, who still had yet to introduce himself, threw at him. He tried to smile reassuringly, and shook the still outstretched hand. "Well that seems like a horrible afternoon. It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Connor. You're also a friend of Nines' then I suppose?" 

"Oh yeah! Yeah I am. Uh, I'm Gavin. It's nice to meet you." Gavin shifted in his seat. "Sorry again for being late. It really isn't normal for me, I swear." 

"Well it happens every one in a while. It's sweet that you care about your cat so much that you would go out of your way to looking for her like that. What's her name, if you don't mind me asking?"

Gavin gasped and frantically pulled his phone out, unlocking it. "Her name is Dana and she's a menace! Look, she's so fluffy!" He shoved his phone at Connor, who takes in the fluffy black mass, staring up at him through the photo. Her bright green eyes reflect a tiny image of Gavin, holding his phone to take the photo and squinting in concentration. Cute.

Connor smiles. "Well, that is the most gorgeous menace I've ever seen. She looks so soft." 

"Oh she is. If I don't brush her every day, she gets violent." Connor snorts. "Ha, yeah it's funnier when you're not on the receiving end of her tiny little dagger-teeth. I should probably stop gushing about my cat; you'll think I'm crazy soon! So, uh, how did Nines describe me? Because he described you as, and I quote, a kind of tall, dark haired twink with a nice smile." 

Connor chuckled. "It seems like the stress is really getting to him if he could only describe me as a twink with a nice smile. He was a lot more bland when describing you. He said you're average height, with glasses and dark hair and a horrible posture. Which, I mean, at least he's been pretty accurate with his descriptions, even if they do seem rushed." 

Humming in agreement, Gavin asked, "Hey, what do you do? You got a job or you studying or what?" 

"Oh I'm currently in the police academy. I wanna be a lieutenant someday." 

Gavin wiggled in his seat. "Oh shit, I'm a cop too! I escaped the academy two years ago." 

"Really? Oh that's amazing! Maybe we'll get to work together on cases. It would be nice to have made a friend or something when I graduate from the academy. So what do you do now? What's it like, being a serious police officer like that?"

They continued chatting for the next two hours, occasionally buying each other snacks and drinks. Connor was hesitant to end the date, suggesting they walk to the park or go watch a movie. 

They spent most of the afternoon together, before Gavin offered to walk Connor home. Standing on the sidewalk by the front doors, Gavin slowly took hold of Connor's hands and stood on his toes to kiss Connor's nose. 

"I had a lot of fun, I'd love to see you again" Gavin murmured. 

A blush crept up Connor's cheeks. "Well it's a good thing I'm free next Saturday, because I do too." 

"Oh, well that's good." Gavin sighed. "I'm gonna hafta leave soon, or else Dana'll throw a fit. I'll see you Saturday okay? Is seven good? I got a half brother who can hook me up with some fancy reservations if you'd like."

Connor squeezed Gavin's hand before hesitantly letting go. "Sounds like a date. I can't wait. Goodbye Gavin." 

"G'bye."

Elijah was hesitant to go on Nines' blind date. In a hurry, he only said that his date was a smart kid, a couple years younger than Elijah himself, with dark brown, curly hair. 

He didn't want the guy to think too highly of him or else he might want to schedule another date, and Elijah didn't have time for that. So, he decided to show up "accidentally" almost half an hour late. Pushing the café door open, his gaze immediately landed on a grumpy looking guy, maybe twenty-ish, who was slumped over his phone in a booth in the far back. 

Shambling over to the grumpy kid, he asked "Are you Nines' friend? I'm here for the blind date."

Grumpy guy glanced up at him, grumbling a "Yeah that's me. You a little late there dude."

Slouching into the other side of the booth, Elijah quoted the excuse he planned out. "I'm sorry. My car wouldn't start, so I had to get a ride from a friend. Maybe I can buy you like a coffee or a sandwich to make up for it?"

"Well, you don't have to bribe me. If you're offering though, maybe a blueberry muffin and a caramel macchiato. And also a name?" 

Elijah raised his eyebrows. This kid was more blunt than he was expecting. It was… nice. "Hmm I suppose that it makes sense to give you my name. Elijah." He paused. "Kamski." Some people knew who he was. It wasn't that surprising for a programmer as young as he is to catch the attention of mainstream media if they're successful, which he was. 

"Leo. Manfred." Manfred, Manfred. Why did that name sound so familiar? "Are you gonna get my stuff or were you lying about that part?" 

If he had wanted to make a better impression, he might've actually laughed at that. Instead, all he did was not and stand up, heading toward the counter. As he was walking, he glanced around the café, observing a small family, a couple teenagers working on homework, and Gavin? On a date. Hmm. That's something to tease him about later. 

Returning to the table, he expected Leo to still be on his phone, but instead he was casually observing him. Might as well pass the time by talking. That usually pushes people away pretty fast. "You have a job? Studying?" 

Munching on his muffin, Leo hummed. "Mhm. Psychology." Maybe this kid is smart. "Don't worry though, I promise I only psychoanalyze on the second date." Oh. He's actually funny. Maybe this won't be as bad as he thought. 

Elijah allowed himself to smile a little at that. "Well, well, well, looks like I have something to look forward to." Elijah what are you doing? Did you just insinuate that you would like to go on a second date with this guy? 

Leo chuckles and sets his muffin back down on its plate. "Well you still gotta impress me first. Bribery doesn't work with everyone. If this were the second date, though, I'd have a hell of a lot to say about the lying and avoidance of revealing personal details. But, like I said, that'll have to wait 'til the second date." 

Definitely smart. More smart-ass though. That was more appealing than Elijah was expecting it to be. 

He sighed. "Well, since you caught me, I suppose I'll have to share something for the class. I'm a programmer. I'm currently working on developing AI tools that will recognise voices to activate or shut down household items, like a stove that shuts off to protect young children from lighting their homes on fire."

"That sounds pretty cool actually. Gotta babyproof the fancy smart-technology. I was expecting you to be something lame, like a very antisocial plumber or a dentist or something, but you're not that boring I guess." 

This time Elijah couldn't stop himself from laughing. Maybe, just maybe, he'll let himself enjoy this date. "'Not that boring I guess' is a compliment of the highest caliber, coming from someone as attractive as you." Why not go full flirt, if he wants this to go well. 

"Keep talking like that and I'll be swooning into your arms in no time. Seriously though, be careful, I'm starting to like you. That would be horrible, wouldn't it?" Leo raised an eyebrow.

Elijah smiled a little. "I guess it wouldn't be that bad. I think I'm starting to like you too." He snuck a piece of Leo's muffin, then hummed in delight. "That is a phenomenal muffin. You've just been hoarding it all for yourself over there? You are a cruel and unjust monster. Gimme more."

Snickering, Leo smacked Elijah's arm away from the plate. "Only nice dates who ask nicely get to share muffins." 

Elijah sighed. "Well I suppose if it's for a muffin of this quality, it will be worth it. I would like some muffin." 

Leo didn't budge. 

"...Please?" 

At this,  Leo broke off a large chunk of the muffin and handed it to Elijah. "Well, since you asked so politely, I guess I'm required to give you some now. It's good date behavior. Gotta be good if I want ya to stick around I 'spose." He smirked. Then he glanced at his watch, a rather shiny silver. "Oh shit, I gotta go. I'm house-sitting for my half-brother and I gotta feed his birds."

Elijah hesitated in saying goodbye, even as Leo rushed to clean up. Suddenly standing, he blurted out, "Maybe we can schedule that second date?" 

Leo paused, looking up at him. For a few seconds, Elijah thought he was going to decline the offer, but then he straightened his spine, smiled softly, and said, "Meet me at that Italian restaurant off of Main, next Tuesday? 6:30?" 

"It's a date. I'll see you then. I'll accompany you to your car." The both of them walked side by side, just close enough that every once in a while, their knuckles would brush up against each other. Parting with a wave, Elijah started planning what he would do to show his thanks to Nines for forcing him to do this dumb blind date thing, because it seemed that it wasn't as dumb as he originally thought.

When Nines ran into Connor in the hallway, he had to see how the date went. "So, what did you think of Elijah?"

Connor froze, turned to look at Nines, brow furrowed, and asked, "Who the fuck is Elijah?" Uh oh. 

[watchmegetobsessed]

Shawn Mendes // Boundaries Part 11

HAPPY EFFING 2019 YOU GUYS!!! hope yall had a great night, mine was pretty chill but honestly i loved it haha. anyways, here is part 11 to celebrate the new year!

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9  - Part 10

Going home the next morning feels like going to my own funeral. Everyone is so quiet, no one dares to say a word to us and I guess this has something to do with how we look and act.

On our way to the airport we are basically inseparable, we never let go of each other’s hand, I’m so clingy normally I would feel ashamed, but Shawn is the exact same. I’m constantly on the verge of crying, but I’m trying my best to look tough and I also don’t want any photos of me with red and puffy eyes. We have to make it look like we are more in love than ever, which is kinda true, but also, we only have hours left together.

Shawn doesn’t try to change my mind though I really thought he would at least make an attempt in the morning hoping I softened through the night, but for my biggest surprise, he says nothing. Instead, he is trying to use our final hours together wisely just like me. Neither of us sleeps on the flight, we share a seat and watch the clouds swimming under the jet in silence, we share kisses from time to time, but it’s mostly just us silently enjoying having the other one close for the last time.

Shawn cancelled on our last appointment on Sunday, he called Andrew and told him he isn’t feeling too well so the interview got postponed to a later date. I’m happy I don’t have to see him once more, saying goodbye is already hard enough, I don’t know if I would have enough strength in me to spend one more day with him without breaking down in tears.

Arriving back to New York Shawn puts on his best fake smile as he takes selfies with the fans waiting for him while I go straight to our car. Ten minutes later he follows and we are on our way to my place. My stomach is in a knot, my throat is dry as I’m staring out of the window, Shawn’s hand still holding mine and I’m thinking about what I should say to him before walking out of his life. I’m cursing myself for making it this hard, I should have been smarter.

When the driver stops in front of the café, our usual spot he suddenly gets out of the car and stands next to it as Shawn turns to me. I guess he asked him to give us some privacy beforehand.

“I guess this is our goodbye,” I mumble under my breath, already feeling the tears dwelling in my eyes.

“I want you to promise me one thing,” he starts looking into my eyes and I nod. “Call me if you need help. With anything. Even if it’s the slightest problem ever, I want you to know that you can always count on me, okay?”

Feeling a tear rolling down my cheek I smile at him sadly as I nod.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“And… if you change your mind in the future… about us… just call me,” he adds and I can’t help but chuckle. He did try for one last time after all.

Cupping his face I pull him into one last kiss and it turns out longer and more passionate than what I planned, but I don’t mind. I let his tongue dominate mine, he is nibbling down on my lip gently and I moan into his mouth, all kind of emotions mixing in me at the same time.

“I love you,” he whispers to me once we part and he rests his forehead against mine. I’m shutting my eyes closed tight and I fight the urge to say it back immediately. If I say it now, I feel like I won’t be able to get out of the car and leave him behind. “It’s fine,” he smiles at me when I open my eyes. “I’m happy I got to meet you. Take care, Naya.”

“You too, Shawn,” I smile as I reach for the handle and using everything in me I turn away from him and get out of the car.

I avoid looking at him one more time, I just start walking. I hear the driver getting back into the car and when I hear the car’s engine starting again I turn around and watch the black Range Rover drive away and then disappear from my sight.

My days without Shawn are just one dark blur from the moment I get home after Paris. All my stuff gets delivered to my place and he even let me keep the dresses I wore to the fashion shows. I want to call him to say thank you so badly, but I decide not to.

