Denny’s

I’ve always been fond of diners. Miss Florence Diner (Flo’s), Florence (Northampton), Massachusetts; Miss Bellows Falls Diner, Bellows Falls, Vermont; Empire Diner, Chelsea, Manhattan. Earthy Americana, unpretentious, local. Denny’s was invariably a place my friends and I would ridicule, a restaurant that, I suppose, symbolized the worst of the American diet, but also the Corporatization of Breakfast. I’m old enough to remember when the American Breakfast meant something. But I digress.

Having failed to shop for groceries yesterday, I found myself in the unenviable position of being breakfastless. I’m one of those people who needs to eat immediately upon arising, and am pretty useless until I’ve fed myself. I don’t know of any place in Monterey to get a cheap breakfast. Do such places still exist? When I lived in downtown Cincinnati, there was a hole in the wall down a gritty side street that offered a breakfast of two eggs, toast, and coffee (bottomless) for $.99. I’m afraid those days are over. But I’m not quite prepared for the Grand Slam.

Generally, I hew pretty close to the philosophy that has made America great, that of supporting small, independent businesses. But I was lusting after a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, home fries and a colossal glass of juice, and I figured I could get a cheap, or at least relatively cheap, breakfast at Denny’s.

I’ve eaten at Denny’s twice in my life; once, appropriately, in the dead of night, and once, when I had an insane craving for mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m not proud of myself.

I figured I would be clever, order a couple of sides, and get out cheaply, so I enjoined the waiter to fetch me two scrambled eggs, hash browns and a large juice, half orange, half grapefruit. Weakening with malnourishment, not unlike Knut Hamsun’s starving writer hero in “Hunger,” the anticipation was delicious and intoxicating, mythic.

As I sat, companionless, in my diminutive booth, I became aware of the sounds around me, a symphony of clattering dishes, conversation, a child’s cry, laughter. I noticed the others in the restaurant: A couple of couples and a child sharing a booth; a large, Mexican (?) family; an old man, sitting alone; an odd-looking young man, his face a miasma of pimples; a middle aged couple, expressionless, sitting across from each other, perhaps only their newspapers separating them. I espied the Econolodge across the street, a long green and blue wooden structure. A woman emerged onto the balcony, looking around, and a flood of memories rushed in: all the travels of childhood, the seemingly eternal journeying of my life, my love of motel rooms, the smell of the linen, the pool, the cheap perfumed soap.

Why was I so enamored of restaurants? I had always loved “eating out.” As a kid, I remember seeing a truck that proclaimed in bold, black Helvetica, “EAT OUT OFTEN.” That became my credo. I would beg my parents to take us out to eat after church, using every trick at my disposal to con them into a lunch out. Once in a while it worked.

I suppose a restaurant symbolizes community, a place where people come together for one of the most basic of all human activities. It is a Communion of sorts, even if the Grand Slam Breakfast doesn’t promise Eternal Life.

I stared at the menu. Lots of Slams. Original Pancake Puppies. Moon Over My Hammy. The menu is brilliantly designed to stuff you so full that you can’t possibly think, let alone move. I stuck to my original intention, and simply ordered the eggs and hash browns. The aroma of the food around me was causing me to swoon.

The iced water and large juice arrived, late, in green plastic Coke glasses, followed by the eggs and potatoes. I have to say, the food was pretty good. Basic, but wholesome, and it felt good to eat. I kept glancing over at the attractive woman across the room, checking out the other diners, gazing out the window, letting my mind roam and roam and roam. I felt mildly guilty for eating unborn chickens, and imagined, or tried not to imagine, how their parents had been treated at the factory prison farms where they were doing life. I made a bad joke to myself about eating free-range potatoes.

When the check arrived, I was shocked that it exceeded ten dollars. So much for my budget. I paid the bill, dropped a couple of bucks on the table, and, satisfied, walked out into the gray streets of Monterey, ready to face the morning.

