No Feelings, But Senses for Sale

I have heard from more than one reliable source that there is a restaurant called Feelings on Charles Street in New Orleans. Now before you start laughing and saying that "Feelings" is the worst song ever written, go back and watch Nina Simone's spine tingling reworking of that tune that plumbs its modest lyrics for emotions you never knew you had.
We don't have a Feelings in San Francisco, but we did have a Senses that is now for sale. This sort of Basque restaurant at 1152 Valencia was preceded by the unfortunately named Watergate, one of the first attempts in the late 1990s to bring finer dining to Valencia that has since become more common. Once Watergate closed, they reopened as...Watercress. Most hilariously, they didn't bother to take down the old sign but just put awnings over it with the new name. A, get it, new Watergate cover-up. I wished they'd followed it with Monica's.

I'm sort of pissed that Firecracker has closed on Valencia and will now be the third Indian restaurant within a block. Mind you, I love South Asian restaurant as much as anyone, but I will miss Firecracker's feel of being an opium den for recreational users, as if it were a place a dowager from Atherton might escape to let her hair down. And I really dug their yin-yang prawns.

Anyway, here are some names I've long toyed around with for trendy restaurants:
* iPod, uJayne Mansfield
* kNeebraska
* Susan Anton's Suddenly Salad!
* Feelings West
* East Dakota/West Dakota
* Gregg's Eggs
* Fred's Fried Slophouse
* The Russian T-Room...Too
* The Gravy-on-a-Stick Warehouse
* Carlos' Cuy-town
* Just Pho U
* The Chupalines Junction
* The French Coin-op Laundry

Contempt!

Now that Bryce Digdug is back from the Big Easy, we had a chance to compare notes on the Minnie Riperton shows at Jazzfest and Thursday night's performance at the Fox. There was a near riot in the rush ticket line that snaked along Market Street all the way down to Franklin.

Our banter got pretty heated as we shared our opinions about the two concerts but could not come to a consensus on which was the better (apparently Minnie didn't include her San Francisco curtain call, a rousing rendition of "Feelings", in New Orleans) as we sat in our seats last night at the Castro Theater. Our little tiff was soon blown away by gentle Mediterranean breezes as we enjoyed Godard's Le Mépris (Contempt). What a wonderfully wacky cast -- Brigitte Bardot, Jack Palance and Fritz Lang. Lang (who played himself a la Cecile B. Demille in Sunset Boulevard), perpetuated the myth that he fled Germany the night he was offered the role of the Third Reich's official filmographer by Goebbels. It was a bit more complex than that. However, it was fun to see him refer to Brecht as "BB".

The other BB -- la Bardot -- had plenty of bare bottomed scenes, hilariously covering it with a book while sunbathing in one scene. Perhaps more erotic were the architecture and scenery -- a shabby chic Italian country villa, a shabby deco cinema and a modern villa built on a seaside cliff in Capri with better-than-sex views.

Bardot was actually a very good actress in the film. There was certainly plenty of focus on her physical attributes ("You like zee thigh?" "Oui!" "You like zee breast?" "Oui!"), but she purposely tried to tone it down, putting on a dark wig and chatting with her mom on the phone.
Though unable to come to agreement on Minnie Riperton, Bryce and I agreed that Bardot's costar Michel Piccoli was very hot in that sexy Eurochic/trash '60s sort of way. Unlike today's male Hollywood overly buff/waxed mannequin stars, he was lean and furry in a great sort of way, having a wonderful scene wearing just his cigar and a fedora in a tub as la Bardot ranted at him. Okay, he did need just a little trimming around the edges, but he was particularly fetching on the roof of that Capri villa in a cream colored linen suit and his same fedora.
Debriefing over dinner at Le Mediterranean (detect a theme here), I nearly spat out my Merlot and had to mask my horror when Bryce said he'd never heard any of Bardot's great pop singles from the late '60s or her frequent partner in crime, Serge Gainsbourg. Contempt, indeed!

Just in case there are any other readers who are equally unacquainted, I suggest they check out the great Bardot/Gainsbourg collaboration on "Bonnie and Clyde", and Bardot's definitive "Harley Davidson" (below) where she makes Nancy Sinatra look like FLDS sister-wife #18.

Two Days Finally on a Tuesday

Have I mentioned lately how much I love Julie Delpy? It's always a bit disconcerting to hear that NYU-influenced accent when she speaks English, making me almost think she's faking it when she speaks her mother tongue. I enjoyed Two Days in Paris this summer, and it's nice to have it finally on DVD if only to push pause for that 18th of a second glimpse of the photo of Adam Goldberg with the balloons. It's definitely not air brushed but now I'll have to wonder if it's Photoshopped.,

Rewatching it, I can't help but thinking how her parents remind me of a dozen or so couples of that same vintage living in Marin County, right down to the funky house with black mold in the shower.

Even if the basic structure of the film has been milked countless other times before, it still feels oddly fresh. I've also had 90% of the conversations with Goldberg's Jack in 92% of my past relationships. Even odder, I have them now that they're exes. I saw one this weekend who made reference to the poet Rambo whose posters are still all over the Mission, dripping paint and all.

Valley of the Galls - Up in Smoke!

I am one half French and take great pride in what I consider to be my many Gallic quirks. You'll never see me order Freedom Fries! However, when it comes to respiratory health, my hypochondriac, neurotically Jewish other half defiantly kicks in. So, hearing of the French smoking ban controversy only inspires a loud “About time!” yell from me and the urge to book that flight across the pond for April so I’d actually be able to smell the flowers and not the fecal stench of nicotine permeating the air.

As far as this being an assault on “the French character,” I can only say that I’ve never heard of Islamic head scarves causing lung cancer. So I’d argue for lifting that ban and fiercely enforcing this new one.

The French are supposedly one of the most hypochondriac cultures in the world, but maybe if they can kick the tobacco habit they wouldn’t have to take so many pills. I send my plea to my beloved Paris to abandon those stink sticks and send them back to where they belong: North Carolina.