The next Friday we have the Assembly, everyone gets their new deals and clients, except me. Joshua explains to me that I need to lay low for a while, so I get signed up for shifts in the Nook as a hostess and I’m honestly happy I don’t have to get back to my usual work. I don’t think I would be able to work with another client so soon.

I spend a lot of time with Elisa and the kids. I volunteer to babysit as much as possible, and when Riley asks about Shawn my heart breaks every time. I tell her she’ll meet him again soon, and I hate myself for lying to a kid, but I guess these lies are making me feel better as well. Playing with the thought of seeing him again occurs to me often and it’s soothing to think about possible alternative universes where we are still seeing each other.

But no matter what I do, how hard I’m trying to keep myself occupied nothing really eases the numbing pain I constantly feel in my chest. I spend all my freetime in my room, mostly sleeping, because this is the only time I can avoid thinking about Shawn, but sometime my brain finds a way to torture me in my dreams too, because I often wake up in the middle of the night looking for him besides me only to find no one in bed with me. I usually can’t fall back to sleep when this happens so I just lie in bed awake, staring at the ceiling until the Sun comes up.

The money gets transferred to me on Monday, after we parted and in the following days I do what I’ve been doing for months. I transfer almost the whole amount to different accounts that belong to people that I owe to. When I finish I have just the right amount of money to get through the month, but at least I have the thought that I took a huge step closer to my freedom with this money as I was able to pay back a lot more than I usually am capable of.

It’s the third week now and I’m somehow feeling more… normal. Everyday things don’t take as much effort as they did in the past weeks. I’m on my way to the Nook for my night shift, Elisa is with her client tonight and I’m just hoping Josie is in tonight so I can hang out with her in my breaks.

The dim lighting and loud music with a chest banging bass feels like the best place on Earth tonight. I woke up a bit dizzy today, felt like I was about to throw up, but I’m pretty sure it’s because I ate a whole pack of salty crackers before going to be and my stomach just couldn’t deal with it properly. But now I’m all good.

I put my stuff down and get changed before sitting in front of my mirror to put on some more makeup and my black pixie cut wig that helps me keep my identity hidden and no one recognizes me as Shawn’s mystery girlfriend, who is by the way very much missed lately.

Yes, I kind of got obsessed with reading gossip sites since we parted our ways, I’m very ashamed of it, but I couldn’t resist. We went from one hundred to zero pretty quickly and I needed a daily dose of info about him to keep me sane, this is when I started browsing these sites and searched for his name. I read articles about him, saw paparazzi photos of him and the guys leaving places, he apparently spent a lot of time with them after our split and I checked his social media profiles regularly. Every time I saw a new post from him my heart started racing and stared at the photos he posted for an hour at least. I’m not proud of the way I’ve been acting, but I think I’ve been doing better in the past couple days and I can actually see a time when I’m not thinking about him for an entire day.

“Honey! I didn’t know you’d be in tonight!”

Josie’s chirpy voice snaps me out of my thoughts as I see her in the mirror, standing behind me in her neon pink dress that she paired with blue thigh high boots and a pearly necklace. Honestly, I have no idea where she gets these stuff.

I smile at her putting the eye-pencil down and turning around I get up to give her a hug.

“Hi J, I’m glad to see you.”

“You are looking better tonight, Sweetheart. How are you?” She gives me a knowing look and I just shrug my shoulders.

After the Assembly I stayed for half a shift at the club, but I wasn’t feeling too good. Josie found me crying in the bathroom and I told her everything. She listened to me whine about how much I’m missing Shawn and that I don’t think I’ll ever love someone the way I love him. I cried for long minutes choking on the words and cursing myself for being so stupid. When I was finally breathing somehow normally Josie gave me the best pep-talk of history. She didn’t try to tell me to just forget about it and stop thinking about him, because it’s obviously the shittiest thing to say. She sat with me on the floor and told me:

“I know how much it hurts. It will hurt, for a long time, but you are strong enough to put up with it. Breaking doesn’t mean you will never feel better, it’s just a temporary thing now. Cry for as long as you want, scream or shout, whatever makes you feel better, but also be patient with yourself. You will get through this and if in weeks you still feel like you can’t get over him, we will figure something out. But time can heal everything and I believe you’ll feel better soon.”

She covered for me for another hour until I somehow covered my puffy eyes and stopped crying. I knew she was right and I just did what she told and I decided to be patient with myself. Three weeks into my No-Shawn life and I’m starting to feel better, just like she told me I would.

“I’m doing okay,” I say as I let go of her and she fixes my wig a bit giving me a proud smile.

“Good. You look stunning, I’m sure you’ll break some hearts tonight.” She winks at me giving my arm a squeeze.

Half an hour later I’m out with my best fake smile as I serve cocktails to a group of men sitting in the VIP section in their expensive suits. I let my mind go blank, I only focus on the music that’s blasting through the place and when I’m not talking to a guest I’m just staring at the stage, watching the girls perform.

It’s around 1 am when the suited men order fruit flavored shots and I walk over to the bar. The bartender places ten shots on a tray and the deep red liquors dance in the small glasses as I’m walking over to their table. When no one is watching I lean closer and sniff at one of the glasses. I love the sweet smell of the syrup we use to make these shots, but this time, when the smell hits my nose my stomach takes a double flip.

I stop for a moment as I feel like I’m about to throw up. The tray almost loses balance on my hand but I quickly recover and catch it from falling. I close my eyes for a moment taking a deep breath as I feel my stomach growl in disagreement.

I serve the shots and rush to the back as fast as possible. As I’m on my way to the bathroom Josie steps out one of the dressing rooms.

“Honey, everything alright?” she asks, but I just shake my head and run past her, right into the bathroom where I barely reach a toilet before throwing up.

I hear Josie coming in and a moment later two hands reach for my wig and she is keeping the hair out of my face while I put everything out from me. When it seems like I’m done she disappears for a moment only to return with a glass of water and some paper towels in her hands.

“Thanks,” I choke out wiping my mouth and flushing the toilet.

“What happened?” she asks with concern all over her face. I’m sweating and I need a few more seconds before I find my voice.

“I don’t know. I smelled one of those fruity shots and just… lost it,” I breathe out still panting a bit.

“Have you been feeling nauseous?”

“In the morning yeah, but I didn’t throw up. I thought I just ate too much crackers before going to bed.” I finally get up from the floor and walk to the sink to wash my hands and mouth. My throat is burning and just the thought of throwing up makes me want to vomit again, but I keep it under control this time.

“Honey, I hate to ask this but… did you use protection with him?”

I freeze the moment these words leave her mouth. She is standing behind me, the water is still running from the tap as I lock eyes with her through the mirror. My stomach drops and my heart starts beating crazily as my thoughts drift back to Paris.

He did not use a condom, because I told him not to. Because I told him I would get a morning after pill, which I had in my purse, but with everything happening between and around us… it slipped my mind. Therefore, we had unprotected sex and I forgot to take the pill afterwards, meaning…

Meaning I now have a chance of being pregnant.

 My hands are shaking, I feel like I’m about to throw up again but I’m ready to swallow it back as my unsteady fingers flip through my small calendar I usually keep with me. Josie is standing right behind me as we are standing in the corner of the room, girls are chattering happily in the back not even knowing what is going on here.

When I finally find the right month I look for the red marks, I’m clinging onto the last straws of hope, but when I find them, I almost start crying.

I mark the days when I should start my period with empty circles and then when I actually get it I usually just fill them in so I know which day is the first of my cycle. The damn circles are staring back at me from the previous week, meaning I should have gotten my period eight days ago. Sometimes I’m late, but only with maximum two days. Never eight. Never.

“Is that what I think it is?” Josie whispers and I can’t speak right now, I just nod my head. I close the calendar and show it back to my bag turning to Josie as I feel like I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“What do I do now?” I ask with wide eyes. The thought of being pregnant is so foreign me at this moment and I think my mind hasn’t really processed what this means.

“You have to make a test or go to the doctor. Being late can mean a lot, maybe it’s just the stress.”

I nod my head think about it. She is right, I’ve had some pretty stressful weeks behind me, it wouldn’t be surprising if my hormones were all over the place and make my period late somehow.

Josie tries to convince me to tell Joshua that I’m not feeling well, which is true, but I choose to finish my shift. When I get off at three am I’m already a mental wreck, but there I have to face some more waiting since nothing is open at this time.

When I arrive home Elisa is sleeping in her room, she has a morning class tomorrow. I take a quick shower, put on some clean pj’s and crawl into bed with my phone. I open the contacts and I start scrolling down until my finger lingers through a name. The urge to call Shawn is tempting, I almost press on the button, but not even knowing what I would tell him I lock the phone and put it to my nightstand. I can’t talk to him until I find out for sure.

For my biggest surprise I sleep pretty okay. I set an alarm last night so I can go to the pharmacy in time to get a pregnancy test and do it while Elisa is in school. I keep my cool as I run to the nearest pharmacy and try to look as unbothered as possible when I pay for the test. I hide the box in my bag and I’m dying to finally get back home and take it.

   Time has never went by slower than at this moment as I’m sitting on the floor of our small and messy bathroom. I watch as the numbers change on my phone’s screen and I almost start thinking time has stopped, but I know it’s just in my mind.

I turn my head trying to make myself busy, so I pick up a set of false lashes from next to the bathtub and hold it up in front of my face. It can be mine, but I think it’s Elisa’s. It’s longer than what I usually use. Setting it to the edge of the tub I stare at it as if I’m waiting for it to start talking to me and tell its story. Waiting is really making me go crazy.

I stand up, carefully not looking at the stick at the edge of the sink as I throw the lashes into the small trashcan and I start sorting all the makeup products that are everywhere. I already know what’s mine and what’s Elisa’s, we have lived together long enough to get used to each other and know what we use. I was always afraid that if I live with another woman we will start using each other’s stuff, like in the movies. I always thought it’s weird. I mean, it’s fine a few times, but not all the time. It’s not too sanitary and budget friendly. It’s better if everyone sticks to their own things. Elisa thinks the same. We are happy to help each other out if one of us runs out of lipstick, or needs a specific color of eyeshadow. But we never touch what’s not ours without asking first. I think this is one reason why we are so good together. Another one is our shared history, I guess.

I check the time and it’s the last ten seconds, finally. I take a deep breath and hold it as I watch the numbers change on the screen until it hits zero. I switch the alarm off, but I don’t do anything. I stand there like a statue, my limbs feel like rocks and I don’t have the energy to lift them up. My throat is so dry, I could drink a gallon of water at once.

I look at myself in the mirror and furrowing my eyebrows I tell myself that I can’t just ignore this. I have to find out the truth so I can carry on or… or find a solution if the result is what I was afraid of.

I blow out the breath I was holding and glance down at the stick that’s lying face down. I slowly reach for it and take it between by pointing finger and thumb. It’s now or never.

I turn it over and when I see it I forget to breathe for the longest second of history. I freeze and my eyes are glued to the two little lines on the stick that means one thing. The one thing I was so worried and the one thing that is now freaking me out to the point where I feel like I’m about to pass out.

I’m pregnant and I have no idea how I’m going to deal with this situation. I’m twenty-one, practically a child myself, I can’t take care of a baby, not with the way I’ve lived in the past two years, it’s impossible. I can’t do this alone and even if Elisa helps me out it’s still not enough. I have only one choice, the person I never thought I would see again and I promised not to think about ever, but I have no choice. I wasn’t alone when this baby conceived and as much as I would love to figure it out on my own, he deserves to know.

