The day is done and it’s supper time, so what if there is no flat leaf parsley for the pasta and it’s only a short walk down Hyperion to get some, I’m not going out to shop for some ingredient that has gone missing from whatever dish I might have in mind. “Make it work,” the chef would tell me. After all, there are cippolinis left over from a Friday night duck dish, there are capers, pine nuts, roasted tomatoes, anchovies, garlic, chile de arbol, basil, white wine, orrichetti, and delicious parmesan from Paradise Pantry in Ventura left over from a Sunday trip for surfing, so shut up and make a meal of it for chrissakes. How can you go wrong with a pine nut? Midas them up in olive oil and then let them cook in the tomatoey sauce with everything else, they kind of disappear in there but they’re in there and reappear surprisingly and whenever I taste a pine nut in any application I’m flung to Damascus, if the shit ever stops hitting the fan there we will go back forever, “snobar” is arabic for pine nut, they’re not cheap in the souk they’re from Pakistan not local, the regime orders them up along with rocket parts and nuclear intelligence, the best in the souk were long sweet little things, though not as good as the Spanish ones from the indoor market in Roses, the town made vaguely famous by el bulli, where we did not go though we drove by the gate on the way out to hike a remote stretch of coastline, “Oh look there is el bulli.” “Should we stop?” “What for?” “Keep going.” The market in town was more interesting besides it was open in winter and el bulli was not not even the drive-thru window and it was never on my list I don’t have a to eat list though I recommend the market in Roses, here is a picture of one of the xarcuterias in there, they had some ingredients you could work with, that you could make do with, that you could make work, because you almost always can.
If there was one of these places down the street here I might go because it would be nice to have some pork sausage to throw into this saucelet tonight or even some pork shoulder to make a little sausage on the fly but I’m not interested in laboring much over this supper and even though I could get the reportedly missing ingredients in a snap, I’m not having it, that trader joes is a bitch of hipsters at this hour, a mess of Volvos and priuses and biodiesel retrofit benzes and the odd suv, shopping carts, strollers, tattoos, scruffy beards, big eyeglasses, and, sadly, unavoidably, the occasional logo arching across an ass—put some clothes on please juicy can’t you see I am trying to buy a melon to wrap my Serrano around? During that Friday night duck dinner (seared breast, spiced squash puree, cippolinis, mustard greens, demiglace, walnuts) we went out of our heads proposing alternate labels for those rump-riding pajamas, “crusty,” “pucker,” “waxy,” and so on, cheap shots yes, but what else can one do when faced with such effrontery from behind? “Juicy,” oozing, perhaps, a roast that didn’t rest before getting sliced, that just wasn’t ready for this world, let alone the plate, you want the juice in your meat not all over your john boos maybe we need a dress code around here