THENASTYBITS (21 page)

"I jump from that cliff all the time," he says, pointing at a hundred-fifty-foot climb straight up, with a vertical drop between reef and rocks. "When-a you go up . . . there's no way down but to jump," he says. And then he dares me,
dares me,
to do it with him.

Now . . . you know me. There's no
way
I'm gonna let this cocksucker get away with this. Especially as I'm cranky, not a little bit drunk, and by now in the mood to squeeze his neck until his eyes pop out of their sockets. I figure it's worth it, if only for the possibility that I'll get to see him split his pointy fucking head open on a rock. Plus, we're desperate for a scene for the show, and I figure the "Tony Foolishly Breaks His Spine" scene will definitely spell Emmy Award—for somebody. So I hear myself saying, "I'll do it."

We take dinghies over to the cliffs. Dario shows me where we have to get off and where to climb. Todd takes a camera position on a reef opposite. Tracey, who'll be shooting the jump from a dinghy, is weeping behind the lens as they ferry us over. "Are you sure you want to do this, Tony?" She knows I'm on beer number eight. And that cliff, the closer we get, is looking higher and higher. I'm not making things easier with my drunken bravado, jokingly babbling good-byes to any and all whom I've ever loved, or who have loved me. (Just in case.) This makes her cry more.

We clamber off the dinghy and Dario leads me slowly and precariously straight up the crumbly limestone cliff, both of us free-climbing in bare feet, picking our way up with fingertips and toes, hanging and traversing along crevices and not, repeat
not,
looking down. After about half an hour of climbing, and a few hairy moments, we reach the top. Dario slides into position for his jump, clinging to a slight hump behind him with both hands, his weight supported by a tiny, brittle-looking protrusion the size of a large bar of soap.

It's a straight drop down, he says. Between that rock there . . . and that shallow reef . . . there. Make sure to keep your arms tightly at your sides or you'll break them when you hit the water.

"I know you gonna wanna flap your arms. Everybody does," he says. "But don't. Really."

I'm perched above him, as there's only room on the jump position for one at a time. And let me tell you: One hundred fifty feet looks a lot higher off the ground looking
down
than it does looking up. I can't even really see where I'm supposed to land through the white water and the waves below.

Dario starts to push off.

And freezes.

He leans back against the rock and says, "I have to think about this . . ."

A moment later, he starts to push off again.

And then freezes again. He leans back, says, "Turn the cameras off"—as if they can hear us all the way down there. "I'm not-a ready. I have to think. It's been a long time since I done this
..."

Now, I'm not feeling too good about this near-suicidal enterprise myself at this point. Here I am, clinging to a rock high above the sea, and the formerly confident Count Dipshit is going wobbly on me. And that narrow space between rocks is looking narrower and narrower. Tracey, in the dinghy below, looks like a toy bobbing about in a faraway bathtub.

I remind Dario what he told me: that there's no other way down. And I suggest that given his lack of success so far with aerial conveyances, signaling for a chopper is not a viable option.

After yet another aborted attempt, his feet trembling spasti-cally now, I revert to schoolyard persuasion and tell him we'll look like fucking pussies if he doesn't get his shit together and fucking take the fucking leap. I have to admit, I'm more than anxious to see him jump. If only to see if, once he does, his head reappears—and I therefore have a shot at surviving this lunacy.

Finally he goes. First straight out, then a straight drop. And then, a few long seconds later, BOOM!

A few more seconds and I see his head resurface, and he's swimming for the dinghy.

I slide down into position.

I do
not
want to spend any time thinking about what I'm about to do.

One more look down. Two seconds. Dario still in the water . . .

And, God help me, I push myself straight out into blue sky and drop, drop down toward blue and white water.

And you know what surprised me? While airborne, as I flew out, and then plummeted down toward rocks and sea?

I didn't care.

I was not afraid.

I've known love.

I've seen many beautiful things.

And it was enough.

That was what I was thinking. Stone cold. Serene. Yet . . . happy, as I dropped, and the water rushed up to meet me at sixty miles per hour.

Needless to say, I survived the experience. It's hell on the soles of your feet hitting the water at that speed. But jumping into the void made for an illuminating few seconds.

And we got the shot.

A
DRINKING
PROBLEM

there are few articles
of faith in my admittedly jaundiced worldview, precious few things that I believe to be right and true and basically unimprovable by man or God. This, however, is one of them: a properly poured beer or ale—in my case, a hand-cranked Guinness—in a clean pint glass of correct temperature is God's Own Beverage, a complete and nutritious food source, a thing of beauty to be admired, a force that sweeps away, for a time, all the world's troubles.