I wipe away the warm tears from my cheeks and reach for my phone, still holding the pregnancy test in my hands. Opening my contacts I scroll down and I stop at his name. Biting into my bottom lip my thumb linger over it as I hesitate and try to think about what I want to tell him. But I slowly realize that it’s not something I should tell over the phone, so instead of calling I open a new message.

To: Shawn Mendes Hey. Can we meet? We need to talk about something.

I press send before I can change my mind and I finally walk out of the bathroom. I walk through our small, but cozy living room and don’t stop until I’m in my room. First, I hide the test into one of my drawers and then I check the time. Elisa will be home in an hour from her class to get ready for work, there is no way I can face her right now, so I better not be here. As I’m gathering a few stuff my phone buzzes from a new message. It’s from him.

From: Shawn Mendes Somewhere private or do you want to have drink somewhere?

I could use a drink right now, but then I realize, I won’t taste any alcohol in the upcoming months. And a private place would be the most ideal for this conversation.

To: Shawn Mendes Can we meet at your place?

His reply arrives a few seconds later.

From: Shawn Mendes I’ll send a car for you. Where do you want it to go?

I text him to pick me up at the usual spot at the café and he assures me that a car will be there to pick me up in thirty minutes. Perfect, this way I won’t meet Elisa. I grab my bag, put everything I think I need in it and leave the place, but before I could step out, I stop at the mirror that’s right next to our front door. I see myself in an entirely different way than how I did when I arrived home, though I was already suspicious back then. But now I know that somewhere under my oversized black sweater there is a baby in my stomach. I’m not alone anymore, not even when there is no one around me.

I slide my hand under my sweater and touch my lower belly, but I don’t feel anything yet it’s so different. Nothing will be the same from now on and it frightens me so much I can’t even describe.

I shake my head, fix my clothes and switch the lights off before leaving to meet the father of my unborn child, Shawn Mendes.

-

taglist:  @damnigotadime @jrock-1987 @dacutiehart @ricchhelle @shar-is-my-name

[sanjosenewshq]

Balenciaga Formally Ends Relationship With Kanye West After Controversies

Balenciaga has severed its collaboration with Kanye West amid the rapper’s newest controversies, together with his current antisemitic social media posts that resulted in his suspension from Twitter and Instagram. “Balenciaga has not any relationship nor any plans for future initiatives associated to this artist,” Kering, the mum or dad firm of the style model, instructed Girls’s Put on Every day in a press release on Friday. The assertion didn’t present a particular motive for the choice. The “Jesus Walks” rapper has lengthy been tied to Balenciaga, together with opening and hitting the runway for the style home’s summer season 2023 present throughout Paris Style Week earlier this month. Balenciaga’s inventive director, Demna, additionally collaborated with Ye on his Yeezy Hole Engineered by Balenciaga line. Neither Kering nor Balenciaga instantly replied to HuffPost’s request for remark. West’s relationships with different trend manufacturers additionally seem like on the rocks. Earlier this month, Adidas AG put West’s large sneaker deal beneath evaluate. And final month, Ye referred to as off his two-year profitable partnership with Hole, citing conflicting value factors and poor communication. He additionally mentioned the corporate was upselling his gadgets in comparison with its typical collections. “Hole’s substantial noncompliance with its contractual obligations has been expensive,” West’s lawyer Nicholas Gravante instructed CNN in a press release on the time, alleging the chain had did not open Yeezy-branded shops as a part of the partnership. Gravante added that the rapper was left with “no selection however to terminate their collaboration,” and would “now promptly transfer ahead to make up for misplaced time by opening Yeezy retail shops.” Previous to tweeting that he would go “dying con [sic] 3 on JEWISH PEOPLE” this previous Saturday, West sported a “White Lives Matter” shirt throughout Paris Style Week. “White Lives Matter” is categorized as a hate slogan by the Anti-Defamation League. The Southern Poverty Legislation Middle calls it “a racist response to the civil rights motion Black Lives Matter.” Throughout an look on Fox Information’ “Tucker Carlson Tonight” on Oct. 11, Ye defended his choice to put on the shirt, telling Carlson: “I do sure issues from a sense, I simply channel the power. It simply feels proper. It’s utilizing a intestine intuition, a reference to God and simply brilliance.” He added: “Folks, they’re in search of an evidence and [they] say, ‘Effectively, as an artist you don’t have to provide an evidence,’ however as a frontrunner, you do. So the reply to why I wrote ‘White Lives Matter’ on a shirt is as a result of they do. It’s the plain factor.” Celebrities together with Hailey Beiber and Gigi Hadid and Vogue editor Gabriella Karefa-Johnson swiftly criticized West for his controversial trend statements. Throughout an look on “Piers Morgan Uncensored” on Wednesday, Ye issued an apology for his remarks about Jewish folks however mentioned he “completely [does] not” remorse making them. Originally published at San Jose News HQ

[steamishot]

july!

it’s been 4 days since i’ve been back to nyc - it’s always such an adjustment whenever i go home to LA and whenever i come back home to nyc. in LA, i have to get used to my family and friends again. i’m treated like a guest at home and my grandma and dad are supposedly on better behavior when i’m at home. i feel like it’s hard to get close to friends because my stay is only temporary and it would hurt to get too attached again. basically, the tables flipped and now that i’m doing an in person relationship with matt, i’m doing an LDR with family and friends. life at home is really easy, i can drive out whenever at any time of the day. i have normal work hours. i have friends and family all around me. i don’t have to do any of the cooking or housechores haha. it’s just overall fun and relaxing (at the expense of me feeling child-like and being overly pampered). 

life out in nyc is rougher - it’s lonelier, a lot more work, and my time alone forces me to dwell on things that aren’t good for my mental health. i’m trying to steer this alone time into a positive direction, to continue working on and accomplish the goals i set out for myself. matt and i had a huge fight hours before my flight to nyc. we were apart for 3 weeks, and he was miserable by himself. i was doing great at home with my family. i feel like he was put under a lot of pressure (per usual in residency) and after the incident with his mom (having to choose sides between me and his mom) which resulted in a lot of tantrums on his part. he’s spent his entire life trying to please her and become a son she can be proud of, so i’m also feeling pressure to live up to her ideal expectations of me. as much as i try to understand where they are coming from and respect their culture, it also makes me feel sick. it could be my generational and western thinking, but what’s the point of saving face and holding a certain social status if you’re miserable? we’re in america and times are changing. 

matt discusses how he wants to have a trip with me and his parents to paris in the fall. half of it is sweet because he perceives me as being part of the family, but i find that i now kinda dislike his mom and i’m not into the idea of being stuck on a trip with her again. after spending time with his family, i learned that all of matt’s bad traits actually come from his mom. and in her, the traits are amplified like 10x. his dad is pretty laid back and cooperative, so i enjoyed his company. but his mom can be scary and reminds me of my emotionally immature former boss. it was fine when we spent a few hours at a time together, or a day together. but the 5 days of 24/7 together was way too much. i know i’m very sensitive and not good at dealing with “difficult” people. i guess this is the part where i should learn to grow a thicker skin and maybe not give up so quickly. 

H A W A I I  R E C A P

matt was coming off two weeks of night shifts right before our flight back home. so basically, he came home at 7am after a 12 hr shift, slept for 3-4 hours and then woke up to do last min packing and leave for our walgreens covid testing. we took a lyft and kindly asked that the driver take us through the drive thru covid testing site before driving us to the airport. the process of getting covid tested (by a hawaiian authorized testing facility) and having results by a certain time, while catching flights in between was quite stressful. walgreens was the only place that offered rapid testing. there was one rapid location really close to JFK; the closest rapid test to LA is 4 hours away. i’m so happy that this process was seamless. we got our negative results a couple hours later. we flew home on june 1. had kbbq lunch with his family on june 2 and cambodian/vietnamese dinner with my family on the same day. we flew out to maui june 3 evening. keep in mind i was working through everything lol, as i only took 2 days off for my trip (in hawaii). 

we arrived to maui thursday night. on friday, we went to a fancy but very touristy breakfast spot, did a 4 mile hike, and then went to a luau in the evening. all the luaus were marked up because of covid. the last two luaus i went to were about $80 and brought via groupon. this luau ($~130) was by far the nicest one i’ve gone too. the food was actually very impressive. on saturday, we went on a half day snorkeling cruise. i found it funny that the guy’s announcement revolved about etiquette on the boat and our itinerary, but like nothing regarding the actual snorkeling safety because it was kinda expected you knew how to swim/snorkel. i ended up snorkeling with a noodle and board. at the first stop, we saw some fishes, but they were quite deep. in the second stop, we got to swim next to turtles - it felt like finding nemo! 

on sunday, we went to road to hana. by this day, we both were pretty tired, but matt was reallyyy tired. it’s a combination of having just worked night shifts/residency hours without proper rest time plus being fat. road to hana is nicknamed the divorce highway because the stress in driving through it has caused arguments among many couples. what i learned is that when he’s tired/stressed (even on vacation), fights will ensue. he’ll be snappy and i’ll get offended, and then he’ll apologize but i’ll hold a grudge, then he’ll get pissed and i’ll apologize. road to hana was really beautiful. i was disappointed because i was so looking forward to visiting the black sand beach, but didn’t know a reservation was needed to enter :( bad planning on my part. we were staying at a coastal resort, but our hotel was facing the mountain for the first 3 nights. matt asked the receptionist every day if there was an ocean view room available. we finally lucked out on this day and transferred to an ocean view room for our last night. 

on monday, we woke up to an ocean view and just spent time at the hotel enjoying the scenery. later on, we went to the haleakala national park and got to be one with the clouds! we talked about how this trip basically tested our bodies in every way. first was the 4 mile hike, rated difficult. second was the snorkeling, getting past the fear of water and also dealing with some motion sickness. we both started feeling motion sickness on the boat after returning from the first snorkeling location. third was driving through the crazy road to hana. it has 620 curves and 46 one lane bridges. matt drove us in, and i drove us out so we both got to experience it. i must say - i’m a better driver under stress xD. LA driving prepared me well. lastly, the heleakala summit was at 10k feet above sea level. it was super windy up there and our body was dealing with the elevation/pressure differences. 

i’m relearning that with traveling - it’s fun up until the itinerary gets too packed and consequently too tiring. same with eating. eating good food is great, up until you realize you over-ordered and then eating becomes a chore. between matt and i, we are relearning what each others limits are again. before residency, he had so much more energy during traveling. now his dream would just to be to lounge next to the beach (in his private room) and not have to do or think of anything. my daily life is not tiring so i have energy to expend when traveling. we are working on not over-ordering, so that we do not overeat and we do not overspend. 

[musingsfromny]

Don’t Eat Before Reading This

Anthony Bourdain’s breakout New Yorker article.

“Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals. It’s about danger—risking the dark, bacterial forces of beef, chicken, cheese, and shellfish. Your first two hundred and seven Wellfleet oysters may transport you to a state of rapture, but your two hundred and eighth may send you to bed with the sweats, chills, and vomits.

Gastronomy is the science of pain. Professional cooks belong to a secret society whose ancient rituals derive from the principles of stoicism in the face of humiliation, injury, fatigue, and the threat of illness. The members of a tight, well-greased kitchen staff are a lot like a submarine crew. Confined for most of their waking hours in hot, airless spaces, and ruled by despotic leaders, they often acquire the characteristics of the poor saps who were press-ganged into the royal navies of Napoleonic times—superstition, a contempt for outsiders, and a loyalty to no flag but their own.

A good deal has changed since Orwell’s memoir of the months he spent as a dishwasher in “Down and Out in Paris and London.” Gas ranges and exhaust fans have gone a long way toward increasing the life span of the working culinarian. Nowadays, most aspiring cooks come into the business because they want to: they have chosen this life, studied for it. Today’s top chefs are like star athletes. They bounce from kitchen to kitchen—free agents in search of more money, more acclaim.

