Helping Around The House

The strangest things can happen while at home, especially if the home is a public place.  Recently, I have been helping a friend in need with his ‘home’, which doubles as a type of speakeasy/restaurant.  Though not too involved, the times I have been there it has been an experience.  Typical of the way things are here, there is an adventure or a story at almost every corner.

The house is a beautiful old mansion, in a hip part of town.  It has three stories plus a roof terrace.  You enter form the street up a huge marble stairway and into a somewhat shadow of the elegance that once was so vibrant here.  A mirrored wall and a glorious, elaborate winding stairway meet you as you enter the main room.  There is an intimate dining room to one side, and a lush living room on the other side.  Ornate molding lines the walls and adorns the ceilings.   Up the winding stairway, you reach three other quirky rooms and if you head to the back hallway, a tightly winding iron staircase going up and out onto the terrace.  It is like a giant playhouse, with endless possibilities and the constant allure of the unknown to those who visit.

Oh-the kitchen is accessed through a long hallway.  There has been an obvious decay of TLC for this section.  In the cold, dark hallway, a simple blue neon cross hangs high overhead on the smoke stained walls.  However, this is where one of the most charismatic characters resides.  The chef.  He’s an amicable guy, typical of what you may know of chefs or read about them.  He scuttles around in his Crocs and chef pants.  I suppose it is the typical life of chefs, which taint them all with a head of grey hair, his being close cropped and neatly kept.  He’s always got big glowing eyes and a smile.  Just being in his kitchen is such a nice feeling.  In the states, it would not be out of place to have a busload of Mexicans working.  Here, it is a bit different.  They have outsourced.  Yes, there are some Mexicans in the kitchen, but the one steering the ship is Venezuelan.  One of the first things he said to me when he told me he was from Caracas was joke about Hugo Chavez.  I do not know if it is part of the joke r not, but there are some clippings of photos hanging on the main counter, shots of Chavez shaking hands with Ahmedenijad.  I have no idea what they say, because they are in Spanish, but both the dictators seem quite happy shaking hands and hanging form the counter of the smiling Venezuelan.  When he turns his head, you can see the tattoo on his neck, as well as the ones on his arm.  I have yet to see it myself, but the others who work here say the chef downs a bottle of rum every night. I have, however, seen him steal beers out of the fridge and he often walks up behind me, taps me on the shoulder, and politely asks if I will tip some special liquids into his glass.  He smiles and then slinks away, back down the long hallway to the kitchen.

Every night when the staff arrives, he starts to prep the evening menu with the help of a short, chubby Mexican lady, who is also always smiling.  These two are aided by a single lady who washes everything.  She is extremely friendly and her warmth radiates through the whole kitchen.  As the prepping is underway for the night’s menu, the chef prepares a set of several dishes for the staff.  Usually there are a few giant skillets placed on the table, full of hearty food.  A series of plates are placed in a circle around the hot food, and we all sit down and dig in to whatever he’s made.  I must say, he made a marvelous and simple vegetable soup.  I loved it!  He also whipped up some local fare from his homeland, small potato cakes that you slice and fill with other yummy stuff.

It was on the very night when he made the lovely soup that I was amazed at just how much Mexicans share.  It is a nice thing to do, to sit all in a group and eat.  Everyone one chatting and laughing.  I had about three servings of the soup.  The girl I sat next to had a few servings herself.  For whatever reason though, I noticed that as she re-served herself, she would push the carrots to the side of her bowl.  She dipped her tortillas in and slurped her way through her bowls of soup, getting every last drop (yes, it was that good!)  I thought it fun to watch, but then she did something truly amazing.  As she cleaned her bowl of all the soup, she then took each carrot, which had been pushed aside, and carefully lifted them out of her bowl and put them all back into the giant pot, so that we all could re-savor them.  I am all for sharing the Mexican way, but I am not too crazy about this.  Thankfully, I had already had my three helpings and would leave those carrots to be planted in someone else’s’ dish.  Them, never being the wiser that they had previously been used.