One does not drink Guinness in a vacuum-sealed pod. Context is important. The best place to fully appreciate the state of enlightenment that comes with a fine English, Scottish, or Irish beverage is, of course, that all-important institution, the pub.

So I am contentedly watching the foam settle in my glass at the Festering Ferret in London's East End, momentarily at peace with the world, contemplating life's mysteries, planning future good works. I'm smoking, admiring the cracked leather seats, the moldering century-old carpet, the box-shaped, nearly toothless, geriatric bartender. I'm running my hand over my worn wood table as if it were the Rosetta stone, deciphering with my fingertips the cryptic, possibly pre-Druidic messages inscribed there—"Stiv is a cunt," "Bay City Rollers," "Jamie is a mockney shite"—their echoes resonating through the ages, connecting me with poets and thinkers of another age.

A waiter approaches, draws my attention to a blackboard on the wall, and says, "Would you care for something to eat, sir? The osso buco of Chilean sea bass is particularly good today." I look up with horror. There, just to the right of a well-punctured dartboard, is a portent of True Horror. A real menu! I read it with growing apprehension and dismay, an icy tendril of fear probing my gut: "Soup of fresh green peas with chiffonade of crisp prosciutto and pumpkin froth"; "Tartelette of foie gras with apricot chutney and house-made brioche"; "Cruelty-free noisette of pork with snow peas and caramelised shallots."

Even worse, there is an entire vegetarian section, segregated to the left side of the board. Just before I collapse, shaking, to the beer-sodden floor, I read in the dessert section: "Green apple sorbet with wasabi." Then everything goes black.

The next thing I am aware of is my fingers being pried from the fleshy folds of the bar hag's throat. A large fellow in a chef's coat and apron is doing the prying. A well-scrubbed young
commis
is assisting by beating me about the head and neck with a saucepot. (Copper, I notice, and well maintained at that.) Through broken teeth and a foam of bloody spittle, I manage to splutter, "What? When? How? Why?" before breaking down into convulsive sobs: "Oh God! Oh Jesus! It's awful! The end is here! It's over! My life is over!" As I release my grip, the bald fellow explains, while keeping a knee on my thorax, "We're a gastro-pub now. Can I fix you up with some tofu and wild mushroom beignets? They're lovely." Which is when I make a futile grab for the nearest blunt object and the
commis
lets me have it with the saucepot.

Gastro-pub?
What the fuck is that? For me, fancy food in a traditional old pub is about as inviting as the phrases "Hot male-on-male action" or "Tonight! Billy Joel live!" or "Free prostate exam with every drink." A good pub should
never
have fine food. What's wrong with a good meat pie? Black pudding? Sausages? Shepherd's pie is a beautiful thing. I don't want truffles in it! And a vegetarian menu? In a pub? Vegetarians in a pub? For their own good, vegetarians should never be allowed near fine beers and ales. It will only make them loud and

A
DRINKING
PROBLEM

belligerent, and they lack the physical strength and aggressive nature to back up any drunken assertions.

The British pub is one of the last great bastions of goodness, civility, and decency in the world. Who wants annoying foodies in their local? They'll infest the place. They'll multiply like cockroaches. Soon, a sip will barely have passed your lips before you overhear, "Have you tried the salmon confit with tomato water? It's fabulous!" or "I'd like the basil gelato, please."

There'll be no place to run then, friends, and no place to hide. The-enemy might as well be camped in your sitting room, buggering your pooch, biting the heads off your budgies, and playing Kylie CDs at ear-splitting volume. Good beer and fancy food should be kept separate. A firewall between them, like church and state. That wall crumbles and all will be chaos.

WOODY
HARRELSON:
CULINARY
MUSE

they call
us "
cooks
." And we—meaning everyone who's ever shaken a pan or dunked a spud in a professional kitchen—can trace our proud lineage directly back to our apelike predecessors, clustered around a fire, searing hunks of flesh over the flame. In Roman times, we were slaves (pampered ones, yes, but slaves just the same). In Ottoman times we were janissaries. Later we toiled in the kitchens of cruel and capricious monarchs, sweated in the cellars of grand hotels, bounced from restaurant to restaurant. Those in our clan prepare pho in makeshift food stalls at night markets, peel chicken from the bone to roll in freshly fried tortillas in mercados, flip eggs behind lunch counters. Through guile and persistence and desperation, using the knowledge passed down to us by those who came before, we turn tough, unlovely bits of meat and scrap, produce and legume, into beloved national dishes. This thing of ours was always about
transformation,
about the strategic application of heat to make what was available somehow better.