I’ve been a chef in New York for more than ten years, and, for the decade before that, a dishwasher, a prep drone, a line cook, and a sous-chef. I came into the business when cooks still smoked on the line and wore headbands. A few years ago, I wasn’t surprised to hear rumors of a study of the nation’s prison population which reportedly found that the leading civilian occupation among inmates before they were put behind bars was “cook.” As most of us in the restaurant business know, there is a powerful strain of criminality in the industry, ranging from the dope-dealing busboy with beeper and cell phone to the restaurant owner who has two sets of accounting books. In fact, it was the unsavory side of professional cooking that attracted me to it in the first place. In the early seventies, I dropped out of college and transferred to the Culinary Institute of America. I wanted it all: the cuts and burns on hands and wrists, the ghoulish kitchen humor, the free food, the pilfered booze, the camaraderie that flourished within rigid order and nerve-shattering chaos. I would climb the chain of command from mal carne (meaning “bad meat,” or “new guy”) to chefdom—doing whatever it took until I ran my own kitchen and had my own crew of cutthroats, the culinary equivalent of “The Wild Bunch.”

A year ago, my latest, doomed mission—a high-profile restaurant in the Times Square area—went out of business. The meat, fish, and produce purveyors got the news that they were going to take it in the neck for yet another ill-conceived enterprise. When customers called for reservations, they were informed by a prerecorded announcement that our doors had closed. Fresh from that experience, I began thinking about becoming a traitor to my profession.

Say it’s a quiet Monday night, and you’ve just checked your coat in that swanky Art Deco update in the Flatiron district, and you’re looking to tuck into a thick slab of pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna or a twenty-ounce cut of certified Black Angus beef, well-done—what are you in for?

The fish specialty is reasonably priced, and the place got two stars in the Times.Why not go for it? If you like four-day-old fish, be my guest. Here’s how things usually work. The chef orders his seafood for the weekend on Thursday night. It arrives on Friday morning. He’s hoping to sell the bulk of it on Friday and Saturday nights, when he knows that the restaurant will be busy, and he’d like to run out of the last few orders by Sunday evening. Many fish purveyors don’t deliver on Saturday, so the chances are that the Monday-night tuna you want has been kicking around in the kitchen since Friday morning, under God knows what conditions. When a kitchen is in full swing, proper refrigeration is almost nonexistent, what with the many openings of the refrigerator door as the cooks rummage frantically during the rush, mingling your tuna with the chicken, the lamb, or the beef. Even if the chef has ordered just the right amount of tuna for the weekend, and has had to reorder it for a Monday delivery, the only safeguard against the seafood supplier’s off-loading junk is the presence of a vigilant chef who can make sure that the delivery is fresh from Sunday night’s market.

Generally speaking, the good stuff comes in on Tuesday: the seafood is fresh, the supply of prepared food is new, and the chef, presumably, is relaxed after his day off. (Most chefs don’t work on Monday.) Chefs prefer to cook for weekday customers rather than for weekenders, and they like to start the new week with their most creative dishes. In New York, locals dine during the week. Weekends are considered amateur nights—for tourists, rubes, and the well-done-ordering pretheatre hordes. The fish may be just as fresh on Friday, but it’s on Tuesday that you’ve got the good will of the kitchen on your side.

People who order their meat well-done perform a valuable service for those of us in the business who are cost-conscious: they pay for the privilege of eating our garbage. In many kitchens, there’s a time-honored practice called “save for well-done.” When one of the cooks finds a particularly unlovely piece of steak—tough, riddled with nerve and connective tissue, off the hip end of the loin, and maybe a little stinky from age—he’ll dangle it in the air and say, “Hey, Chef, whaddya want me to do with this?” Now, the chef has three options. He can tell the cook to throw the offending item into the trash, but that means a total loss, and in the restaurant business every item of cut, fabricated, or prepared food should earn at least three times the amount it originally cost if the chef is to make his correct food-cost percentage. Or he can decide to serve that steak to “the family”—that is, the floor staff—though that, economically, is the same as throwing it out. But no. What he’s going to do is repeat the mantra of cost-conscious chefs everywhere: “Save for well-done.” The way he figures it, the philistine who orders his food well-done is not likely to notice the difference between food and flotsam.

Then there are the People Who Brunch. The “B” word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress brunch up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it’s still breakfast.

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public—and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans—as enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

Like most other chefs I know, I’m amused when I hear people object to pork on nonreligious grounds. “Swine are filthy animals,” they say. These people have obviously never visited a poultry farm. Chicken—America’s favorite food—goes bad quickly; handled carelessly, it infects other foods with salmonella; and it bores the hell out of chefs. It occupies its ubiquitous place on menus as an option for customers who can’t decide what they want to eat. Most chefs believe that supermarket chickens in this country are slimy and tasteless compared with European varieties. Pork, on the other hand, is cool. Farmers stopped feeding garbage to pigs decades ago, and even if you eat pork rare you’re more likely to win the Lotto than to contract trichinosis. Pork tastes different, depending on what you do with it, but chicken always tastes like chicken.

Another much maligned food these days is butter. In the world of chefs, however, butter is in everything. Even non-French restaurants—the Northern Italian; the new American, the ones where the chef brags about how he’s “getting away from butter and cream”—throw butter around like crazy. In almost every restaurant worth patronizing, sauces are enriched with mellowing, emulsifying butter. Pastas are tightened with it. Meat and fish are seared with a mixture of butter and oil. Shallots and chicken are caramelized with butter. It’s the first and last thing in almost every pan: the final hit is called “monter au beurre.” In a good restaurant, what this all adds up to is that you could be putting away almost a stick of butter with every meal.

If you are one of those people who cringe at the thought of strangers fondling your food, you shouldn’t go out to eat. As the author and former chef Nicolas Freeling notes in his definitive book “The Kitchen,” the better the restaurant, the more your food has been prodded, poked, handled, and tasted. By the time a three-star crew has finished carving and arranging your saddle of monkfish with dried cherries and wild-herb-infused nage into a Parthenon or a Space Needle, it’s had dozens of sweaty fingers all over it. Gloves? You’ll find a box of surgical gloves—in my kitchen we call them “anal-research gloves”—over every station on the line, for the benefit of the health inspectors, but does anyone actually use them? Yes, a cook will slip a pair on every now and then, especially when he’s handling something with a lingering odor, like salmon. But during the hours of service gloves are clumsy and dangerous. When you’re using your hands constantly, latex will make you drop things, which is the last thing you want to do.

Finding a hair in your food will make anyone gag. But just about the only place you’ll see anyone in the kitchen wearing a hat or a hairnet is Blimpie. For most chefs, wearing anything on their head, especially one of those picturesque paper toques—they’re often referred to as “coffee filters”—is a nuisance: they dissolve when you sweat, bump into range hoods, burst into flame.

The fact is that most good kitchens are far less septic than your kitchen at home. I run a scrupulously clean, orderly restaurant kitchen, where food is rotated and handled and stored very conscientiously. But if the city’s Department of Health or the E.P.A. decided to enforce every aspect of its codes, most of us would be out on the street. Recently, there was a news report about the practice of recycling bread. By means of a hidden camera in a restaurant, the reporter was horrified to see returned bread being sent right back out to the floor. This, to me, wasn’t news: the reuse of bread has been an open secret—and a fairly standard practice—in the industry for years. It makes more sense to worry about what happens to the leftover table butter—many restaurants recycle it for hollandaise.

What do I like to eat after hours? Strange things. Oysters are my favorite, especially at three in the morning, in the company of my crew. Focaccia pizza with robiola cheese and white truffle oil is good, especially at Le Madri on a summer afternoon in the outdoor patio. Frozen vodka at Siberia Bar is also good, particularly if a cook from one of the big hotels shows up with beluga. At Indigo, on Tenth Street, I love the mushroom strudel and the daube of beef. At my own place, I love a spicy boudin noir that squirts blood in your mouth; the braised fennel the way my sous-chef makes it; scraps from duck confit; and fresh cockles steamed with greasy Portuguese sausage.

I love the sheer weirdness of the kitchen life: the dreamers, the crackpots, the refugees, and the sociopaths with whom I continue to work; the ever-present smells of roasting bones, searing fish, and simmering liquids; the noise and clatter, the hiss and spray, the flames, the smoke, and the steam. Admittedly, it’s a life that grinds you down. Most of us who live and operate in the culinary underworld are in some fundamental way dysfunctional. We’ve all chosen to turn our backs on the nine-to-five, on ever having a Friday or Saturday night off, on ever having a normal relationship with a non-cook.

Being a chef is a lot like being an air-traffic controller: you are constantly dealing with the threat of disaster. You’ve got to be Mom and Dad, drill sergeant, detective, psychiatrist, and priest to a crew of opportunistic, mercenary hooligans, whom you must protect from the nefarious and often foolish strategies of owners. Year after year, cooks contend with bouncing paychecks, irate purveyors, desperate owners looking for the masterstroke that will cure their restaurant’s ills: Live Cabaret! Free Shrimp! New Orleans Brunch!

In America, the professional kitchen is the last refuge of the misfit. It’s a place for people with bad pasts to find a new family. It’s a haven for foreigners—Ecuadorians, Mexicans, Chinese, Senegalese, Egyptians, Poles. In New York, the main linguistic spice is Spanish. “Hey, maricón! chupa mis huevos” means, roughly, “How are you, valued comrade? I hope all is well.” And you hear “Hey, baboso! Put some more brown jiz on the fire and check your meez before the sous comes back there and fucks you in the culo!,” which means “Please reduce some additional demi-glace, brother, and reëxamine your mise en place, because the sous-chef is concerned about your state of readiness.”

Since we work in close quarters, and so many blunt and sharp objects are at hand, you’d think that cooks would kill one another with regularity. I’ve seen guys duking it out in the waiter station over who gets a table for six. I’ve seen a chef clamp his teeth on a waiter’s nose. And I’ve seen plates thrown—I’ve even thrown a few myself—but I’ve never heard of one cook jamming a boning knife into another cook’s rib cage or braining him with a meat mallet. Line cooking, done well, is a dance—a highspeed, Balanchine collaboration.

I used to be a terror toward my floor staff, particularly in the final months of my last restaurant. But not anymore. Recently, my career has taken an eerily appropriate turn: these days, I’m the chef de cuisine of a much loved, old-school French brasserie/bistro where the customers eat their meat rare, vegetarians are scarce, and every part of the animal—hooves, snout, cheeks, skin, and organs—is avidly and appreciatively prepared and consumed. Cassoulet, pigs’ feet, tripe, and charcuterie sell like crazy. We thicken many sauces with foie gras and pork blood, and proudly hurl around spoonfuls of duck fat and butter, and thick hunks of country bacon. I made a traditional French pot-au-feu a few weeks ago, and some of my French colleagues—hardened veterans of the business all—came into my kitchen to watch the first order go out. As they gazed upon the intimidating heap of short ribs, oxtail, beef shoulder, cabbage, turnips, carrots, and potatoes, the expressions on their faces were those of religious supplicants. I have come home.”

