So where were we? oh yeah, the unthinkable happened.
Remember the part about the phone that I cannot really figure out how it works? It rang. Just as Steve was telling me it was all over, Fly to Paris. I jumped. I went to answer the phone, and I think it is Steve calling me to talk using our voice instead of our fingers. So, like any good guy expecting a friend to call, I answered “Yo?”. It could be bad, it could be my client. Thank %DEITY it isn’t, but it is actually worse, it is my client’s boss. During my separation with my client, I told him that if he changes his mind, he could always call me. DOH! I never thought he would, he was dumping me like I was a cheap whore. It is 6pm, and my client’s boss is calling me. He thought things over and finally, he thinks that my client might be right, who knows, they might as well use me while I am in town (This is an exact quote, by the way). I never felt so cheap. Of course, I was saying all the right stuff, yup, sure, it can be done, I have a lot of faith in my team (after I just told them “never mind! training is cancelled”).
Anyhow, forget Paris, I am back on the case, in a slight different role this time. I have to listen to their concerns, make note, make sure the phone is working with my team, and that the WebConference is working. If there would be a Tim Horton around, I would be on the Coffees and TimBits duties. I love it! No sarcasm here, 60 minutes ago, I was being discarded like an old used kleenex, I thought the client hated me (see Switzerland, land of the cheese and Yodeling, for the need to be appreciated by my client) and now they were letting me back in. Now I know how the ugly fat date feels when the ex boyfriend calls. After last minute negotiations, I feel like I am back in the game, but this time, we are taking it one day at a time. Until Friday. I tell ya, I am genuinely excited. My client is picking me up tomorrow morning, 8:30am.
The Pirate.
If I would ever start a seafood/fish restaurant, aimed at kids, I would call it the Pirate… Arrrrh! Doesn’t it sound like the McDonalds of seafood? I would be bankrupt too since fish and kids don’t really mix. But if it would? yeah…
After waiting for the restaurant to be open since Sunday, I was really eager to visit this reknown place in Ferney-Voltaire. I will not be disappointed. It is a nice french restaurant (In France, aren’t they all?). It reminded me of this old question:
You are alone, you walk into a nice french restaurant, Do you:
A) Sit on the patio, towards the front.
B) Sit on the patio, but closer to the back.
C) Sit inside, towards the entrance.
D) Sit inside, towards the back/kitchen.
Anyone who travels knows the answer to this one, the answer is E) None of the above, unless you want to be laughed at by the waiting staff. Go back to your hotel room, order a pizza, a hooker, or go to McDonalds.
Stupid me today, I picked D. As the Maitre D’ arrange the table for me in the back, corner of the restaurant, far away from anyone else, the ceremony started. A waiter came and took the extra cover off, If people didn’t know I was alone, well, here’s a clue. Then, another waiter came, and took the remaining 3 chairs away. I kid you not. They TOOK THE CHAIRS AWAY. ARRRRhh! I stare at the menu, it is all fish, and I am ok with that. But I am not sure it is all fish, because I do not recognize their names. I am being offered an apero, which is nice, a Creme de Cassis mixed with a bubbly white wine. Why not, I can celebrate the fact that I have a client again. I go back to menu staring, going mmm, oooh, ahhh. They brought me some bread, and butter, that was nice. Then they brought little french crackers with a beige mousse, looks like fish mousse, or something, it is not bad. I ordered My Cassoulet au fruits de mer, Champignons et vin rouge. And I ordered a bouillabaise.
There is a translucent square little dish on my table, by the bread, I am not quite sure if it is a bread saucer, or an ashtray. I try to see how other people are using theirs, but I forgot my binoculars. Then I was brought “Foie gras a la whatever de Very french”. I didn’t order la ‘Foie gras a la whatever de very french”, it comes in an Egg container thingy. It is the only thing on my 12 inch plate. One little egg container thingy with that shit in it. I have a bit of bread on the left, crackers on the right. Am I suppose to just spoon that stuff out and eat it? spread it on bread? on a cracker? Can I just say pass? As I stare at it, I am telling the now-third waiter that I am okay, it is very good. He gives me the “yeah right” look and move on. I go for the bread. I’ll be brave. I swallowed the whole thing. I try not to think too much about what I have just swallowed. Then, the 4th waiter came over, and tok the egg container away, and my 12 inch plate, and my utensils, and he brings me a new set. Did I offend them by EATING in the bloody thing? Whatever, then came the cassoulet, which was delicious, in a 12 inch plate as well. I used the spoon. As soon as I finished the cassoulet, yet another waiter flew by and took all the stuff away, and used a little knife to pick the crumbs of the table cloth. I start looking for hidden cameras or smoked mirrors.