But some would have us believe that the flames around which we have gathered since the beginning of our species do
not
make things better. They make them worse. Less healthy. Impure. More likely to cause "mucus" (a bad thing), toxins, lowered enzymes—and generally diminished grooviness. According to some extreme practitioners, if cooked food—or animal flesh of any kind—finds its way into our mouth, it should be followed by fasting, and a thorough colon-cleansing.

Advocates and practitioners of "raw food" eschew all meat, poultry, fish, dairy, refined or processed staples (like flour and sugar), and anything cooked, preferring only those remaining foods that are still raw or "living." Until recently, they have been viewed as a lunatic fringe, espousing a philosophy so extreme and ascetic as to make ordinary vegans look like pleasure-seeking libertines. One typical work on the subject, Victoria Boutenko's tellingly titled
12
Steps to Raw Foods: How to End Your Addiction to Cooked Food,
assures us that "because cooked food does not have enzymes, our body cannot use it. Therefore the body treats cooked food as a toxin and is only concerned with getting rid of it." Who knew? I always thought my body treated food as a pleasure. Strangely, Ms. Boutenko later claims that "our body never makes mistakes. We all know what we need if we listen to our body." I can only imagine that if I hear my body calling out for a cheeseburger, signals have somehow been crossed. (Apparently what it
really
wants is a Boutenko patty of ground and processed nuts, carrots, onion, yeast, and banana, thickened with dried herb, yeast, psyllium husk powder, and ground flaxseeds.)

Fortunately for most, the literature on raw food has provided unpersuasive visuals: The cover photo of Boutenko's manifesto displays a truly hideous spread of such unappetizing, clumsy butt-ugliness as to frighten away any but the most fervently devoted; it looks as if some fifties-era Betty Crocker got titani-cally drunk and decided to lay out a buffet for the Symbionese Liberation Army. A starved Weimaraner would turn its nose up at such appalling fare.

Unfortunately, things have changed.

Raw food has gone legit.

Charlie Trotter is probably the nation's most internationally celebrated chef—an artist, an intellectual, and the author of some truly groundbreaking and beautiful cookbooks. His eponymous restaurant in Chicago is one of the country's best. Roxanne Klein is a veteran of many fine kitchens, the chef/owner of Roxanne's in Larkspur, California. She is, perhaps, the leading innovator and proponent of "raw food." Last year, the two collaborated on
Raw
(Ten Speed Press), a real "cookbook" in which absolutely nothing is cooked. It's imaginative, pretty to look at, and (largely because of Trotter's preeminence) a direct poke in the eye of the entire culinary profession.

Raw
represents a radical (yet aesthetically compelling) abrogation of the basic principle that "cooks" presumably cook. The stove, the oven, the open can of propane, the roadside grill, the barbecue pit, the hearth are where
food is made.
Right? The place of heat is where cooks and eaters congregate,
will always congregate,
to share food and stories. Thus it has always been. Thus it will always be.

Maybe not.

Trotter has served a vegetable tasting menu for some time. Noticing that most restaurants tended to cobble together a plate full of side dishes and odds and ends when confronted with vegetarian customers, he rose to the challenge and raised the bar significantly for others inclined to improve their own veggie offerings. Charlie Trotter likes vegetables. He understands them. Though he surely knew that many of his vegetable offerings would taste a lot better married to a fat lardon of bacon, or tossed in duck fat, like most great chefs through history he made the very best of limited options.

In his introduction to
Raw
, he is careful to distinguish between the role of chef/seeker and that of advocate for some health-conscious agrarian future. He seems to be saying that raw food can be a cool thing—but it's not necessarily the
only
thing. One gets the impression he is attracted more to the challenge than any underlying philosophy. Commendably, Klein urges similar caution, saying, "I think it's presumptuous for anyone to tell others how they should live their lives."

Nice words. Nice book. Without question, it's an answered prayer for anyone whom religion or personal circumstances has pushed into veganism.

My prejudices against vegetarianism and veganism are well known and deeply held, but looking at the gorgeous pictures, I thought surely any exploration of ways to make food—any food—better is a positive thing. As intellectual exercise, as gastronomy, as "another path," this weird corner of the culinary spectrum might, I thought, be as worthy of respect as any other.

Then I read the opening anecdote of Klein's introduction, an account of the inspiring moment that led to her immersion into the mysteries of raw food. She describes a fateful meeting in Thailand with former
Cheers
star and hemp activist Woody Harrelson.