[upshotre]

Neymar returns to PSG training with future still up in the air

Neymar returned to training with Paris Saint-Germain on Monday, a week later than his teammates and days after controversially claiming his best football memory was beating PSG when he played for Barcelona. A video posted on the website of leading sports daily L’Equipe showed the 27-year-old Brazilian — his hair dyed peroxide blonde — getting out of a black Mercedes van at the club’s training ground in the suburbs of the French capital. Later, the Twitter account of his official website posted photos of Neymar working out in a gym with the caption: “Back to training!” PSG officially began pre-season training last Monday but Neymar, linked with a move back to Barcelona, was not there, with the player’s camp maintaining he had a prior agreement to stay away. The French champions responded last week by threatening to take “appropriate action” against the world’s most expensive player, who said he had stayed in Brazil to attend a charity five-a-side football tournament run by his foundation, the Neymar Institute. On Saturday, Neymar, who joined PSG for 222 million euros ($264 million at the time) from Barcelona in 2017, made a series of remarks that strained his relationship further with the club and sparked outrage on social media. Asked by online sports channel Oh My Goal about his best memory in football, the troubled superstar cited Barcelona’s incredible 2017 Champions League victory over PSG when he was part of the team that overturned a 4-0 first-leg deficit by winning 6-1 in the second leg of their last-16 tie. Earlier in the day, Neymar posted a 10-second video of himself in a Barcelona shirt and a quote from the Bible: “No weapon turned against you will prosper.” Neymar’s father, who is also the player’s representative, later defended his son in an Instagram post, saying: “At no point did my son show a lack of respect to PSG or the players who played in that game in 2017.” “My son plays for PSG, but he can’t simply ignore his past. A past that led to him arriving at the French club,” Neymar Senior added. – Troubled summer – It has been a troubled summer for the player, who missed Brazil’s triumphant Copa America campaign on home soil after suffering an ankle injury in a warm-up friendly against Qatar in early June. In addition, he was questioned by Brazilian police last month over allegations he raped a woman he met through social media in a Paris hotel. He has denied the accusations. Meanwhile, PSG’s new sporting director Leonardo — a Brazilian like Neymar — last week opened the door to the player leaving the club “if there is an offer that suits everyone”. However, the chances of him returning to Barcelona, where he previously starred for four years, cannot have been helped by the completion of Antoine Griezmann’s transfer to the Camp Nou from Atletico Madrid. That deal was completed on Friday when the Catalans activated Griezmann’s 120 million-euro ($135 million) release clause. While Neymar has just returned to Paris, his teammates are due to play their first pre-season friendly on Tuesday away to German side Dynamo Dresden. Thomas Tuchel’s team are also due to play at Nuremberg at the weekend before travelling to Asia to face Inter Milan in Macau on July 27. Their first competitive match of the season will be against Rennes in Shenzhen, China, on August 3 in the Champions Trophy, the traditional curtain-raiser to the French campaign. Assuming he remains a PSG player, Neymar will be suspended for that game as he completes a ban for lashing out at a fan following the club’s shock defeat to Rennes in last season’s French Cup final. Neymar is also banned for the first three matches of next season’s Champions League group stage, a punishment for an angry outburst at match officials following PSG’s last-16 loss against Manchester United in March. Read the full article

[itsfinancethings]

February 24, 2020 at 01:01AM

The victory by hard-liners in Iran’s election puts parliament back in the hands of people determined to turn the clock back on reconciliation with the West. Expect a retreat from commitments to the hollowed-out nuclear deal as the Islamic Republic’s economy bleeds from President Donald Trump’s sanctions onslaught.

“The results that we’re seeing in the parliamentary elections are basically a manifestation of what’s been going on since early summer last year, when Iran started its more confrontational foreign policy approach,” said Adnan Tabatabai, Iran analyst and co-founder of the Bonn-based Center for Applied Research in Partnership with the Orient. “It makes things much more difficult for safeguarding the nuclear agreement.”

At the same time, because conservatives now have such a strong representation in government, “talks with Washington will be a function of a strategic calculus, not a balance of domestic power,”said Ali Vaez, Iran project director at the International Crisis Group consultancy. That means engagement will be tougher, but isn’t necessarily doomed, he said.

Conservative factions loyal to Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and wedded to the theocratic ideals of Iran’s 1979 Islamic revolution prevailed in Friday’s vote. It was a repudiation of the policies of President Hassan Rouhani, who eased Iran’s long-running standoff with global powers but was unable to build a new era of prosperity at home because of crippling U.S. sanctions.

With sentiment against the 2015 nuclear deal and the West running high, especially after the U.S. killed a top Iranian general in a drone strike in January, the powerful Guardian Council was freed to disqualify most moderates and centrists from running in the election. The disqualifications, along with a reported surge in coronavirus cases in Iran this week, saw turnout fall to record low 42.5% and handed Khamenei a pliant legislature.

After four years of a moderate president and parliament, arch-conservatives now control most branches of the state for the first time since the end of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s presidency in 2013.

While the fierce infighting that characterized Rouhani’s tenure is likely to ease, it will come at the cost of public support for a political system already faced with outbreaks of dissent and unrest. And the parliamentary election comes ahead ahead a vote next year for a new president.

The increased representation of former security figures in parliament — including from the powerful Islamic Republic Guard Corps — may diminish tolerance for discussions around civil society, social liberties and media freedom. Still, Tabatabai said the new lawmakers aren’t necessarily monolithic in their thinking, and include reform-minded elements as well.

Friday’s election was tilted in the conservatives’ favor months before grievances against the government erupted into four days of protests that unleashed the fiercest crackdown since the 1979 revolution. More than 300 people were killed in the demonstrations, according to human rights groups’ estimates.

Khamenei, who has accused European signatories to the nuclear accord of joining forces with the U.S. against Iran (Trump withdrew the U.S. from the pact in 2018), has called for a pivot to a “resistance economy.” His plan would depend less on imported goods while relying on China and Russia for investment and technology transfers. Sanctions, however, are only part of the problem in an economy where productivity is low and the private sector is weak.

The new legislature will “have to deal with the same problems of the current parliament, which are economic and socioeconomic problems of ordinary people, and they will also have to offer solutions to that,” Tabatabai said.

Iran’s economic policy may steer away from Europe entirely, after it failed to find a way to skirt the American sanctions and allow crucial Iranian oil exports to flow. A more concerted effort to broaden and deepen trade ties with China and Russia could follow. The Guard, already a major contractor and builder, is likely to be awarded further domestic infrastructure projects as sanctions have killed most avenues to foreign direct investment.

Given the more conservative legislature, Rouhani may struggle to ratify any key legislation during his final year in office, including efforts to bring Iran’s banks within international anti-terrorism financing standards. Ongoing attempts to impeach some key ministers, including Oil Minister Bijan Namdar Zanganeh, are also likely to escalate.

In a timely reminder of how hard-liners can influence economic policy, the Paris-based Financial Action Task Force announced on Friday that Iran’s banking system will be returned to its so-called black list of countries after failing to ratify legislation required to bring the sector in line with counter-terrorism financing and anti-money-laundering standards.

Hardliners have for several years stalled the pro-FATF legislation that Rouhani promoted.

For all the stumbling blocks, Iran may not snap shut its doors to the West entirely, said Vaez from the International Crisis Group.

“If past is prelude, engagement with Iran’s hardliners is much harder for the West,” Vaez said. “The new parliament is bound to adopt a much more militant approach to foreign and nuclear policies. But at the end of the day, the deep state in Iran is likely to still calculate pragmatically to ensure self-preservation.”Hardliners Declare Victory in Iranian Elections, Turning Back the Clock on Relations With the West

–With assistance from Amy Teibel.

[newstechreviews]

The victory by hard-liners in Iran’s election puts parliament back in the hands of people determined to turn the clock back on reconciliation with the West. Expect a retreat from commitments to the hollowed-out nuclear deal as the Islamic Republic’s economy bleeds from President Donald Trump’s sanctions onslaught.

“The results that we’re seeing in the parliamentary elections are basically a manifestation of what’s been going on since early summer last year, when Iran started its more confrontational foreign policy approach,” said Adnan Tabatabai, Iran analyst and co-founder of the Bonn-based Center for Applied Research in Partnership with the Orient. “It makes things much more difficult for safeguarding the nuclear agreement.”

At the same time, because conservatives now have such a strong representation in government, “talks with Washington will be a function of a strategic calculus, not a balance of domestic power,”said Ali Vaez, Iran project director at the International Crisis Group consultancy. That means engagement will be tougher, but isn’t necessarily doomed, he said.

Conservative factions loyal to Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and wedded to the theocratic ideals of Iran’s 1979 Islamic revolution prevailed in Friday’s vote. It was a repudiation of the policies of President Hassan Rouhani, who eased Iran’s long-running standoff with global powers but was unable to build a new era of prosperity at home because of crippling U.S. sanctions.

With sentiment against the 2015 nuclear deal and the West running high, especially after the U.S. killed a top Iranian general in a drone strike in January, the powerful Guardian Council was freed to disqualify most moderates and centrists from running in the election. The disqualifications, along with a reported surge in coronavirus cases in Iran this week, saw turnout fall to record low 42.5% and handed Khamenei a pliant legislature.

After four years of a moderate president and parliament, arch-conservatives now control most branches of the state for the first time since the end of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s presidency in 2013.

While the fierce infighting that characterized Rouhani’s tenure is likely to ease, it will come at the cost of public support for a political system already faced with outbreaks of dissent and unrest. And the parliamentary election comes ahead ahead a vote next year for a new president.

The increased representation of former security figures in parliament — including from the powerful Islamic Republic Guard Corps — may diminish tolerance for discussions around civil society, social liberties and media freedom. Still, Tabatabai said the new lawmakers aren’t necessarily monolithic in their thinking, and include reform-minded elements as well.

Friday’s election was tilted in the conservatives’ favor months before grievances against the government erupted into four days of protests that unleashed the fiercest crackdown since the 1979 revolution. More than 300 people were killed in the demonstrations, according to human rights groups’ estimates.

Khamenei, who has accused European signatories to the nuclear accord of joining forces with the U.S. against Iran (Trump withdrew the U.S. from the pact in 2018), has called for a pivot to a “resistance economy.” His plan would depend less on imported goods while relying on China and Russia for investment and technology transfers. Sanctions, however, are only part of the problem in an economy where productivity is low and the private sector is weak.

The new legislature will “have to deal with the same problems of the current parliament, which are economic and socioeconomic problems of ordinary people, and they will also have to offer solutions to that,” Tabatabai said.

Iran’s economic policy may steer away from Europe entirely, after it failed to find a way to skirt the American sanctions and allow crucial Iranian oil exports to flow. A more concerted effort to broaden and deepen trade ties with China and Russia could follow. The Guard, already a major contractor and builder, is likely to be awarded further domestic infrastructure projects as sanctions have killed most avenues to foreign direct investment.

Given the more conservative legislature, Rouhani may struggle to ratify any key legislation during his final year in office, including efforts to bring Iran’s banks within international anti-terrorism financing standards. Ongoing attempts to impeach some key ministers, including Oil Minister Bijan Namdar Zanganeh, are also likely to escalate.

In a timely reminder of how hard-liners can influence economic policy, the Paris-based Financial Action Task Force announced on Friday that Iran’s banking system will be returned to its so-called black list of countries after failing to ratify legislation required to bring the sector in line with counter-terrorism financing and anti-money-laundering standards.

Hardliners have for several years stalled the pro-FATF legislation that Rouhani promoted.

For all the stumbling blocks, Iran may not snap shut its doors to the West entirely, said Vaez from the International Crisis Group.

“If past is prelude, engagement with Iran’s hardliners is much harder for the West,” Vaez said. “The new parliament is bound to adopt a much more militant approach to foreign and nuclear policies. But at the end of the day, the deep state in Iran is likely to still calculate pragmatically to ensure self-preservation.”Hardliners Declare Victory in Iranian Elections, Turning Back the Clock on Relations With the West

–With assistance from Amy Teibel.