I immediately took to the main waiter, a little man, typical of what you’d expect.  Tiny and dark, with close cropped, gelled back hair.  He looks quite sharp in his white shirt and bowtie and black apron.  He doesn’t really speak English, but he does enough to show me the ropes.  I am getting a crash course in learning Spanish now, especially in restaurant and bar terminology.  He explains all the terms for the drinks they have.  Of course, it is all too much at first, and no sooner has he told me that I have forgotten.  It is a lot to take in, sang names for all these drinks.  A few nights into the friendship, he stops me in the hallway and points to a bag in the refrigerator.  He opens the plastic bag and points to a six-pack of Leon beer.  He raises his hand up, with his thumb out, like he is drinking.  He offers me one.  I have seen this beer but never tried it.  I happily oblige.  This simple action has bonded us for good.  Now, he sees bringing in the Leon as a special treat for he and I.  For myself, I am happy to have struck up a new pal…even if he is only about 3 feet tall. He likes me and I like him.  Each time I go into the place I look forward to seeing him.  I think he was quite proud one night when we sat at the round table back in the kitchen.  I needed to prepare my cheat sheet for the drinks they ask for.  I asked in him very broken and mispronounced Spanish about each drink I needed help with.  I went over all the ingredients in Spanish and corrected me where needed.  After we finished, he stood up and patted me on the back and made a loud declaration in Spanish of how good I did (at least I think that is what he said), and it elicited smiles and cheers form all who were there.  Seeing him smile made me smile.  I started to feel like I was fitting in, I was becoming a Mexican.

Aside from gossip about staff, you get gossip about customers too.  One figure that struck me was the little scruffy guy who came in late one night, with the sole inserts form his shoes hanging out of his coat pocket.  It was as if he drifted in, floating on air, and his smile pushing his whiskers all up around his face and his fat nose poking through the middle.  He likes a drink, and he likes it late.  He sways from side to side and then makes himself at home with a group of 8 ladies.  Before you know it, he is dancing with a few, twirling them around the room, causing his shoe soles to fall out of his jacket onto the floor, making for some interesting sidesteps to avoid tripping over.  As odd as he is, I was curious about the one regular who pops in to have some booze and eats.  I was on the look out for the British composer, Michael Nyman.  Yes, he who became popular due to the soundtracks he did with the director Peter Greenaway.

So I finally met him, although I had no idea that I had.  We were slammed.  There was a big celebration going on and everyone was there.  The chef had prepared some lovely food and a giant table was laid with food for all the visitors to enjoy.  Everywhere else people were standing and chatting.  I was bombarded and doing my best to understand Spanish above the loud talking and music playing.  In a flurry of chaos, I see small bald man with fluffy white hair stuck to the side of his head like shredded cotton balls.  I had the feeling he had been overlooked, so I make a point to tend to him.   He is leaning against the pathetic excuse for a bar.  I lean towards him and he says “Agua con gaz”.  I pull back and think for a second. I am sure I heard what he said, but not sure it was what I think he is trying to say.  I lean back in to get his order again.  He clears his throat and starts again, a bit louder, “Agua con gaz” I pull back again.  He’s looking at me with a bit of frustration.  I have a feeling that my languages are getting crossed, so I try again.  I lean in and say, “I am sorry, but it is hard to hear you clearly above this noise.  What was it again?”

In frustration, he blurts out, “Mineral water.  A bubbly mineral water with ice, please!” Ahhh, ok. I immediately pour him his drink and hand it to him.  I lean to him again and say, “I am sorry.  I have never heard anyone ask for water with ‘gaz’ in Spanish.  ‘Avec gaz’ I would get, but not in Spanish.  I thought that is what you said, but I was not sure”

He looks at me though the bold round rims of his big glasses. “Really?  You have never heard anyone ask for ‘gaz’ in Spanish?”  I shake my head and give him a simple reply, “No”

“I would not have guessed to say it in French here.  But if you know it in French, why not in Spanish.  French….Spanish, they are the same anyway.  Right?”  He smiles and says thank you, and turns to disappear into the crowd.  A few moments later the owner walks by.  “Do you know who that old man was you were talking to?”  Of course I have no idea.  He just seemed like some old guy with big glasses who likes a party, and gets his languages mixed up. “That was Nyman,” he says; as he walks on to do his business.