InterContinental

Departing from my normative café behavior, I made a B-line for the InterContinental Hotel (just a short schlep up Cannery Row from the Monterey Plaza Hotel), navigating a derelict sea of lollygagging tourists. It’s a warm, swanky postmodern affair, festooned with video art and engaging sculpture, and informally-trendily furnished. The lounge, where I have temporarily installed my personhood, is crisply divided into a three-dimensional grid of expansive beams, and wide columns faced in tasteful, subtle off-white wallpaper, and studded with minimalist rectangular-solid sconces. The lighting fixtures are composed of a translucent synthetic that marvelously impersonates linen, with another translucent box inside, illuminated by a single light. The ceiling is an open grid consisting of rows of oak strips, separated by spacers, snugged between the wide, white beams, and punctuated by large doughnut-shaped lamps that hang from thin wires. The lamps are translucent plastic on the inside, and crimped, corrugated aluminum with tiny holes on the outside. Small, high-intensity lights on two-foot rods jut down at regular intervals. Eighteen-inch off-white marble tiles define the floor, punctuated by ten-by-twelve sections of flush carpet, decorated with wavy brown & aqua lines against a bluish background, which articulate the seating areas. A wall of windows, clad in white aluminum, floor-to-ceiling, looks out onto a weathered wood patio populated by natural teak Smith & Hawken chairs and tables, two wire-caged fire pits, a fence of wood and wire grid, and the Monterey Bay. On the wall opposite the glass is a long, wavy relief sculpture of three-inch dark-stained, metal-impersonating wood strips protruding from the wall, resembling an abstract drawing of hills and sea. The squarish overstuffed chairs are clothed in earth tones, from ochre-olive to dark chocolate; some sport wood trim. The couches are peopled with square pillows, featuring designs of six-sided gray/green geometric forms against a darker moss background. Each seating area is composed of a couch and chairs around low wooden tables, finely polished. On one end of the rectangular room is a large fireplace, set into a wall relief that resembles square stones in dark umber. On the mantle is a sculpture made of horizontal, bare tree or driftwood branches. Higher wooden tables stand behind the couches, sporting squarish modern lamps and simple round, modern earth-toned vases, devoid of flowers. On one table, a large white vase with white branches looms; on another, an open bowl of stubby, dark branches cradles transparent glass balls. The gentle guitar and piano music soothes me, despite my aversion to such music. The light is diffuse, owing, in part, to the fog that blankets the Bay beyond. Before me is a clear glass goblet of iced tea, and a metal pitcher with condensation on its slightly bulging lower extremity. It is cold and good.

10 Things I Do Every Day to Save the Earth

As I am fond of saying, “The Ocean has sustained us for millennia. Time to return the favor.” Time is running out for our beloved Earth. I ricochet between despair and hope. What sustains me is knowing that I am doing (nearly) everything I can, on a daily basis, to protect what is sacred to me.

• I use as little water as possible.

• I rarely use paper towels or napkins.

• I don’t buy stuff I don’t need.

• I pick up trash, including toxic cigarette butts and, especially, plastic.

• I bring my own bags to the store, & never use plastic bags.

• I bring my own cup, plate, flat ware, and cloth napkin wherever I go.

• I make an effort to buy locally grown produce.

• I use public transportation. I haven’t completely given up driving, but I don’t have a car, and I’ve discovered that I can get around pretty well on the bus.

• I talk to people wherever I go, to remind myself, and them, to be more ecologically aware.

• I walk.

If you have a car, you can drive less, never let your car idle, steer clear of the drive-thru, etc. When you walk, you get healthier, lose weight, see more cool stuff (like flowers) and build community. And you feel less guilt. I promise.

Recycling is a myth perpetrated by the very people who want you to buy their plastic crap. Don’t buy bottled water; it’s toxic, expensive and burdens the oceans.

So, turn off the TV, renounce the mall, get out into Nature, and make a solemn vow that you will devote yourself to protecting the only Earth we have. Every moment – and every act – counts. LOVE the Earth.

Carmel Bach Festival: Viennese Matinée Concertante

“… to make divine things human and human things divine; such is Bach, the greatest and purest moment in music of all time.” ~ Pablo Casals

The 73rd season of the Carmel Bach Festival began its final day this morning with a brief concert of the music of Haydn and Mozart. The annual two-week festival features music of Bach and his musical legacy. The July 14th concert featured renowned cellist Raphael Wallfisch performing the complete cycle of the six Suites for solo cello by Johann Sebastian Bach. The suite is remarkable achievement, and a benchmark in writing for the cello. In addition to music of Bach, the Festival featured music of Monteverdi, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, some contemporary works, films, and other events.

This morning’s concert began with the Symphony No. 8, Le Soir, by Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), a work in four movements. (Most of Haydn’s symphonies have acquired various nicknames, some appropriate, over the years.) Haydn, one of the sunniest of the great composers, creates a delightful mood, and the ensemble playing and virtuosity of the musicians were exquisite.

The second piece on the hour-long program was Ein musikalischer Spass (A Musical Joke), K. 522 by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). Mozart was a known jokester (the sign of great intelligence!); those of us who are more dilettantes than musical geniuses, got the more obvious of the musical jokes.

Mozart was born just six years after Bach died, and some believe that he was the incarnation, or at least the musical incarnation, of J.S. Bach. Mozart thoroughly incorporated Bach’s lessons, and was fully capable of writing a great fugue when it was called for.

The final piece on the program was Mozart’s Rondo In D Major for Horn, K. 514, for five violins, viola, cello, double bass, flute, two oboes, bassoon and two French horns. It was written for the shopkeeper and horn player Johann Leutgeb, the butt of Mozart’s mischievous humor. David Gordon provided Mozart’s sarcastic narration, which is generally left out of performances and recordings of the piece, which lent a delightful finale to an hour of light-hearted music.