[kansascityhappenings]

Take that dream vacation for cheap: Turn Cyber Monday into Travel Tuesday deals

KANSAS CITY, Mo. – It seems like there are two kinds of people: those who hoard paid vacation time like it’s oxygen and those who don’t really care because they’ll never use it all.

A study earlier this year found 55% of Americans don’t use all their paid vacation days.

The reasons vary. Some people say they’re too busy with either family or work. Others are concerned that they will be penalized at work if they take the time.  Another concern is paying for that vacation.

“Travel is always a top New Year’s resolution, but the cost of flights deters many of us from making those dreams a reality,” said Scott Keyes, founder and chief flight expert of Scott’s Cheap Flights.

The good news is that the cost of airfare is relatively low right now.

“Fortunately, we are living — right now — in the golden age of cheap flights. Far from affordable flights being impossible to find, it’s never been as cheap to fly internationally as it is today,” Keyes said.

There are two factors that can greatly impact the cost of your vacation. Where are you going, and when will you take the trip? You can save money by traveling in the off season and using flexible dates.

Another trick is to check out which locations are expected to have cheaper tickets in 2020. Scott’s Cheap Flights says it can help.

It just revealed it’s 20 places to go on cheap flights in 2020 list.

The destinations on the list include Argentina, Hawaii, Japan, France and Morocco. If locations such as Kenya, Alaska, India and Tanzania are on your bucket list, Keyes said 2020 is your year for cheap flights.

Travel deals started dropping on Black Friday and are expected to continue through Travel Tuesday. But if you spot something, don’t wait to book it.

Sites like TravelZoo are offering Cyber Monday deals that will shock you.

Cancun for $399 – 4-night beach vacation including air from certain cities, hotel, airport transfers, and all meals and drinks.  There is also a 7-night trip from Kansas City for as low as $849.

China for $299 – If you’ve ever dreamed of traveling to China, you will not be able to beat the price of this trip.  It includes roundtrip airfare from Los Angeles to Beijing as well as a flight from Beijing to Shanghai.  It covers all hotels, breakfasts, transportation, a guide and some entrance fees.  There is a catch with this trip!  Read my review to see if it’s right for you.  The companies are different, but the trip will be very similar.

Ireland for $599 – The country was beautiful when I visited in spring of 2017.  Everything was so green.  I expected it to rain every day, but the luck of the Irish traveled with us!  The weather was beautiful.  TravelZoo is offering this deal for spring travel.  It included roundtrip airfare from several U.S. cities.  Hotels and a rental car are also included so you can really explore the country and see exactly what you’d like to see.

Paris and Barcelona for $499 – If you’ve ever dreamed of exploring either city, this is your chance.   This travel package includes roundtrip airfare from several U.S. cities to Paris, return from Barcelona.  Hotels and daily breakfasts are also included.  This package also includes the flight from Paris to Barcelona.

Frontier’s Cyber Monday deal is basically giving away flights. The budget airline is offering 99% off fares when you use the code “CYBER.” Keep in mind the fares are valid for nonstop travel on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and other restrictions and blackout dates apply.

Many other airlines are also offering discounts on Cyber Monday and Travel Tuesday. Some Black Friday travel deals are also still available.

When you find a trip you’d like to book, make sure you read the fine print. Many are based on double occupancy and there could be tips and other hidden fees that aren’t included in the original price.

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/12/02/take-that-dream-vacation-for-cheap-turn-cyber-monday-into-travel-tuesday-deals/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/12/03/take-that-dream-vacation-for-cheap-turn-cyber-monday-into-travel-tuesday-deals/

[businessliveme]

33 genius travel hacks to upgrade your holiday trips

(Bloomberg) –So it begins: The holidays are upon us, and with them, the crush of holiday travel.

Here, the best pearls of wisdom from Travel Genius, Bloomberg’s original podcast that delivers the cleverest solutions to your most common travel problems. Tips include our hosts’ original reporting, plus words of wisdom from Season 2’s guests, both recent and forthcoming. (Consider this your sneak peek to the weeks ahead.)

With their help, you’ll be well-armed to tackle any holiday travel stress—whether you’ve yet to solidify your plans, are stuck on your shopping list, or simply need to keep the peace amid airport chaos. It’s a holiday survival guide on supersmart steroids.

Get Good Travel Deals, Even in the Highest Season

If you’re booking a last-minute holiday getaway, there’s still hope.

1. Lexie Alford, recognized by Guinness World Records as the youngest person to visit every country in the world, says Skyscanner is “definitely the best for booking last-minute stuff. It’s the most reliable, and it shows many different options: the fastest route, the cheapest route. How many stops you want to make.” She says it also offers an alternative for greener choices. For example: “This flight emits 32% less CO₂ than average for your search.

Read: Golden trip hacks from a Guinness World Record holder for travel

2. Don’t be afraid to negotiate. If your dream hotel has rooms available, and the competitor down the street has better pricing, hop on the phone. Desk agents have a habit of giving in for the sake of a direct, guaranteed booking.

3. By the same token, ask what your hotel includes free of charge. Airport transfers, room service, non-motorized water sports equipment—Moti Ankari, a fashion influencer and co-creator of the menswear shoe brand, Ankari Floruss, has gotten all of these without adding a dime to the cost of his stays.

Image: Pixabay

Ace Your Packing Game

This time of year, the last thing you want to do is check a bag.

4. Skip the jewelry roll, and use a wine cork to stash your earrings, says venture capitalist Hitha Palepu, author of How to Pack. Chipping away bits of the cork also make for improvised backings, should one get lost.

5. Palepu’s other brilliant tip: Use a washed and dried prescription bottle to pack toiletries that don’t come in travel sizes. The shape of the bottles makes them easy to clean; tamper-proof lids mean they’ll never spill.

6. A tiny, tidy stain-removing kit will let you re-wear outfits with confidence. Include baby powder (for grease stains), dryer sheets (to keep everything smelling fresh—even your laundry compartment), and Shout wipes or a Tide pen.

7. Don’t pack what a hotel can give you. Westins provides gym clothes on loan, points out Trevor Project Chief Executive Officer Amit Paley. Many hotels can offer up rain boots, hiking gear, dog beds, and other bulky goods your suitcase can do without.

Be Two Steps Ahead of Any Crisis

When everyone else is melting down, you’ll be cool as a cucumber.

8. Bad Airbnb? Nasty forecast? When your vacation looks like it’s taking a turn for the worse, salvage matters with a strategic pivot. Don’t fall prey to the fallacy of sunk costs. You can always rebook, reroute, and file your complaints and disputes from a much happier place.

Read: Travel Tips From a Rock Star Who Flies 500,000 Miles a Year

9. Nothing will fix a plane full of crying babies as much as a good, stiff drink. Linden Pride, founding partner of Dante, the World’s Best Bar, says the prime option is to mix your own 50/50 martini. “Take a full cup of ice in one plastic cup, then pour equal parts vodka and vermouth over the ice [on long-haul flights, the air team will have vermouth], stir it with a plastic stirrer, then pour it back into a second plastic cup and add a rind of the lemon they’d otherwise serve you with a soft drink. There’s nothing better.”

10. Worried about a potential flight cancellation? Book a hotel proactively, says ABC News correspondent Rebecca Jarvis. Her logic: You can’t cancel a last-minute replacement flight, but refundable rooms are easy to come by. And once that announcement is made, everyone will be scrambling for the last decent room in town—except for you.

11. Use the Flighty app to learn about flight disruptions before anyone else. Yes, it costs $50 per year, but you can get a free trial and hear about delays, cancelations, and aircraft issues well before they’re officially announced.

Turn Airports and Airplanes Into Spa-Like Experiences

Family will be impressed when you land looking (and feeling) like a million bucks.

12. Don’t have lounge access? Look for an airport yoga room. They’re free, underutilized, and usually empty, says Jarvis of ABC News.

13. Jen Rubio, co-founder and chief brand officer of luggage label Away, makes her own in-flight dopp kit to make any coach seat feel like business class: she uses perfumed, hydrating, rinse-free hand wash from Byredo instead of Purell hand sanitizer; Barbara Sturm antipollution serum to keep her skin clean and moisturized; and extremely comfortable silicone earplugs from Savears.

14. Do you shop at Sephora? Grab free samples and stash them in your carry-on bag. When you land, you’ll have a small, pampering surprise waiting for you, says Bobbi Brown.

15. Packing genius Palepu swears by coconut oil as a solution to all your beauty woes, for “everything from mangled cuticles to hangovers, dry mouths on planes—you might even be able to use it as shaving cream.”

16. Actor, designer, and Wes Anderson muse Waris Ahluwalia’s secret sauce for bright, never-puffy eyes? Preparation H and ice water.

17. Ankari, meanwhile, sprays himself with Downy Wrinkle Release to erase creases after hours of sitting still.

Get Around Like a Local VIP

Nothing ruins the holiday spirit like schlepping.

18. The end of the year is the best time to take advantage of airline status-matching offers, such as what Delta is currently offering. Jumping onto a new loyalty program now means you’ll get the benefits through the end of 2020—instead of just this year.

19. Considering train travel? Author Monisha Rajesh, who trekked 45,000 miles while writing the book Around the World in 80 Trains, suggests checking Seat61.com—“the Google for train lovers.” The site compares everything from routes to pricing data to amenities, all under one roof.

Read: Scared to Travel to ‘Dangerous’ Places? Don’t Be

20. Peripatetic traveler Alford wants to make sure you never get taken for a ride again. “Email your hotel before you arrive and ask what the average price is for a taxi from the airport,” she advises. Knowing that price will help you dispute an inflated number. “If you get to the hotel, and the meter is unbelievably high, refuse to pay for it—or call the cops,” she says.

Stay Entertained Anywhere—Without Rocking the Boat

When the conversation turns to impeachment news, divert to one of these strategies.

21. Designer Alhuwalia says a pack of playing cards isn’t just for entertainment—it’s also great for learning a new language. (You can practice your numbers, at the very least.) He uses them to converse with seatmates from other countries of origin, but the strategy is just as good around a newly cleared dining table—especially if you’re considering a 2020 family holiday to, say, España or Deutschland.

22. Palepu, the author, turned us on to Libro.fm, a sort of indie Audible that supports indie bookstores. Just add headphones.

23. Want to plan a perfect day exploring as a plugged-in tourist, whether you’re in your hometown or somewhere new? Try out Journy, which creates a custom-tailored itinerary in most major cities for as little as $25.

24. Out of ideas? Have a pencil? Or a makeup brush you don’t mind washing out later? Order coffee or a glass of wine and start making art. The beverages are your paint, says Alison Mosshart, frontwoman of the Kills.

Shopping Secrets of the Rich and Famous (and Crafty)

Because Black Friday is just the beginning.

25. Splurging on a gift for yourself—or for someone on your holiday list? Try swiping that plastic abroad. The VAT savings on a very big-ticket item, such as a Birkin bag, can offset the cost of an entire weekend in Paris, says master chef Eric Ripert.

26. Don’t let kids buy everything they see and want on vacation. Have them take photos of souvenirs they’re coveting, and then revisit the entire list a day before you head home. This way, you’ll end up only with the one or two things they really love, says Disney expert Susan Veness.

27. Be strategic about airport shopping, says Away’s Rubio. “If you’re looking at a pair of Gucci loafers, the difference between buying them in New York and at Gucci at London Heathrow can be $200 to $300. It’s as much as 35% off—insane!” And if you’re passing through the same airports frequently—say, for Thanksgiving and Christmas—get a business card from the store associate. “Those airport boutiques have a limited selection because they don’t have a ton of space, but they can order things from any other store location and hold it for you.”