Then came the Bouillabaise. With a big fork, another knife, and a weird looking big fancy butter knife with a strategically place little notch in it, Why do I need this for fish soup , I have no clue. Bouillabaise, is french, it comes from Bouille-a-Baise, or BOILED-A-FUCK. Because that is what it is, they take fish, mussels, some veggies, and they boil the fuck out of it. It was good, and a girl came over and clean up all the utensils away, took the knife out to scrape a drop of soup from the table cloth. She looks at me afterwards and asks me, “where are we?” .. Beats the shit outta me, I feel like Alice in Wonderland. She smiled and reminded me that we were at the cheese stage of the meal. I would like to leave the restaurant before dying of old age, please. That is where I am at. They brought a little plate, with a little piece of cheese, on a cracker, surrounded with something rabbits would eat.
And I noticed something, in North America, when you order a meal, they bring like everything at once, You don’t like the salad? leave it in your plate and eat the rest. Same goes for green beans, or raw tomatoes. Here? they bring things separately and stare at you until you eat it. Sir, voici “La Tomate”! they serve you and stare. You look at the whole tomato in your plate. And be damn, you won’t getting anything else until THAT tomato is eaten. I am staring at the little piece of cheese, the staff is staring at me. It is a fight to the finish, and I eat the bloody thing again. The whole ritual of them rushing over and cleaning my table again is getting old. I think through the meal I went through 7 plates, 4 forks, 7 knives, 2 bowls, and 3 spoons. I was served by 1 maitre D’, 1 owner of the restaurant, 2 chefs, 4 sous chefs, 5 waiters, 3 penguins, a donkey and 2 savant dogs. Now they are bringing what I thought was dessert. they brought a wood shingle from a roof, with about 6 magnificient little things on it, like 2 StarBurst look-a-like, 2 pastries, and 2 pieces of melted sugar. Then they put the wood shingle on the OTHER side of the table. I guess I was suppose to just stare at it, but since I have no plate in front of me, and no utensils, I kinda bend over the top of the table, and reached for the nice little pieces of heaven. This was quickly followed by the staff bringing a plate, a knife, and 2 forks. I don’t know if they were late, or if I have just commit a mortal sin of french cuisine, and I was not suppose to touch the food. Halfway through dessert, the real dessert showed up. Another plate showed up with “this izz a little piece of appel pie, and this, here, is a mini chocolate strudel, and this little thing here, is our famous creme brulee, and last, this is zee cup of fruit, with a mint whipped cream. Notice how this waiter came and descibe my dessert, noone wanted to describe “We scraped the bottom of Lac Leman, and we boiled the living shit out of it, and served it to you”.
As I waited for my ride this morning, a guy came out of a cab at my hotel wearing a nice women’s top, colored a pale fushia, with matching pants and sandals. Nothing surprises me any more. I actually hope he gets on the bus with me to Geneva.
The Tuvalu dilemma.
For those of you won’t don’t know, Tuvalu is a small economy in development in Indonesia. I learned a valuable lesson today at lunch time. I am back at the UN, the morning was uneventful until lunch. We went for lunch together, me, my client, his boss, and the team. All statisticians at heart. But me. Zee big Cheese, Da Boss, well, he is stressing out the point that we should be able to produce statistics regarding the GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of the world on at least a monthly basis, maybe even monthly, and why not… Daily. There is nothing stopping him from using the tools at his hands, while he is looking at me. I do NOT WANT to be responsible for the GDP indicators for the world, I cannot balance my checkbook, although it never stoppped George Bush to runa country. Anyhow, if statisticians would have a general brawl, that would have been it. If an entity publish numbers automatically without validating the data by a handful of statisticians, is the entity responsible for the veracity of those numbers? While we can debate over the fact that 50 or so countries publish their data on a regular basis, and we take their data at face value, and it accounts for 80% of the World’s GDP, can the numbers be authentified since we are missing the other 20%. Because Tuvalu does not update their export and import values on a daily basis, Can we say today’s number are correct based on estimation from the other 50 countries who do? We have to refocus exactly what is the mandate of the UN in regards to the GDP, are we in business to help people understand the GDP of The United States? Or is our mandate the compilation of statistics for the GDP of Tuvalu to establish some sort of priorities for lenders for the International Monetary Fund (IMF). And that my friends, is the Tuvalu dilemma. I kept my mouth shut and ate my pasta.
