Saint Joseph's Wort
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At anchor one afternoon in Noumea I heard tiny knuckles rap Eurydice's waterline. I popped out the companion and looked overside. There swam a naked girl. They're French, down there, in New Caledonia; so they swim naked.
"May I come aboard?"
"There's a ladder made of cleats fastened to the rudder." I replied. Thinking quickly, I added: "I'm doing dishes. I'll be below."
It seemed good policy, if you are going to have naked women board your schooner, to maneuver them below. Sure enough, a bit later, feeling neglected on deck, she popped below.
I have thought hard on the subject, but I cannot remember her name. Other things about her which I cannot name I can remember; but not her name. I can tell you this about her: first gal I ever met with a piercing where it ought not be, this gal taught me the value of garnish.
How? A pair of sweats later we paused for dinner. I rowed her to a fine restaurant. Half a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé later, soon as the food arrived, I tossed the parsley rudely aside to get at the food. I always tossed parsley.
"No, no," she scolded, "you eat that."
"Yeh, no. I am a carnivore. I don't know why they even put that green crap in the way of your food."
"Teh!" she said, in that way the French have, "Eat it. It makes your semen taste good." At which point she and the waiter shared a glance and that thing French do with their shoulders and eyebrows and by pursing lips. "Americain," shrugged she; and "Barbare," shrugged he.
Every word of this is true. Well, all except for the French accent. I tried typing that, but I was unable teaux. Other than that, every word is treaux. It happened long ago, when I was young and vigorous, when every day brought an intoxicating new adventure. I've never told anyone this story. But I sense that we enjoy a virtually un-moderated forum here, and that there are a few young men among us who might still put the virtue of garnish to good use, and mostly because this episode was the first thing that popped in my mind when I saw this:
Not for parsely; but for basil. See, next day, this gal and I went to lunch in town. The whole tiny city would shut down for three hours at noon. Restaurants opened; every store and every office closed. Everyone strolled to lunch on a shady patio, enjoy a bottle of wine, and like as not need to nap afterwards. They always made two days out of one, in Noumea. Wine and conversation flowed. All we ate was a bit of bread, a bit of veal, a pair of bottles, and a plate of unpronounceable white cheese, drizzled with vinegar, garnished with fresh basil. Absolutely intoxicating. Basil. Prevents the hangover, my garnish instructor said. Cures the headache. Clears the mind. It's treaux, it does. She was right again. Your basil to be fresh and aromatic, though. Try fresh basil with wine. Old basil is entirely another animal. Worthless. Fresh and green is key.
Nowadays, I live literally at the opposite end of Earth. Here, basil is pesto. Not the same experience at all.
Funny how things remind you. Soon as I saw "Walter Basil" on the box, I'm thinking of that patio overlooking the shady plaza in Noumea. Why is this box so heavy, I wondered. Then I unpacked it, and found the cigars had been garnished with trinkets. I did think the El Paso shot glass and Texas tequila were a thoughtful touch; though I don't expect it will prevent headache. I'm still trying to figure out the tiny rug. Never heard of Texans sending men doilies. Well. It's a new century. If a Texan wants to send a man a doily...
Now, so long as I am singing for my supper (more accurately penning for the post prandial puff), let me relate this rude ditty devised soon after leaving Noumea (alone); the only thing I know that rhymes with basil:
I was struck by the dazzle
Of the jewel in her azzle
When she winked her sphinctre at me
........ The song goes on from there, but I shall not.
"May I come aboard?"
"There's a ladder made of cleats fastened to the rudder." I replied. Thinking quickly, I added: "I'm doing dishes. I'll be below."
It seemed good policy, if you are going to have naked women board your schooner, to maneuver them below. Sure enough, a bit later, feeling neglected on deck, she popped below.
I have thought hard on the subject, but I cannot remember her name. Other things about her which I cannot name I can remember; but not her name. I can tell you this about her: first gal I ever met with a piercing where it ought not be, this gal taught me the value of garnish.
How? A pair of sweats later we paused for dinner. I rowed her to a fine restaurant. Half a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé later, soon as the food arrived, I tossed the parsley rudely aside to get at the food. I always tossed parsley.
"No, no," she scolded, "you eat that."
"Yeh, no. I am a carnivore. I don't know why they even put that green crap in the way of your food."
"Teh!" she said, in that way the French have, "Eat it. It makes your semen taste good." At which point she and the waiter shared a glance and that thing French do with their shoulders and eyebrows and by pursing lips. "Americain," shrugged she; and "Barbare," shrugged he.
Every word of this is true. Well, all except for the French accent. I tried typing that, but I was unable teaux. Other than that, every word is treaux. It happened long ago, when I was young and vigorous, when every day brought an intoxicating new adventure. I've never told anyone this story. But I sense that we enjoy a virtually un-moderated forum here, and that there are a few young men among us who might still put the virtue of garnish to good use, and mostly because this episode was the first thing that popped in my mind when I saw this:
Not for parsely; but for basil. See, next day, this gal and I went to lunch in town. The whole tiny city would shut down for three hours at noon. Restaurants opened; every store and every office closed. Everyone strolled to lunch on a shady patio, enjoy a bottle of wine, and like as not need to nap afterwards. They always made two days out of one, in Noumea. Wine and conversation flowed. All we ate was a bit of bread, a bit of veal, a pair of bottles, and a plate of unpronounceable white cheese, drizzled with vinegar, garnished with fresh basil. Absolutely intoxicating. Basil. Prevents the hangover, my garnish instructor said. Cures the headache. Clears the mind. It's treaux, it does. She was right again. Your basil to be fresh and aromatic, though. Try fresh basil with wine. Old basil is entirely another animal. Worthless. Fresh and green is key.
Nowadays, I live literally at the opposite end of Earth. Here, basil is pesto. Not the same experience at all.
Funny how things remind you. Soon as I saw "Walter Basil" on the box, I'm thinking of that patio overlooking the shady plaza in Noumea. Why is this box so heavy, I wondered. Then I unpacked it, and found the cigars had been garnished with trinkets. I did think the El Paso shot glass and Texas tequila were a thoughtful touch; though I don't expect it will prevent headache. I'm still trying to figure out the tiny rug. Never heard of Texans sending men doilies. Well. It's a new century. If a Texan wants to send a man a doily...
Now, so long as I am singing for my supper (more accurately penning for the post prandial puff), let me relate this rude ditty devised soon after leaving Noumea (alone); the only thing I know that rhymes with basil:
I was struck by the dazzle
Of the jewel in her azzle
When she winked her sphinctre at me
........ The song goes on from there, but I shall not.
Comments
Very cool gift Walt - definitely unique, and some nice cigars in there too.
As for the the little rug... doilies... it's a coaster. Borderland style. ;-)
Enjoy, my friend, and live in the wind when you can.