Read: Six Tourist Spots in Saudi Arabia That Will Surprise You

28. Another move she uses to get through her holiday shopping list: scoping out personal shopping services at international airports. (Yes, they exist!) “You book it ahead of time, and tell them what stores you want to go to and how much time you have. Then the personal shopper meets you after security and takes you from terminal to terminal to get the stuff you need.”

Make Any Place Feel More Like Home

Because not everyone is—or wants to be—“home for the holidays.”

29. Broadway star Schele Williams has no time for bad coffee, so she packs a portable French Press wherever she goes. (We like this one; for espresso lovers, there’s also the “nanopresso.”) Want to bring your own grounds, too? Head to the baby goods aisle, where tiny containers meant to hold formula or purees will do the trick.

30. Bring your sleep routine with you. For exercise guru Taryn Toomey—who bans cellphones in the bedroom, that means a small, wooden alarm clock. For Away’s Rubio, it’s the small, USB-powered white noise machine from Aurola. “There’s a Pavlovian quality to it,” she says. “No matter where in the world I am, or what kind of room I’m in, the machine turns on and my brain instantly relaxes.”

31. In hotel rooms, tiny closets with too few hangers drive fashion entrepreneur Ankari crazy. (He was Bloomberg’s fashion market editor.) He asks for a rolling rack with additional hangers to be delivered to his room so he can see all his outfits, organize looks, and never leave anything behind.

32. If you find yourself tripping over furniture in hotel rooms, do as beauty legend and new hotelier Bobbi Brown does: Ask staff to simply remove the offending item. More often than not, they can and will.

33. Pack an extension cord. Trevor Project’s Amit says it’ll come in handy well after you’ve juiced up at the airport. No matter where you’re sleeping, it’s a surefire way to make sure there’s an outlet just where you’re used to having one, whether that’s bedside, sink-side, or anywhere in between.

The post 33 genius travel hacks to upgrade your holiday trips appeared first on Businessliveme.com.

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[alexmorrall]

France Trip Nov 2019

Wednesday Nov 6, 2019

Flew with Mallory on Swiss Air to Zurich overnight from Boston. 

  Thursday Nov 7

Transferred to Paris and picked up our Renault 4-door sedan rent a car for the paltry sum of $150 for four days.  Drove in Parisian rush hour through the outskirts of the City of Light on the highway four hours to meet Zack’s girlfriend Natalie in Angers.  Formally the seat of the Dukes of Anjou, ancestors of the Plantagenets (Henry V.) Their descendants were the Lancasters of which George RR Martin’s Lannisters in Game of Thrones are based.  Arriving in Angers that night, we had a wonderful dinner hosted by Natalie.  She had two types if plain sausage prepared, one with mushrooms, as well as salad, cheese, wine and rabbit pate.  Her hospitality was incredible the whole time we were there.  She was very happy to have visitors too, as we brought a little bubble of America with us for Nat to enjoy.  As we ate, Nat regaled us of having to deal with leaking bloody fluids from alcoholic medical patients in her study program in Angers’ Med School.

  Friday Nov 8

Natalie’s parents’ apartment was very nice and we stayed on the pullout couch, sleeping late then wandering toward downtown Angers to experience local French culture for the first time. I ordered in French and surprised myself with how much of the language I could get by with.  Throughout the trip, I proved fairly capable of ordering, and making my way along, asking where the toilet was, “Ou est les toilette?” etc. I ordered “deaux café, sil vous plait” (two espressos) which came with a little slice of banana nut bread neatly perched on the saucer. The café was colorful, its walls lined with local artists’ paintings for sale.  There were brochures for local bands and comedy acts and a  few local women hanging out. The French dressed incredibly sophisticated almost always and Mallory and I tried our best to follow suit.  I wore dress shoes, black jeans, button up shirts and my peat coat the whole time while Mallory wore a collection of attractive sweaters, a wool headband, jeans and four different pairs of stylish boots.

  It was early in our relationship to be traveling so far to Europe (I must say) but two weeks prior we had celebrated our three month anniversary and I had told her I loved her. It was an unforgettable experience for the two of us traveling so far outside our comfort zones. We frequented game shops where the owners scratched their heads at the prospect of us buying board games in French when we didn’t speak the language. Then we made our way to the river and a view of Chateau D’Angers from below.  Later we would see it from on high and within but today we met Natalie for lunch at a sophisticated spot for lunch called Restaurant Sens.  The server was extremely friendly and knowledgeable, speaking superb English and indulged me to order and ask thigs in French as well.  We had a wonderfully buttery hazelnut and artichoke soup with great local red wine, braised lamb and another café for dessert.  Next, we walked about Angers, past craft beer stores, whiskey stores, bars, restaurants, game and record shops. I scored some sweet French comic books and returned to Natalie’s to head out in her little snub nose cherry red Wingo Renault four door sedan to cruise up to “FL” vineyard in the Loire valley countryside.

  Our sommelier guided us through four white wines and a red before allowing us to buy some (which Natalie informed us was highly encouraged after imbibing.)  I snapped a photo of our sommelier with Bill Murray taken a few months previous and Mal and I bought a bottle of white each. Nat bough four for her family and we returned to Angers for dinner at Chez Remi, a chic, homey restaurant where we had veal, lamb and a delicious chocolate cake for dessert.  We walked up to Chateau D’Angers that night, picked up some bleu cheese, truffle cheese, camembert and smoky cheese.

  Saturday Nov 9

Made it downtown with Nat to see the bustling farmers’ market’s last hour of business.  It was a great vibe, better than America by far and an eye-opening experience to see the vast varieties of food and care that went into their preparation and presentation.  Normally I would feel some semblance of agoraphobia surrounded by so many strange people but here I felt at ease amidst the French locals.  We tasted olives and marinated roasted red peppers on baguette from an Italian vendor and bought some ashy one-month aged cheese. I bought two jams for my parents and we purchased a plethora of pastries as well to add to our eventual dinner.  For dejeuner (lunch) we had savory breakfast crepes (ham, sausage and cheese) with a bottle of chilled local cider poured into porcelain mugs.  Apparently, the French drink hot wine but never hot cider.

  Next, we went to Joker’s Pub and got caught in the rain after enjoying the massive mural of musicians behind our table, a couple IPA’s, including Hellfest and one covered in Vikings battling a giant squid (a scene right out of my current DnD campaign I was running with Eddie and other Viking employees.) Caught in the rain our flan got squished under all our goods in the market basked but we returned with beaucoup de (plenty of) food before heading back downtown for four dollar mojitos.  We watched Julie and Julia (which I surprisingly enjoyed) that night over a bottle of wine, and fantasized about all the wonders of French cooking.

  Sunday Nov 10

Mal and I headed to Chateau D’Angers for a tour of the amazing castle built originally in 970 but rebuilt in 1234 and many times since. There, we witnessed the largest tapestry in the world: the Apocalpyse tapestry depicting the “Fall of Bablyon” (a metaphor for any great civilization of the time.) The tapestry displayed many-headed lions and dragons facing off against crusader swordsmen and the ending resulted in a rapture-like deliverance to New Jerusalem.  I scored some sweet photos of the Maine River, surrounding city of Angers and the gardens up on the walls of the chateau including roses and grapes for wine. We met up with Nat for local burgers that tasted more like steaks, less chewy and coarse than American burgers, paired with lightly-fried, buttery frites (fries) and mayo.  Then we headed out into the country to Chateau Brissac, a beautiful castle, owned by the same family since the year 1500.  In the stables, down some paths we found a menagerie of taxidermy animals: deer, boars, wolves and bears.  Stags were very common on French coats of arms and I remarked via text to my friend Joe Quinn that it was like Baratheon land.  The tour of the castle was twenty Euro each and all in French so we declined, opting to taste wine instead.  They had two great roses and a sweet cabernet that was basically rose (of which we bought two, in addition to two “real” reds.)

  Next, we wandered into the local village of Brissac for a café where they were celebrating the weekend of Armistice Day (which was the next day.)  A bunch of locals (including the servers) were seated, drinking and laughing in the middle of the café.  We ordered trois cafes on the back patio and discussed how funny it was that a donkey at the chateau took a serious liking to Mal (eating a fallen yellow leaf out of her hand.) We dubbed her the Donkey Whisperer.  We got onto the topic of Dr. Doolittle and I asked Mal if the movie inspired her to become a veterinarian.  She said no.  Growing up with dogs and horses was most likely “why” and I love her golden retriever Baylor (he’s my phone lock screen and background) and Maine Coon mix Beasley.  

  Returning to Natalie’s abode, then hitting the town for beers and smoked sausage (saucisse) at Berthems bar then Delirium Brewing Company where we got a free round because the bartender screwed up (she mistook my request for the check as asking for another round, which I then paid for one round.)  Walked out feeling pretty tipsy for Punjab, an amazing Pakistani-owned Indian style restaurant where all the servers were men in grey loose uniforms.  The food was out of this world, easily the best Indian and some of the best overall food I’ve ever eaten: chicken masala, beef korma, and paneer with amazing garlic naan and half a bottle of vin rouge (red wine.)  Returning to Nat’s apartment to drink a bottle of cabernet (rose) and watch “Our Planet” on Netflix while Mal slept on me (again, but I never mind because I find it adorable.)

  Monday Nov 11 (Armistice/Veteran’s Day)

Awoke for French press café with Nat then hit the road in the rain for Paris (specifically CDG airport) to return the rental car. As I tried to fill up some gas early in the trip, I found all my cards were not working (Fraud alerts, credit limits or American Express which they just wouldn’t accept in France.)  We continued on, able to pay inside a gas station for half a tank with my remaining Euro cash (it would have cost $100 US to fill the whole tank because of France’s gas taxes!) This explained the protest of the yellow jackets and those who have to drive on their daily commute into French cities.)  Then, before us stretched a broad assembly of thirty toll booths. I chose one toward the right hand side of the road (but not far enough right as it would turn out.)  Pulling up to the toll booth’s barred gate, none of my cards would work and I was now fresh out of cash.  Defeated, I exited my car and approached the driver of the car behind me who understood my English. Then I went to the next one in line, a French woman who spoke no English.  Eventually I got all five cars behind me to back up into oncoming traffic.  Then we somehow merged at a perpendicular angle to the right, avoiding hordes of approaching cars. Reached a government office building next to the toll booths on the right hand side of the road and parked in front.  I got out of my car and was about to approach the office before a woman on its second floor window closed the blinds on us.  We had no other choice and merged back behind a car, tailing them to sneak through before the toll gate dropped on my rental car.  We made it without a scratch!

  Feeling a rush of adrenaline we sped on our way to CDG and dropped off the rental.  Then we had to buy an RER train ticket to Paris.  This I feared, especially when all three of my cards failed once more.  But I added my Paypal account to Google Pay while standing at the ticket machine (not sure which account it was linked to but it worked!)  Zooming into Paris, we arrived at Gare Du Nord (North station, same name of the Boston station I used on my commute every day of work at Viking downtown.)  We took the Metro a few stops to Republique and exited for our first street view of Paris: teens skateboarding and hundreds of people milling about for Armistice Day.  I considered visiting a battlefield this day but they were all northeast of Paris and we had to return the rental car by 2:30pm.  Walking twenty minutes with our suitcases, from Republique to our Airbnb near Pere Lachaise (we could’ve used the Metro but walking was good exercise after enjoying so much extravagant food all weekend in Angers.  Made it all the way to the Airbnb, hosted by Quentin, who was nowhere to be found.