That was it.  I had served up Michael Nyman mineral water and didn’t even know it.  I had no idea what I expected Michael Nyman to look like, but I do know what he sounds like.  Perhaps…I was expecting something a bit more grand, but still an older guy.  The glasses made perfect sense, as does the baldhead and fluffy white hair.  He returns a few more times, but things are so busy that my little Mexican friend is covering that side of our ‘podium’.

Later on, amidst all the chaos I find myself sitting down in the middle of the room with the owners.  It turns out, Nyman is pals with them. “He comes here often.  He has a home around the corner,” he says. “We mostly talk about our hearts, and not so much about music.  I had a heart attack 10 years ago, and he had one a few years ago.  So, we talk about our health and hearts” he says shrugging his shoulders.  In a few moments, Michael comes and sits in the chair next to me.  He is talking to big, burly Mexican guy, who has a deep gravelly voice.  “Whose that?” I ask my pal.  “Oh, that is a famous Mexican Violinist.  His father was a famous composer and quite well known in the States,” he says.  The two are going at it, with the violinist doing most of the talking.  Michael is sitting, somewhat swaying from side to side.  He has a drink in each hand.  I notice that there is a girl standing behind the violinist.  I look up and she smiles at me, the glances down and the two in conversation.  At some point Michael realizes that he’s holding the two drinks, and looks up over his glasses to the younger girl.  He smiles and hands her a drink.  He says a few words, and she walks away to start chatting with another girl.

I keep wondering if it is just the lighting, or why do Michael’s ears look so dark.  I can’t decide if they are truly that hairy, or if it is a deep black shadow cast from his ear canal.  I wonder if that is a common trait among composers, to have hairy ear holes.  It goes with the fuzzy white hair do though.  He sits and chats with the gruff voiced violin player, and I sip my tequila and watch them.  He is wearing slip on ankle boots, Like Beatle boots with striped socks.  Nice socks, at least form my angle.  As he leans in to talk closer with his buddy, I notice his blazer.  It is worn thin, and the elbows are ripped.  I see the lining in several spots of the elbows.  I feel odd noticing the poor choice of clothing he is wearing.  Maybe it is comfy, or his favorite jacket.  Then I think, that maybe this is just part of his wardrobe he keeps here in Mexico.  I think of the music he composes and come to terms that the music does not suit worn elbows in jackets though.

We decide it is time to go.  At the same time, Michael and his buddy decide enough is enough.  As I get my stuff, I see him saying goodbye to my friend.  He wobbles through the crowd and exchanges a few more farewells to other partygoers.  As we walk outside, I am told that he likes to come and mingle with younger people.  It is pointed out that he is not some lecherous old feller staring and young girls, he simply comes to drink and talk.  He likes to see what is happening with ‘the kids’.  By being aware of what is happening in other aspects of music, he is more in tune with his own compositions.  This all makes perfect sense.  We start to pull away from the curb, and as we are driving off, I see something white and fluffy floating across and intersection.  It is him.  The question is asked if we should give him a lift. “No, when he is here he likes to walk.  It is a nice 10 minute walk to his place” So, as we drive by, I see Nyman starting his way home into the night.  That is him, the guy who makes that great music.  I hope he doesn’t get mugged.

A few blocks away, as Michael disappears, I see a group of policemen standing on the corner.  There must be at least eight of them.  There is a food cart with a light clamped to it.  As we draw even with them, I see this is what Mexican cops do.  They gather at taco carts late at night.  I suppose it is better than eating loads of donuts.