  Instead there was supposed to be a girl named Nastya waiting there for us (but not yet.) We went to a nearby café for an hour and I finally got my Bank of America account unlocked so I could get 100 Euro out of an ATM which was about the best feeling ever!  I feel like I will always carry some local cash with me wherever I go after that… hopefully it’s true, haha.  Nastya then let us in, a petite French girl in urban wear (sweatshirt, skullcap, skinny jeans) The apartment was small but nice and homey with plenty of Quentin’s 3D paintings on the walls.  The bedroom was perfectly sized for us (Mal loved it!) A winding staircase that gave you a dizzy head (mal a la tete) or a too-tight elevator (where you basically had to make out with the person sharing it with you) separated the fourth floor from the first.  We departed the apartment, leaving Nastya (who seemed surprised that we had immediate plans in the city) sitting on the living room couch. We were on our way to meet up with Anneli (newly “officially” engaged to Eddie, wearing a Sterling silver ring she had crafted with him on their recent trip to Dublin.)

  We met in Jaures (northeast Paris) with Anneli at Paname Brewing Company on a little canal that was cute and hip, lots of dogs, families and joggers.  We had a huge charcuterie (meat and cheese board), beers, plus a lamb burger and heavenly fries.  Anneli regaled us with stories of a last minute Airbnb in Dublin where their host kept two different African wives and a son.  We discussed if Eddie was really moving out to marry her and live together in an apartment outside Paris in either April, July or September or next year. Anneli and I agreed Sept. was the soonest possibility based on the fact that France requires proof of three month’s income in France and Anneli was graduated at the soonest in June.  Returning to Pere Lachaise, we said goodbye to Anneli and found sleep.

  Tuesday Nov 12

Our final full day in Paris (and France), we did all the touristy things.  We took the Metro west to walk down past Notre Dame (which was under construction because of the fire a year previous) then headed to the Pantheon (a Greek-style building with beautiful statues, massive columns and Anneli’s favorite view of the Eiffel Tower: it was alright, not my favorite.) It was then that I realized just how amazing the architecture was in this city. What would dwarf the finest architectural marvels in many first-class cities of the world, these previously mentioned monuments I could tell were merely an “amuse bouche” to what wonders awaited us that day. The University of Paris was nearby (as well as a Pita Pit, a chain that was common to both my alma mater UMass Amherst and that of Mal) and I wondered what it would be like to go to school here. I could already tell Paris was the most impressive and old city I had ever seen in terms of beautiful, classical architecture and art.  

  We made our way down to Luxembourg Gardens, which was as Anneli said, “a little sad in November” but it was still a grand garden with elegant statues of kings and queens as well as a palace and fountain we photographed.  Next, was our walk to the Louvre and lunch at a café, croque monsieur (ham and cheese sandwich) for Mal and croque madame (ham and cheese sandwich with egg) for me.  It started raining super hard as we were at the café and droves of Parisians and tourists flooded inside, which our snappy and humorous server welcomed in and easily accommodated.  The rain did not let up during our lunch and we decided to embark into the rain without hats, rain jackets or umbrellas, walking several blocks down the Seine River in a torrential downpour past chic luxury shops that sold clothes, furniture and art.  Sheltering briefly in one woman’s clothing store, before a finley dressed manager asked if we could be helped and we shook our heads, taking that as our cue to leave. 

  We finally made it to Musee D’Orsay (France’s leading French art museum.) We saw a few Van Gogh’s originals (portrait of the artist and Starry Night II) as well as some Monets, Manets and Renoirs.  My favorites were the Realist historical depictions of Charge of the Light Brigade, WWI, Burial of Alexander, the Spanish Inquisition, the Decadence of Rome, Moroccan Harems, Normans setting sail to conquer England, the Hunt for Diana and the excommunication of Robert the Pious.  A Burial at Shanghai was featured and it was sprawling and powerful, taking up an entire wall.  We also walked through the featured Degas opera exhibit then departed for Place De La Concorde (fortuitously buying two umbrellas from an insistent Indian vendor upon exit from the museum before hail dropped on our heads.)  Walking along the Seine, we view the voluminous Louvre, and found a place to cross over to Place De La Concorde. It was now a massive rotary around a 3,300 year old central obelisk to Rameses II that was donated to France in 1829 by Egypt in front of the huge Greek-style Palais Bourbon, once a Royal Palace and now home to France’s National Assembly.  Later we learned the place of the obelisk was where the guillotine was set up and King Louis XVI as well as Marie Antoinnette were beheaded.

  The Place De La Concorde offered a straight-shot view all the way up Champs-Elysees to the Arc De Triomphe atop a sloping hall.  We walked up Champs Elysees, seeing beacoup de cafes, cinemas and designer clothes stores including loads of tourists waiting outside Louis Vuitton.  Then we backtracked a bit to the Seine and a ride on a bateaux mouche river boat to see all the monuments we had just walked to and more from the river.  Sunset on the bateaux mouche under the Eiffel Tower was splendid, snapping lots of selfies of Mal and I.  Then we returned to Champs-Elyssees (the so-called “most beautiful road in the world,” it was pretty nice but very commercial and crowded.)  For my niece Tigerlily, I bought a Mickey Mouse shirt from the Disney store that said “Paris” on it and I bought a Paris St Germain soccer shirt for $40 US which was a little pricey but definitely cool. We checked out the Addidas flagship store which was awesome, including a treadmill to run in new sneakers before buying.)

  Then we returned to the Seine for dinner aboard a stationary “Alexandre III” bateaux mouche (we had to because it had my name on it, and the other more hip one named Float was not yet open.)  I had escargot, red wine, and local French steak frites and Mal had salmon.  Then we walked over to the Eiffel Tower for a selfie of our two smiling faces directly beneath it, all lit up at night.  At this point my phone died so we wandered about in search of bathrooms and the Metro.  Little grocery stores had none and we found a café but were too afraid to use its bathroom which was through the kitchen after our server yelled at us for not ordering full meals.  Back into the night, we found a free public toilet on a street corner with a little old woman inside.  She was in there for about 15 minutes so I knocked twice and she emerged, berating me in a hilarious French deluge that I could not understand, merely shrugging.  I peed while Mal held the door close because its automated function keep trying to open it but the toilet was so trashed and stinky that Mal refused to use it.  We found the Metro soon after and returned to Pere Lachaise, however, I almost forgot our apartment access code and we were locked out in the cold for 10 minutes while I jammed in different passcodes… Finally I got it right and we retired after more wine to lighten the load in our suitcases.

  Wednesday Nov 13

Woke up, got deaux café and observed a hectic rush hour before making it over to Gare Du Nord for the RER train to Paris and our return to Zurich. Overall it was one of the best trips of my life, top highlight being Natalie’s hospitality in showing us Angers, plus Mal and I loving every minute together.  Mal was a perpetually calm, supportive, enthusiastic and appreciated companion who I cherish dearly. We watched four movies on the way back: the Art of Driving in the Rain, Guardians of the Galaxy, Yesterday and Stuber, staying up all night so that we could fall asleep on time with good old Boston EST and avoid jetlag.

Bon voyage indeed!

[theconservativebrief]

Vox Sentences is your daily digest for what’s happening in the world. Sign up for the Vox Sentences newsletter, delivered straight to your inbox Monday through Friday, or view the Vox Sentences archive for past editions.

A new climate change report shakes up the White House but misses the world; US Border Patrol agents fire tear gas at migrants in Tijuana.

Paul Kitagaki Jr.-Pool/Getty Images

A major government report warning of the immense dangers on climate change was quietly released on Black Friday, when Americans were busy shopping, feasting, and catching up with family. [CNN / Chris Cilizza]

The latest installment of the National Climate Assessment, published under law and to the White House’s chagrin, spans more than 1,600 pages and delineates how climate change will devastate the US economy. By the end of the century, environmental factors will cost the US some $500 billion a year. [Vox / Umair Irfan]

Other than the costly nature of climate change, Umair Irfan writes that it’s deadly (think California wildfires, which have burned down a record number of acres and brought about some of the worst air quality in US history). Some of the possible solutions include changing to cleaner energy and pulling carbon dioxide out of the air. [Vox / Umair Irfan]

In response to reporters’ questions Monday, President Trump said he doesn’t believe the findings and that he’s read only some of the report. This is one of several times the president, even before his White House residency, rebuked environmental findings. [The Hill / Timothy Cama]

Katharine Hayhoe, who leads the Texas Tech University Climate Science Center and contributed to the report, blasted the White House’s remarks as “demonstrably false,” and wrote that the climate scenarios are wide-ranging and inclusive. [Twitter / Katharine Hayhoe]

According to the New York Times, White House officials calculated that the contradiction between the president’s rhetoric and the findings of the scientific report will not sway his core base of supporters. A member of Trump’s transition Environmental Protection Agency team called the results “made-up hysteria.” [NYT / Coral Davenport]

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US Border Patrol agents fired tear gas and pepper spray at migrant families attempting to cross the southern border Sunday, in line with President Trump’s order allowing military troops to use force to keep asylum seekers from entering the country. [Axios / Stef K. Wright]

The event is an explosion of pressure mounting for more than a week, with caravan members joining thousands of asylum seekers in northern Mexico. The San Ysidro port is frequented by Central Americans hoping for safe passage into the US. [Vox / Dara Lind]

Trump defended the security agents’ use of tear gas, pointedly saying that “nobody’s coming into our country unless they’re coming legally.” On Monday, he tweeted that he’ll “close the Border permanently if need be.” [CNN / Maegan Vazquez and Geneva Sands]

Rob Colburn, president of the Border Patrol Foundation, claimed to Fox News that the type of deterrent used at the border is akin to a condiment, as you can “put it on your nachos and eat it.” [Vox / Aaron Rupar]

However, many American officials denounced the action, especially after photos of children fleeing from tear gas began circulating the internet. California’s Democratic Gov.-elect Gavin Newsom said, “This is not my America.” [Washington Post / Tim Elfrink and Fred Barbash]

In the meantime, the US was thought to have struck a deal with Mexico for the asylum seekers to remain there before their cases are decided. Yet Mexico’s incoming Interior Minister Olga Sánchez Cordero said no such deal has been reached. [USA Today / William Cummings]

Bernardo Bertolucci, the pioneering yet controversial director behind films like Last Tango in Paris and Dreamers, has died at age 77. [Guardian / Andrew Pulver]

The new Lion King movie trailer dropped last week, and it’s definitely had people talking about it over Thanksgiving. While some praised the remake for retaining the nostalgic feel of the 1994 animated classic, others said they felt misled by the “live action” branding, as the film appears to be mostly CGI. [Twitter Moments]

Apple’s antitrust case is heading to the Supreme Court, and the company is prepared to face allegations that the App Store is a monopoly in a historic case for the technology industry. [CNBC / Tucker Higgins and Steve Kovach]

Christmas is less than a month away. Here’s how first lady Melania Trump is decorating the White House. [Time / Ashley Hoffman]

“What we want is more learning in schools and less activism in schools.” [Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison received backlash after he told students protesting government inaction on climate change to let the politicians do their jobs / Guardian]

Sean Hannity appeared onstage at a Trump rally before the midterm elections. It’s the latest example of Fox News’s transformation from right-wing news network into full-on Republican campaign operation. [YouTube / Carlos Maza and Hunter Boone]

GM is closing plants and cutting jobs. Here’s what it means for workers — and for Trump.

Breathing dirty air takes years off people’s lives. This tool shows just how much.

Fox News wants you to be very afraid of what’s happening at the border

After a mall shooting, police killed the wrong person — and the real shooter remains at large

Smart speakers are everywhere this holiday season, but they’re really a gift for big tech companies

Original Source -> Vox Sentences: “Barefoot. In diapers. Choking on tear gas.”

via The Conservative Brief